“Then you think he does care for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know he’ll come soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “To-morrow?”

  “Yes, to-morrow.”

  “O’Manda, O’Manda!”

  XXX.

  Lemuel had promised himself that if he could gain a little time he should be able better to decide what it was right for him to do. His heart lifted as he dropped the letter into the box, and he went through the chapters which Mr. Corey asked him to read, after he came in, with an ease incredible to himself. In the morning he woke with a mind that was almost cheerful. He had been honest in writing that letter, and so far he had done right; he should keep his word about going soon to see Statira, and that would be honest too. He did not look beyond this decision, and he felt, as we all do, more or less vaguely when we have resolved to do right, that he had the merit of a good action.

  Statira showed herself so glad to see him that he could not do less than seem to share her joy in their making-up, as she called it, though he insisted that there had been no quarrel between them; and now there began for him a strange double life, the fact of which each reader must reject or accept according to the witness of his own knowledge.

  He renewed as far as he could the old warmth of his feeling for Statira, and in his compunction experienced a tenderness for her that he had not known before, the strange tenderness that some spirits feel for those they injure. He went oftener than ever to see her, he was very good to her, and cheered her with his interest in all her little interests; he petted her and comforted her; but he escaped from her as soon as he could, and when he shut her door behind him he shut her within it. He made haste to forget her, and to lose himself in thoughts that were never wholly absent even in her presence. Sometimes he went directly from her to Jessie, whose innocent Bohemianism kept later hours, and who was always glad to see him whenever he came. She welcomed him with talk that they thought related wholly to the books they had been reading, and to the things of deep psychological import which they suggested. He seldom came to her without the excuse of a book to be lent or borrowed; and he never quitted her without feeling inspired with the wish to know more, and to be more; he seemed to be lifted to purer and clearer regions of thought. She received him in the parlour, but their evenings commonly ended in her little studio, whither some errand took them, or some intrusion of the other boarders banished them. There he read to her poems or long chapters out of the essayists or romancers; or else they sat and talked about the strange things they had noticed in themselves that were like the things they found in their books. Once when they had talked a long while in this strain, he told how when he first saw her he thought she was very proud and cold.

  She laughed gaily. “And I used to be afraid of you,” she said. “You used to be always reading there in your little office. Do you think I’m very proud now?”

  “Are you very much afraid of me now?” he retorted.

  They laughed together.

  “Isn’t it strange,” she said, “how little we really know about people in the world?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “I wonder if it will ever be different. I’ve been wrong about nearly every one I’ve met since I came to Boston.”

  “And I have too!” she cried, with that delight in the coincidence of experience which the young feel so keenly.

  He had got the habit, with his growing ease in her presence, of walking up and down the room, while she sat, with her arms lifted and clasped above her head, forgetful of everything but the things they were saying, and followed him with her eyes. As he turned about in his walk, he saw how pretty she was, with her slender form cased in the black silk she wore, and thrown into full relief by the lifted arms; he saw the little hands knit above her head, and white as flowers on her dark hair. Her eyes were very bright, and her soft lips, small and fine, were red.

  He faltered, and lost the thread of his speech. “I forgot what I was going to say!”

  She took down her hands to clasp them over her laughing face a moment. “And I don’t remember what you were saying!” They both laughed a long time at this; it seemed incomparably droll, and they became better comrades.

  They spent the rest of the evening in laughing and joking.

  “I didn’t know you were so fond of laughing,” he said, when he went away.

  “And I always supposed you were very solemn,” she replied.

  This again seemed the drollest thing in the world. “Well, I always was,” he said.

  “And I don’t know when I’ve laughed so much before!” She stood at the head of the stairs, and held her lamp up for him to find his way down.

  Again looking back, he saw her in the undefended grace that had bewildered him before.

  When he came next they met very seriously, but before the evening was past they were laughing together; and so it happened now whenever he came. They both said how strange it was that laughing with any one seemed to make you feel so much better acquainted. She told of a girl at school that she had always disliked till one day something made them laugh, and after that they became the greatest friends.

