Tessa Wadsworth's Discipline Part 48

"What does Dine say?" she asked.

"Not much. No news," stammered Tessa.

"Hurry then and let me read it."

"Excuse me, it is purely confidential, every vestige to be consigned to the flames. You are to have a letter in a day or two."

Mr. Hammerton gave her a quick glance and moved his queen into check.

She took the letter into the parlor for a second perusal.

"Oh, Tessa, my dear, big, wise sister, I've got something to tell you.

What should I do if I hadn't somebody to tell? At first I thought I wouldn't tell you or any body, and then I knew I must. Norah knows, but she will never tell. She does not know about Gus. I have never told that, but she knows about my wonderful John! I don't know how to begin either; I guess I will begin in the middle; all the blanks your own imagination must fill. You know all about John; I've told you enough if your head isn't too full of literary stuff to hold common affairs; _I'm in love_ and he is, too, of course. I should not be if he were not. I mean I should not tell of it if he were not. I'm glad that you are not the kind of elder sister that can't be told such things, for I could not tell mother, and I would not dare tell dear, old father. Not that it is so dreadful to be in love, even if I have known him but seven weeks to-night; I fell in love with him the instant he raised his eyes and took hold of my hand. Living under the same roof and eating together three times a day (he eats so nicely), and ciphering and studying and reading together, and going to church and prayer-meeting and singing-school together, make the time seem ten times as long and give twenty times as many opportunities of falling in love decorously as I could have found in Dunellen in a year! But I am not apologizing for _that_. It's too delightfully delicious to have a _real_ lover! Not that he has asked me _yet_! I wouldn't have him do it for any thing; it would spoil it all. But we both knew it as Adam and Eve knew it! Now the dreadfulness of it is that I have no right to do such a thing. I came here believing that I was lawfully and forever engaged to dear old Gus, spectacles, chess-board, dictionary and all. Not that _he_ ever said a word to _me_! Don't you know one night I told you that I had a secret?

How glad I was of it then! I couldn't sleep that night and for days I felt dizzy; for Gus had been my hero ever since he told me stories when I was a wee child. And so of course I thought I _loved_ him. What is love, anyway? Who knows? That secret was this: I heard dear, old, wise Gus tell father that he loved _me_ (just think, _me!_) and that he was waiting for me to love him, dear, old boy! He would not try to make me love him, he wanted it to come naturally; he would not speak to me or urge me, he wanted to find me loving him and then he would ask me to give him what belonged to him. Wasn't it touching? I didn't know that he could be so lover-like. I didn't know that he ever would love anybody because he always talks books and politics and only made fun when I told him news about the girls. How could I help loving him when I knew that he loved me. Isn't that enough to make anybody love anybody?

"Just as soon as I saw my wonderful John, then I knew that I did not love Gus, that I never had loved him, that I never _could_ love him. No, not to the end of time. If I had married him, I suppose that I should have been satisfied and thought I was as happy as I could be-I don't know, though. He was wise to let me wait and have a choice: it is cruel to ask girls before they have seen some one else; we do not know what we do want until we see it-or him. I am writing at the sitting-room table; John has not come home from the mail; Aunt Tessa knits a long, blue stocking and Uncle Knox is asleep with the big white and black cat on his knees.

"I never could stay here but for John and Miss Towne. I have told _her_ about John; she likes John. Every one does.

"I want you to see my knight; he is not tall, he is broad-shouldered, with the loveliest complexion and blonde mustache, blue eyes, s.h.i.+ning blue eyes, and auburn curly hair! that is, _rather_ auburn; I think it is more like reddish gold. I wish that you could hear him talk about making life a glorious success. He makes me feel brave and strong. Oh, isn't it a beautiful thing to live and have some one love you! I wish that you loved somebody; I do not like to be so happy and have you standing out in the cold. John thinks that _you_ are wonderful; I tell him that he will forget me when he has heard you talk.

