Chapter V: Part 5

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 having _fits_ for 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 can marry 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. _You_ ought 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 green country. 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 that _you_ would never break our covenant, when you said: 'Promises are made to be kept,' but _I_ will 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 your presence 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 you _were_ mine. 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 like him. 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. "I have 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 you _sure_ you 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 not be 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 when I 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't_ it 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 Stacey a 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 after _him_ while 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 book _did_ say 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 highway
Where 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 I _might_ tell 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 I am 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 have _hoped_ for 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 I _do_ know, pretty sister."

"No, you don't. I should have seen in your manner. Perhaps I dreamed it; or perhaps an angel came and 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 like _you_ very 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."

XII.--GOOD ENOUGH TO BE TRUE.

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 boy was 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, and _Sartor Resartus_ in her hands.

"_You_ come 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 all _his_ fault," 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."

"Did _that_ comfort 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 call _that_?"

"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 appeared larger, 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 and _she_ recognized 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, he _is_ like 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 a _disciplined_ man; 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.

_Had_ she 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 Towne would 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." _Was_ it 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 that the power to be glad was infinitely greater than the power of being sorrowful."

That evening her father called her to say: "The new professor is to preach Sunday evening before church service in the Park; you and I will go to hear him."

XIII.--THE HEART OF LOVE.

The day lilies were in bloom, and that meant August; it meant also that her book was written, rewritten, and ready to be copied.

"Oh, that my poor little book were as perfect as you," she sighed one morning as she arranged them with their broad, green leaves for the vases in parlor and sitting-room. "But God made you with His own fingers, and He made my book through my own fancies."

She had worked early and late, not flagging, through all the sultry days. "You will make yourself sick," her mother had warned, "and it will cost you all you earn to buy beef tea and pay the doctor; so where is the good of it?"

She had read her manuscript aloud to her father, and he had laughed and wiped his eyes and given sundry appreciative exclamations.

"That writing takes a precious sight of time," her mother had remonstrated.

"That is because I am human." Tessa had answered soberly.

"Suppose it is refused."

"Then I'll be like William Howitt; his book was refused four times and he stood on London bridge ready to toss it over. I do not think that I will do as Charlotte Bronte did; she sent a rejected manuscript to a publisher wrapped in the wrapper in which the first publisher had rolled it. I suppose that his address was printed on it."

She had run on merrily as she had placed the cool, pure lilies in the vase; but her heart was sinking, nevertheless. It had always taken so little to exhilarate or depress her.

"Must you write to-day?" inquired her mother one morning in an unsatisfied tone.

"Several hours."

"I wanted you to make calls with me and to help me with the currant jelly and to put those button-holes into my linen wrapper."

"I can do it all, but I must write while I am fresh."

The first hour she wrote wearily; then she lost the small struggles in her own life and became comforted through the comfort wherewith she comforted others. Not one thing was forgotten, not one household duty shirked, the jelly was made to perfection, the button-holes worked while her mother was taking her afternoon nap, the calls were pushed through, and then Mrs. Wadsworth proposed a call upon Mrs. Towne.

"I promised your Aunt Dinah that I would call."

Tessa demurred although she remembered her promise; she much preferred calling some time when Aunt Dinah should be with her; Mrs. Wadsworth insisted and Tessa yielded more graciously in manner than in mind.

Mrs. Towne received them most cordially and gracefully; an expression flitted over her eyes as Tessa looked up into them that she never forgot; it touched her as Dr. Lake's eyes did, sometimes; what could this beautiful old mother need in her? Whatever it might be, she felt fully prepared to give it.

Mrs. Wadsworth was as effusively talkative as usual; Tessa replied when spoken to; lively, fussy, pretty little Mrs. Wadsworth did not compare to her own advantage with her womanly daughter. Mrs. Towne looked at Tessa and thought of the picture that she had seen; it was certainly excellent only that the picture was rather too intellectual; in the picture she might have written "Mechanism of the Heavens" but sitting there in the crimson velvet chair with a pale blue bow among her braids and her soft gray veil shading her cheek she was more like the daughter that she had ever dreamed of--simple, sweet, and thoroughly lovable Mrs. Towne was a trifle afraid of a woman who looked _too_ intellectual. Would she forgive Ralph and trust him again? She was sure that she would until Tessa unbuttoned her glove and drew it off; the slight, strong hand was a revelation; the girl had a will of her own. But might not her will be towards him? "I wish that I knew nothing," thought the mother, "the suspense will weary me, the disappointment will be nearly as much for me as for the boy."

Meanwhile, unconscious Tessa, with the glove in her fingers, was far away in the Milan cathedral on the wall opposite her, looking into the arches of the choir, feeling the sunlight through the glimmering painted windows, thinking about the procession of the scarlet-robed priests, and wondering about the hidden chancel; if the picture were upon her wall how it would glow and become alive in the western light, the drooping banners would stir with the breath of the evening, the censers would swing and the notes of the organ would bear her up and away. Away! Where? Was not all her world in this little Dunellen?