  He tried to think of some experience to match this, but he could not; he asked her if she did not think that you always felt a little gloomy after you had been laughing a great deal. She said yes; after that first night when they laughed so, she felt so depressed that she was sure she was going to have bad news from Madeline. Then she said she had received a letter from Madeline that morning, and she and Mr. Berry had both wished her to give him their regards if she ever saw him. This, when she had said it, seemed a very good joke too; and they laughed at it a little consciously, till he boldly bade her tell them he came so very seldom that she did not know when she could deliver their message.

  She answered that she was afraid Madeline would not believe that; and then it came out that he had never replied to Berry’s letter.

  She said, “Oh! Is that the way you treat your correspondents?” and he was ashamed to confess that he had not forgiven Berry.

  “I will write to him to-night, if you say so,” he answered hardily.

  “Oh, you must do what you think best,” she said, lightly refusing the responsibility.

  “Whatever you say will be best,” he said, with a sudden, passionate fervour that surprised himself.

  She tried to escape from it. “Am I so infallible as that?”

  “You are for me!” he retorted.

  A silence followed, which she endeavoured to break, but she sat still across the little table from him where the shaded lamp spread its glow, leaving the rest of the room, with its red curtains and its sketches pinned about, in a warm, luxurious shadow. Her eyes fell, and she did not speak.

  “It must sound very strange to you, I know,” he went on; “and it’s strange to me, too; but it seems to me that there isn’t anything I’ve done without my thinking whether you would like me to do it.”

  She rose involuntarily. “You make me ashamed to think that you’re so much mistaken about me! I know how we all influence each other — I know I always try to be what I think people expect me to be — I can’t be myself — I know what you mean; but you — you must be yourself, and not let—” She stopped in her wandering speech, in strange agitation, and he rose too.

  “I hope you’re not offended with me!”

  “Offended? Why? Why do you — go so soon?”

  “I thought you were going,” he answered stupidly.

  “Why, I’m at home!”

  They looked at each other, and then they broke into a happy laugh.

  “Sit down again! I don’t know what I got up for. It must have been to make some tea. Did you know Madeline had bequeathed me her tea-kettle — the one we had at the St. Albans?” She bustled about, and lit the spirit-lamp under the kettle.

  “Blow out that match!” he cried. “You’ll set your dress on fire!” He caught her hand, which she was holding with the lighted match in it at her side, after the manner of women with lighted matches, and blew it out himself.

  “Oh, thank you!” she said indifferently. “Can you take it without milk?”

  “Yes, I like it so.”

  She got out two of the cups he remembered, and he said, “How much like last winter that seems!”

  And “Yes, doesn’t it?” she sighed.

  The lamp purred and fretted under the kettle, and in the silence in which they waited, the elm tree that rose from the pavement outside seemed to look in consciously upon them.

  When the kettle began to sing, she poured out the two cups of tea, and in handing him his their fingers touched, and she gave a little outcry. “Oh! Madeline’s precious cup! I thought it was going to drop!”

  The soft night-wind blew in through the elm leaves, and their rustling seemed the expression of a profound repose, an endless content.

  XXXI.

  The next night Lemuel went to see Statira, without promising himself what he should say or do, but if he were to tell her everything, he felt that she would forgive him more easily than ‘Manda Grier. He was aware that ‘Manda always lay in wait for him, to pierce him at every undefended hint of conscience. Since the first break with her, there had never been peace between them, and perhaps not kindness for long before that. Whether or not she felt responsible for having promoted Statira’s affair with him, and therefore bound to guard her to the utmost from suffering by it, she seemed always to be on the alert to seize any advantage against him. Sometimes Statira accused her of trying to act so hatefully to him that he would never come any more; she wildly blamed her; but the faithful creature was none the less constant and vigilant on that account. She took patiently the unjust reproaches which Statira heaped upon her like a wayward child, and remitted nothing of her suspicion or enmity towards Lemuel. Once, when she had been very bitter with him, so bitter that it had ended in an open quarrel between them, Statira sided with him against her, and when ‘Manda Grier flounced out of the room she offered him, if he wished, to break with her, and never to speak to her again, or have anything more to do with such a person. But at this his anger somehow fell; and he said no, she must not think of such a thing; that ‘Manda Grier had been her friend long before he was, and that, whatever she said to him, she was always good and true to her. Then Statira fell upon his neck and cried, and praised him, and said he was a million times more to her than ‘Manda Grier, but she would do whatever he said; and he went away sick at heart.