"Wise old Gus is a thousand miles over my head when he talks to me, but John walks by my side and speaks the thoughts that I have been thinking, only in so much more beautiful language; and he likes all the books I like, and my favorite poems and hymns. How will you break it to Gus? He must be told. He wrote to me two weeks ago, a long, interesting letter all about Dunellen news, which I haven't dared answer yet. I suppose I must. I showed it to John; he asked how old he was, and now he calls him 'The Venerable.' He must not keep on thinking about me, for I never, never can like him, even if I never marry John. Do break it to him in some easy, _pleasant_ way; he will never imagine that _you_ know that he likes _me_. He never showed it any, I am sure. I always thought that it was you, and mother thinks so; I heard her telling father.

"Be sure to write immediately, for I am as unhappy as I can be. And be sure to tell me what he says and how he takes it. Mary Sherwood wrote me that Sue told her that she and Dr. Lake had awful quarrels, and that once they didn't speak to each other for three days only in her father's presence. I never could quarrel with John. There he comes. I'll be writing when he comes in and not look up, and then he will come behind my chair and touch my curls when auntie isn't looking.

"Write soon. Your ever loving Dine.

"P.S.-John calls me Di: he doesn't like _Dine_."

Crumbling the letter in both hands, she laid it upon the coals; then she stood with one foot on the fender, leaning forward with her forehead upon the mantel, thinking, thinking. Before she was aware the door was opened and some one came behind her and put both arms around her.

"Is any thing the matter with Dine?"

"Oh, no," shaking herself loose from his arms and creeping out of them.

He pushed the ottoman nearer and seated himself upon the parrot and the roses; she stood on the edge of the rug, with her arms folded across her breast to keep herself quiet; how could she tell him the truth? He was not a boy to laugh and cry and fling it off; he had loved Dine as long as Felix Harrison had loved _her_! He would take it quietly enough; she had no dread of an outburst; it might be that Dine's silence in regard to his letter had been a preparation; surely every hard thing that came had its preparation; the heavy blow was never sent before the word of warning.

"She is not sick?" he asked.

"Sick!" She lingered over the word as if help would come before it were ended. "Oh, no, she is well and happy."

"Does she write you secrets?"

"She always tells me her secrets."

"Has any phenomenon occurred?"

"It isn't a phenomenon; it is something as old as Eve and as new as Dinah. She thinks she has found her Adam."

"Ah!" in a constrained voice.

She saw nothing but the fire; the long poker was laid across the fender, a handful of ashes had fallen through the grate. "Such things have to come, like the measles and mumps; I did hope, however, to keep her out of the contagion. But Mother Nature is wiser than any sister."

"Why is it to be regretted?"

"Because-oh, because, I have learned that one's eyes are always wide open afterward-they weep much and see clear; one can never be carelessly happy again; I wanted her to stay a little girl. Selfishly, perhaps. I thought there was time enough."

"It is settled then-so soon?"

"Nothing is settled, but that two people are in love, or believe themselves to be. Am I not a cynical elder sister?"

"Is this her first experience?"

"Who can say when a first experience is! Tennyson and moonlight walks are aggravating at their age." At their age! She felt as old as Miss Jewett to-night.

"I hope he is worthy of her. She is a jewel."

"She would not love him if he were not," said the elder sister proudly.

"This is a secret?"

"Yes; I know that I can trust you. It will be time enough to tell father and mother when he brings her home and kneels at their feet for their blessing."

"Who is he?"

"John Woodstock, the school-master. He has neither father nor mother, he is beautiful and good, enthusiastic and fascinating."

She had not once lifted her eyes to his face; his fingers had clasped and unclasped themselves; his voice was not as steady as usual.

"That notice was a very pretty puff, Lady Blue."

"Yes, I like it I will paste it into my notebook."

"Is that all you have seen?"

"No, I saw two in the reading-room, but I like this better."

"Are you writing now?"

"Yes."

"You are not on the lookout for Adam."

"No. I will write and he shall search for me. Haven't you heard of that bird in Africa, which if you hunt for him, you can not find, but if you stay at home, he will come to you?"

He had risen and stood in his usual uneasy fas.h.i.+on. "My congratulations to Dine."

"I will tell her."

He lingered on the hearth-rug, then at the door with his hand upon the k.n.o.b.