"My son is always busy; he rushes into every thing that he undertakes."

The mother had a voice like the son's; the soul of sincerity was in it; the sincere, sympathetic voice, the rush of feeling, love, regret, and sense of loss that it brought filled her eyes too full to be raised. At that instant Mrs. Towne was observing her; her heart grew lighter, hoping for the thing that might be.

Mrs. Towne held Tessa's hand at parting. "I am an old woman, so I may ask a favor of a young one, will you come soon again?"

"Thank you, yes."

"And often?"

Then she had to promise again. Dr. Towne was seldom at home; she thought of this when she promised. She was thinking of it that evening in the early twilight as she weeded among her pansies. Dine said that it was a wonder that she had not turned into a pansy herself by this time.

"Daughter, why do you sigh?"

Her father was seated in a rustic chair on the piazza with a copy of _Burns_ unopened upon his knee; he had left the store earlier than usual that afternoon, complaining of the old pain in his side.

"My sigh must be very loud or your ears very sharp," she replied, lifting her head. "I will bring you some perfect pansies."

He took them and looked down at them; she stood at his side smoothing the straggling locks on his bald forehead with her perfumed, soiled fingers. "I think that if I knew nothing about God but that He made pansies, I should love Him for that," she said at last.

"Is _that_ what you were sighing over?"

"The sigh came out of the heart of the pansy. I wish I knew how to love somebody."

"Is that what you were sighing over?"

"I do not know how," rubbing the soil from her fingers, "to love when I lose faith. I do not know how and it worries me."

"You mean that you do not know how to honor and trust when you lose faith. Are you so far on the journey of life as that? Must I congratulate you, daughter?"

"No; teach me."

"No human teaching can teach you to love where you have lost faith."

"Well; nobody asks me to!"

"If any body ever does, look at your own failings; that pulls me through."

"I understand that," still speaking in a troubled voice, "but all the love and patience do no good; people do not change because we love them."

"No, they do not change, but _we_ change."

"That is not enough for me; I am not satisfied with the blessing of giving, I want the other somebody to have the blessing of receiving."

"We do not know the end."

"You two people do find queer things to talk about," cried a lively voice behind them. "If I knew what mystical meant, I should say that it was you and Tessa. Don't you want to hear all about Mrs. Towne, and what a _lovely_ room we were taken into?"

"Yes, dear, and how her hair was fixed and just how she was dressed."

Tessa ran back to her pansies; Mrs. Wadsworth had found a theme to enlarge upon for the next half hour. As Tessa worked among the flowers, a poem that she had learned that day while making the button-holes sang itself through and through her heart.

"Oh the hurt and the hurt and the hurt of love!
Wherever the sun shines, the waters go,
It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove,
God on His throne, and man below.
But sun would not shine nor waters go,
Snowdrop tremble nor fair dove moan,
God be on high, nor man below,
But for love--the love with its hurt alone.
Thou knowest, O, Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows,
Didst rescue its joy by the might of Thy pain;
Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows,
Help us love on in the hope of Thy gain!
Hurt as it may, love on, love forever;
Love for love's sake like the Father above,
But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never
Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love."

"I am not sincere in repeating that," she mused. "I _don't_ love on, love forever--and I don't want to! If I were in a book, every thing would make no difference, nothing would make a difference--would love on, love forever--and I don't know how. I wish I did. It would not change _him_, but it would make _me_ very glad and very good! I can not attain to it."

The grazing sound of wheels brought her back to the pansies, then to Dr. Lake; he had driven up close to the opening in the lilac shrubbery.

"Ah, Mystic."

"Good evening, doctor."

It was the first time that they had been alone together since Sue's engagement. She had been dreading this first time. She arose and brushed her hands against each other, moving towards the opening in the lilacs.

"I saw you, and could not resist the temptation of stopping to speak to you."

"Thank you," she said warmly. "Will you have a lily?"

"No, lilies are not for me. Briers and thorns grow for me."

"Where are you riding to now?"

"Felix Harrison came home yesterday worse than ever. I was there in the night and am going again. Why don't he die now that he has a chance? Catch me throwing away such an opportunity."

"I hope that you will never have such an opportunity," she answered, not thinking of what she was saying.

"That's always the way; the lucky ones die, the unlucky ones live."

"Can you not resist the temptation to tell me any thing so trite as that?"

"Don't be sharp, Mystic."

She was leaning against the low fence, her hands folded over each other, a breath of air stirring the wavy hair around her temples, and touching the pale blue ribbon at her throat, a white, graceful figure, speaking in her animated way with the flush of the pink rose tinting her cheeks and a misty veil shadowing her eyes.

"A very pretty picture in a frame-work of brown and green," thought the old man in the rustic chair on the piazza.