  When he came now, with his thoughts clinging to Jessie, ‘Manda Grier hardly gave him time for the decencies of greeting. She was in a high nervous exaltation, and Statira looked as if she had been crying.

  “What’s become o’ them art-students you used to have ‘t the St. Albans?” she began, her whopper-jaw twitching with excitement, and her eyes glaring vindictively upon Lemuel.

  He had sat down near Statira on the lounge, but she drew a little away from him in a provisional fashion, as if she would first see what came of ‘Manda Grier’s inquisition.

  “Art-students?” he repeated aimlessly while he felt his colour go.

  “Yes!” she snapped. “Them girls ‘t used to be ‘t the St. Albans, ‘t you thought so wonderful!”

  “I didn’t know I thought they were very wonderful!”

  “Can’t you answer a civil question?” she demanded, raising her voice.

  “I haven’t heard any,” said Lemuel, with sullen scorn.

  “Oh! Well!” she sneered. “I forgot that you’ve b’en used to goin’ with such fine folks that you can’t bear to be spoken to in plain English.”

  “‘Manda!” began Statira, with an incipient whimper.

  “You be still, S’tira Dudley! Mr. Barker,” said the poor foolish thing in the mincing falsetto which she thought so cutting, “have you any idea what’s become of your young lady artist friends, — them that took your portrait as a Roman youth, you know?”

  Lemuel made no answer whatever for a time. Then, whether he judged it best to do so, or was goaded to the defiance by ‘Manda Grier’s manner, he replied, “Miss Swan and Miss Carver? Miss Swan is married, and lives in Wyoming Territory now.” Before he had reached the close of the sentence he had controlled himself sufficiently to be speaking quite calmly.

  “Oh indeed, Mr. Barker! And may I ask where Miss Carver is? She merried and living in Wyoming Territory too?”

  “No,” said Lemuel quietly. “She’s not married. She’s in Boston.”

  “Indeed! Then it was her I see in the Garden to-day, S’tira! She b’en back long, Mr. Barker?”

  “About a month, I think,” said Lemuel.

  “Quite a spell! You seen her, Mr. Barker?”

  “Yes, quite often.”

  “I want to know! She still paintin’ Roman boys, Mr. Barker? Didn’t seem to make any great out at it last winter! But practice makes perfect, they say. I s’pose you seen her in the Garden, too?”

  “I usually see her at home,” said Lemuel. “You probably receive your friends on the benches in the Garden, but young ladies prefer to have them call at their residences.” He astonished himself by this brutality, he who was all gentleness with Miss Carver.

  “Very well, Mr. Barker! That’s all right. That’s all I wanted to know. Never mind about where I meet my friends. Wherever it is, they’re gentlemen; and they ain’t generally goin’ with three or four girls ‘t the same time.”

  “No, one like you would be enough,” retorted Lemuel.

  Statira sat cowering away from the quarrel, and making little ineffectual starts as if to stay it. Heretofore their enmity had been covert, if not tacit, in her presence.

  Lemuel saw her wavering, and the wish to show ‘Manda his superior power triumphed over every other interest and impulse in him. He got upon his feet. “There is no use in this sort of thing going on any longer. I came here because I thought I was wanted. If it’s a mistake, it’s easy enough to mend it, and it’s easy not to make it again. I wish you good evening.”

