Tessa Wadsworth's Discipline Part 15

Where was the first point of sympathy?

Tessa could have taken him into her arms and cared for him as she would have cared for a child.

"I have just seen an old man die; a good old man; he was over ninety; he prayed to the last; that is his lips moved and his old wife laid his hands together; he liked to clasp his hands when he prayed, she said.

She put her ear down close to his mouth, but she could not distinguish the words. I was wis.h.i.+ng that I could go in his place, and that he could take up my life and live it through for me. He would do better with it than I shall."

"Is not that rather selfish?"

"Life is such a sham. I don't believe in the transmigration of souls; I don't want to come back and pull through another miserable existence."

"I want you to stay this soul in this body; I do not want to lose you."

"If every woman in the world were like you-"

"And every man were as tired and hungry as you-"

"What would he do?"

"He would hurry home to a good, hot dinner."

"I have not eaten or drank since yesterday morning. Sue has a hot dinner waiting for me. She will sit with me while I eat, and tell me, perhaps, that she has had a letter from that fellow in Philadelphia, or that that well-preserved specimen of manhood, old John Gesner, has asked her to drive with him. Some flirtation of hers is sauce to every dish."

"Poor Sue," sighed Tessa.

"She might be happy if she would; I would take care of her."

"Good-by," squeezing his fingers through his glove. "Go home and eat."

"Give me a good word before I go."

"Wait."

"Is that the best word you know?"

"It is good enough."

"Well, good day, Mystic," he said, lifting his hat.

She went back to the gra.s.sy wayside, thinking. What right had Sue Greyson's light fingers to meddle with a life like Dr. Lake's? They had not one taste in common. How could he find her attractive? She disliked every thing in which he was interested; it was true that she could sing, sing like one of the wild birds down in the woods, and he loved music.

She paused and stood leaning against the rails of a fence, and looked across the green acres of winter wheat; one day in September she had stood there watching the men as they were drilling the wheat; afterward she had seen the tender, green blades springing up in straight rows, and once she had seen the whole field green beneath a light snow. The wind moved her veil slightly, both hands were drooping as her elbows leaned upon the upper rail, her cheeks were tinged with the excitement of Dr.

Lake's words, and her eyes suffused with a mist that was too sorrowful to drop with tears. A quick step on the gra.s.s at her side did not startle her; she did not stir until a voice propounded gravely: "If a man should be born with two heads, on which forehead must he wear the phylactery?"

She turned with a laugh. "Gus, I would know that was you if I heard the voice and the question in the Great Desert."

"Can't you decide?"

"My thoughts were not nonsense."

"Of course not, you were labelling and pigeon holing all that you have thought of since sunrise! I've been sitting on a stone waiting for your conference to end. Are you in the habit of meeting strange men and conversing with them."

"Yes, I came out to meet you."

"I only wish you did! I wish that you would make a stranger of me and be polite to me. It is nothing new for you to be wandering on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon, and nothing new for you to find me."

"I didn't find you."

"I intended to give you the honor of the discovery; now we will share the glory. Shall we go on?"

"I have been to my roots; do you know my roots? Do you know the corner above Old Place and the tiny stream?"

"I know every corner, and every root, and every stream. Shall I carry your flowers for you? I never can see why I should relieve a maiden of a burden when her avoirdupois equals mine. You will not give them to me? I have something to read to you-something of my own composing-I composed it in one brilliant wakeful moment-you will appreciate it."

"I do not believe it."

"Wait until you hear it. Lady Blue, are you going to be literary and never be married! Woe to the day when I taught you all you know."

They went on, slowly, for she liked to talk to Mr. Hammerton. "Father said something like that this morning and it troubled me; why may I not do as I like best? Why should he care to see me married before he dies?"

"Why should he not?"

"Nonsense. I can take good care of myself; beside," with a mischievous glance into his serious eyes, "I really don't know whom to marry."

"Oh, you could easily find some one. If all else fail, come to me, and if I am not too busy I will take you into consideration."

"Thanks, good friend! But you will always be too busy. What have you to read to me?"

"Something that you will appreciate. I wrote it for you. Stay, sit down, while I read it."

"I don't want to. You can read and walk. The mother of Mrs. Hemans could read aloud while walking up hill."

Mr. Hammerton's voice was not pleasant to a stranger, but Tessa liked it because it belonged to him; it was a part of him like his big nose, his spectacles, and the tiny bald spot over which, every day, he carefully brushed his hair. The color in his cheeks was as pretty as a girl's, and so was the delicate whiteness of his forehead; the bushy mustache, however, made amends for the complexion that he sometimes regretted; Tessa had once told him that his big nose, his mustache, and his awkwardness were all that kept him from being as pretty as his sister.

"I am not the mother of Mrs. Hemans." He took a sheet of paper from his pocket-book, and showed her the poem written in his peculiarly plain, upright hand.

"Excuse my singing and I will read. You must not think of any thing else."

"I will not."

"You are walking too fast."

She obediently took slower steps.

He cleared his throat and, holding the paper near his eyes, began to read. A shadow gathered in his listener's eyes at the first four lines.

"A nightingale made a mistake; She sang a few notes out of tune, Her heart was ready to break, And she hid from the moon.

"She wrung her claws, poor thing, But was far too proud to speak; She tucked her head under her wing, And pretended to be asleep.