But she never thought of making a picture of herself, she left such small coquetries to girls who had nothing better to do or to think of. She had her life to live and her books to write! Nevertheless two pairs of eyes found her pleasant to look upon. Dr. Lake's experiences had opened his eyes to see that Tessa Wadsworth was unlike any woman that he had ever known; she was to him the calm of the moonlight, the fragrance of the spring, and the restfulness of trust.

In these weeks of his trouble, had she been like some other of the Dunellen girls, she would have found her way without pushing into his heart by the wide door that shallow Sue had left ajar.

His heart was open to any attractive woman who would sympathize with him; to any woman who would be glad of what Sue Greyson had thrown away; she might have become aware of this but for her instinctive habit of looking upward to love; even the tenderest compassion mingled with some admiration could not grow into love with her in her present moods; she was too young and asked too much of life for such a possibility.

In these days every man was too far below George Macdonald and Frederick Robertson, unless indeed it might be the new Greek professor; in her secret heart she had begun to wonder if Philip Towne were not something like them both; perhaps because in his sermon that Sunday twilight in the Park he had quoted a "declaration of Robertson's"--"I am better acquainted with Jesus Christ than I am with any man on earth."

The words came to her as she stood, to-night, talking with Dr Lake; she was wishing that she might repeat them to him; instead she only replied, "Why shouldn't I be sharp? You are a man and therefore able to bear it."

"Not much of a man--or wholly a man. I reckon that is nearer right. I never saw a man yet that a blow from a woman's little finger wouldn't knock him over."

"Not any woman's finger."

"Any thing would blow me over to-night. Why do women have to make so many things when they are married?" he asked earnestly.

"To keep the love they have won," she said with a mischievous laugh. "Don't you know how soon roses fade after they are rudely torn from the protection and nourishment of the parent stem?"

"Rudely! They flutter, they pant, they struggle to tear themselves loose! Why do you suppose that she prefers Stacey to me?"

"I don't know all things."

"You know that. Answer."

"She does not prefer _him_. He is the smallest part of her calculations. Marriage with you would make no change in her life; she seeks change; she has never been married and lived in Philadelphia--therefore to be married and live in Philadelphia must be glorious."

"Then if I had money to take her anywhere and everywhere she would have married me. I'll turn highwayman to get rich then. She shows me every pretty thing she makes; dresses up in all her new dresses and asks me if I feel like the bridegroom lends me her engagement ring when she is tired of it. I'd bite it in two if I dared--reads me his letters and asks me to help her answer them for she can only write a page and a half out of her own head."

Tessa laughed; it was better to laugh than to be angry, and Sue could not be any body but Sue Greyson.

"She says that her only objection to him is his name and age; she likes my name better, and scribbles Sue Greyson Lake over his old envelopes. I would like to send him one of them. I was reading in the paper this morning of a man who shot the girl that refused him; if I don't shoot her it will not be her fault, she is driving me mad. If I can't have her myself, _he_ sha'n't!"

She dropped her hands and turned away from him.

"Mystic." But she was among the pansies again.

"Mystic," with the tone in his voice that she would never forget, "come back. Don't _you_ throw me over; I shall go to destruction if you do."

"I can not help you. You do not try to help yourself."

"I know it. I don't want to be helped. I drift. I have no will to struggle. She plays with me like a cat with a mouse. I do not know what I am about half the time. I will take a double dose of morphine some night. I wonder if she would cry if she saw me dead. Men have done such things with less provocation; men of my temperament, too. Would _you_ be sorry, Mystic?"

She stretched out her hands to take his hand in both hers: "Don't talk so," she said brokenly. "You know you do not mean it; why can't you be brave and good? I didn't know that men were so weak."

"I _am_ weak--I have strayed, I have wandered away--but I can go back."

Long afterward she remembered these words; they, with his last "good-by, Mystic," were all that she cared to remember among all the words that he had ever spoken to her.

She did not speak; she moved her fingers caressingly over his hand, thinking how pliant and feminine, how characteristic, it was.

"I know a woman's heart," he ran on lightly; "she is not a sacred mystery to me, as the fellows say in books. I dissected an old negro woman's heart once; she died of enlargement of the heart, so that it was as much a study as the largest heart of her kind. Sue is going out to-night with Towne and his mother--it's a pity that _he_ wouldn't step in now--she might let us all have a fair fight, and old Gesner, too, with his simpering voice! She would take Gesner only he doesn't propose. 'Thirty days hath September.' I wish it had thirty thousand. When I was a youngster, and got a beating for not learning that, I little thought that one day I _would_ learn it and count the days every night. Oh, that rare and radiant first of October! Do you know," bending forward and lowering his tone, "that she is more than half inclined to throw him over?"

"She is never more than half inclined to do anything," answered Tessa indignantly. "I wish that he were here to keep her out of mischief. Why do you stay so much with her? Surely you have business enough to keep you out of her presence."

He laughed excitedly. "Keep a starving man away from bread when he has only to stretch out his hand and snatch it."

"You have found that your doll is stuffed with sawdust, can't you toss it aside?"

"I love sawdust," he answered, comically.