  Statira sprang from the lounge, and flung her arms around his neck. “No, no! You sha’n’t go! You mustn’t go, Lem! I know your all right, and I won’t have you talked to so! I ain’t a bit jealous, Lem; indeed I ain’t. I know you wouldn’t fool with me, any more than I would with you; and that’s what I tell ‘Manda Grier, I’ll leave it to her if I don’t. I don’t care who you go with, and I hain’t, never since that first time. I know you ain’t goin’ to do anything underhanded. Don’t go, Lem; oh, don’t go!”

  He was pulling towards the door; her trust, her fond generosity drove him more than ‘Manda Grier’s cutting tongue: that hurt his pride, his vanity, but this pierced his soul; he had only a blind, stupid will to escape from it.

  Statira was crying; she began to cough; she released his neck from her clasp, and reeled backward to the lounge, where she would have fallen, if ‘Manda Grier had not caught her. The paroxysm grew more violent; a bright stream of blood sprang from her lips.

  “Run! Run for the doctor! Quick, Lemuel! Oh, quick!” implored ‘Manda Grier, forgetting all enmity in her terror.

  Statira’s arms wavered towards him, as if to keep him, but he turned and ran from the house, cowed and conscience-stricken by the sight of that blood, as if he had shed it.

  He did not expect to see Statira alive when he came back with the doctor whom he found at the next apothecary’s. She was lying on the lounge, white as death, but breathing quietly, and her eyes sought him with an eagerness that turned to a look of tender gratitude at the look they found in his.

  The doctor bent over her for her pulse and her respiration; then when he turned to examine the crimson handkerchief which ‘Manda Grier showed him, Lemuel dropped on his knees beside her and put his face down to hers.

  With her lips against his cheek she made, “Don’t go!”

  And he whispered, “No, I’ll not leave you now!”

  The doctor looked round with the handkerchief still in his hand, as if doubting whether to order him away from her. Then he mutely questioned ‘Manda Grier with a glance which her glance answered. He shrugged his shoulders, with a puzzled sigh. An expression of pity crossed his face which he hardened into one of purely professional interest, and he went on questioning ‘Manda Grier in a low tone.

  Statira had slipped her hand into Lemuel’s, and she held it fast, as if in that clasp she were holding on to her chance of life.

  XXXII.

  Sewell returned to town for the last time in the third week of September, bringing his family with him.

  This was before the greater part of his oddly assorted congregation had thought of leaving the country, either the rich cottagers whose family tradition or liberal opinions kept them in his church, or the boarding and camping elements who were uniting a love of cheapness with a love of nature in their prolonged sojourn among the woods and fields. Certain families, perhaps half of his parish in all, were returning because the schools were opening, and they must put their children into them; and it was both to minister to the spiritual needs of these and to get his own children back to their studies that the minister was at home so early.

  It was, as I have hinted already, a difficult and laborious season with him; he himself was always a little rusty in his vocation after his summer’s outing, and felt weakened rather than strengthened by his rest. The domestic machine started reluctantly; there was a new cook to be got in, and Mrs. Sewell had to fight a battle with herself, in which she invited him to share, before she could settle down for the winter to the cares of housekeeping. The wide skies, the dim mountain slopes, the long, delicious drives, the fresh mornings, the sweet, silvery afternoons of their idle country life, haunted their nerves and enfeebled their wills.

  One evening in the first days of this moral disability, while Sewell sat at his desk trying to get himself together for a sermon, Barker’s name was brought up to him.

  “Really,” said his wife, who had transmitted it from the maid, “I think it’s time you protected yourself, David. You can’t let this go on for ever. He has been in Boston nearly two years now; he has regular employment, where if there’s anything in him at all, he ought to prosper and improve without coming to you every other night. What can he want now?”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305 306 307 308 309 310 311 312 313 314 315 316 317 318 319 320 321 322 323 324 325 326 327 328 329 330 331 332 333 334 335 336 337 338 339 340 341 342 343 344 345 346 347 348 349 350 351 352 353 354 355 356 357 358 359 360 361 362 363 364 365 366 367 368 369 370 371 372 373 374 375 376 377 378 379 380 381 382 383 384 385 386 387 388 389 390 391 392 393 394 395 396 397 398 399 400 401 402 403 404 405 406 407 408 409 410 411 412 413 414 415 416 417 418 419 420 421 422 423 424 425 426 427 428 429 430 431 432 433 434 435 436 437 438 439 440 441 442 443 444 445 446 447 448 449 450 451 452 453 454 455 456 457 458 459 460 461 462 463 464 465 466 467 468 469 470 471 472 473 474 475 476 477 478 479 480 481 482 483 484 485 486 487 488 489 490 491 492 493 494 495 496 497 498 499 500 501 502 503 504 505 506 507 508 509 510 511 512 513 514 515 516 517 518 519 520 521 522 523 524 525 526 527 528 529 530 531 532 533 534 535 536 537 538 539 540 541 542 543 544 545 546 547 548 549 550 551 552 553 554 555 556 557 558 559 560 561 562 563 564 565 566 567 568 569 570 571 572 573 574 575 576 577 578 579 580 581 582 583 584 585 586 587 588 589 590 591 592 593 594 595 596 597 598 599 600 601 602 603 604 605 606 607 608 609 610 611 612 613 614 615 616 617 618 619 620 621 622 623 624 625 626 627 628 629 630 631 632 633 634 635 636 637 638 639 640 641 642 643 644 645 646 647 648 649 650 651 652 653 654 655 656 657 658 659 660 661 662 663 664 665 666 667 668 669 670 671 672 673 674 675 676 677 678 679 680 681 682 683 684 685 686 687 688 689 690 691 692 693 694 695 696 697 698 699 700 701 702 703 704 705 706 707 708 709 710 711 712 713 714 715 716 717 718 719 720 721 722 723 724 725 726 727 728 729 730 731 732 733 734 735 736 737 738 739 740 741 742 743 744 745 746 747 748 749 750 751 752 753 754 755 756 757 758 759 760 761 762 763 764 765 766 767 768 769 770 771 772 773 774 775 776 777 778 779 780 781 782 783 784 785 786 787 788 789 790 791 792 793 794 795 796 797 798 799 800 801 802 803 804 805 806 807 808 809 810 811 812 813 814 815 816 817 818 819 820 821 822 823 824 825 826 827 828 829 830 831 832 833 834 835 836 837 838 839 840 841 842 843 844 845 846 847 848 849 850 851 852 853 854 855 856 857 858 859 860 861 862 863 864 865 866 867 868 869 870 871 872 873 874 875 876 877 878 879 880 881 882 883 884 885 886 887 888 889 890 891 892 893 894 895 896 897 898 899 900 901 902 903 904 905 906 907 908 909 910 911 912 913 914 915 916 917 918 919 920 921 922 923 924 925 926 927 928 929 930 931 932 933 934 935 936 937 938 939 940 941 942 943 944 945 946 947 948 949 950 951 952 953 954 955 956 957 958 959 960 961 962 963 964 965 966 967 968 969 970 971 972 973 974 975 976 977 978 979 980 981 982 983 984 985 986 987 988 989 990 991 992 993 994 995 996 997 998 999 1000 1001 1002 1003 1004 1005 1006 1007 1008 1009 1010 1011 1012 1013 1014 1015 1016 1017 1018 1019 1020 1021 1022 1023 1024 1025 1026 1027 1028 1029 1030 1031 1032 1033 1034 1035 1036 1037 1038 1039 1040 1041 1042 1043 1044 1045 1046 1047 1048 1049 1050 1051 1052 1053 1054 1055 1056 1057 1058 1059 1060 1061 1062 1063 1064 1065 1066 1067 1068 1069 1070 1071 1072 1073 1074 1075 1076 1077 1078 1079 1080 1081 1082 1083 1084 1085 1086 1087 1088 1089 1090 1091 1092 1093 1094 1095 1096 1097 1098 1099 1100 1101 1102 1103 1104 1105 1106 1107 1108 1109 1110 1111 1112 1113 1114 1115 1116 1117 1118 1119 1120 1121 1122 1123 1124 1125 1126 1127 1128 1129 1130 1131 1132 1133 1134 1135 1136 1137 1138 1139 1140 1141 1142 1143 1144 1145 1146 1147 1148 1149 1150 1151 1152 1153 1154 1155 1156 1157 1158 1159 1160 1161 1162 1163 1164 1165 1166 1167 1168 1169 1170 1171 1172 1173 1174 1175 1176 1177 1178 1179 1180 1181 1182 1183 1184 1185 1186 1187 1188 1189 1190 1191 1192 1193 1194 1195 1196 1197 1198 1199 1200 1201 1202 1203 1204 1205 1206 1207 1208 1209 1210 1211 1212 1213 1214 1215 1216 1217 1218 1219 1220 1221 1222 1223 1224 1225 1226 1227 1228 1229 1230 1231 1232 1233 1234 1235 1236 1237 1238 1239 1240 1241 1242 1243 1244 1245 1246 1247 1248 1249 1250 1251 1252 1253 1254 1255 1256 1257 1258 1259 1260 1261 1262 1263 1264 1265 1266 1267 1268 1269 1270 1271 1272 1273 1274 1275 1276 1277 1278 1279 1280 1281 1282 1283 1284 1285 1286 1287 1288 1289 1290 1291 1292 1293 1294 1295 1296 1297 1298 1299 1300 1301 1302 1303 1304 1305 1306 1307 1308 1309 1310 1311 1312 1313 1314 1315 1316 1317 1318 1319 1320 1321 1322 1323 1324 1325 1326 1327 1328 1329 1330 1331 1332 1333 1334 1335 1336 1337 1338 1339 1340 1341 1342 1343 1344 1345 1346 1347 1348 1349 1350 1351 1352 1353 1354 1355 1356 1357 1358 1359 1360 1361 1362 1363 1364 1365 1366 1367 1368 1369 1370 1371 1372 1373 1374 1375 1376 1377 1378 1379 1380 1381 1382 1383 1384 1385 1386 1387 1388 1389 1390 1391 1392 1393 1394 1395 1396 1397 1398 1399 1400 1401 1402 1403 1404 1405 1406 1407 1408 1409 1410 1411 1412 1413 1414 1415 1416 1417 1418 1419 1420 1421 1422 1423 1424 1425 1426 1427 1428 1429 1430 1431 1432 1433 1434 1435 1436 1437 1438 1439 1440 1441 1442 1443 1444 1445 1446 1447 1448 1449 1450 1451 1452 1453 1454 1455 1456 1457 1458 1459 1460 1461 1462 1463 1464 1465 1466 1467 1468 1469 1470 1471 1472 1473 1474 1475 1476 1477 1478 1479 1480 1481 1482 1483 1484 1485 1486 1487 1488 1489 1490 1491 1492 1493 1494 1495 1496 1497 1498 1499 1500 1501 1502 1503 1504 1505 1506 1507 1508 1509 1510 1511 1512 1513 1514 1515 1516 1517 1518 1519 1520 1521 1522 1523 1524 1525 1526 1527 1528 1529 1530 1531 1532 1533 1534 1535 1536 1537 1538 1539 1540 1541 1542 1543 1544 1545 1546 1547 1548 1549 1550 1551 1552 1553 1554 1555 1556 1557 1558 1559 1560 1561 1562 1563 1564 1565 1566 1567 1568 1569 1570 1571 1572 1573 1574 1575 1576 1577 1578 1579 1580 1581 1582 1583 1584 1585 1586 1587 1588 1589 1590 1591 1592 1593 1594 1595 1596 1597 1598 1599 1600 1601 1602 1603 1604 1605 1606 1607 1608 1609 1610 1611 1612 1613 1614 1615 1616 1617 1618 1619 1620 1621