On the Church Steps Part 4

But Bessie darted a quick glance from her to me, and back again to her, as though some dawning suspicion had come to her. "I hope," she said quietly, "that you may have a pleasant winter. It will be delightful, won't it, Charlie?"

"Oh, very!" I answered, but half noting the under-meaning of her words, my mind running on deck state-rooms and the like.

"Charlie," said Miss Meyrick suddenly, "do you remember what happened two years ago to-day?"

"No, I think not."

Taking out a little book bound in Russia leather and tipped with gold, she handed it to Bessie, who ran her eye down the page: it was open at September 28th.

"Read it," said f.a.n.n.y, settling herself composedly in her shawl, and leaning back against a tree with half-shut eyes.

"'_September 28th_'" Bessie read, in clear tones which had a strange constraint in them, "'Charlie Munro saved my life. I shall love him for ever and ever. We were out in a boat, we two, on the Hudson--moonlight--I was rowing. Dropt my oar into the water. Leaned out after it and upset the boat. Charlie caught me and swam with me to sh.o.r.e.'"

A dead silence as Bessie closed the book and held it in her hand.

"Oh," said I lightly, "that isn't worth chronicling--that! It was no question of saving lives. The New York boat was coming up, if I remember."

"Yes, it was in trying to steer away from it that I dropped my oar."

"So you see it would have picked us up, any how. There was nothing but the ducking to remember."

"Such a figure, Bessie! Imagine us running along the road to the gate!

I could scarcely move for my dripping skirts; and we frightened papa so when we stepped up on the piazza out of the moonlight!"

To stop this torrent of reminiscences, which, though of nothings, I could see was bringing the red spot to Bessie's cheek, I put out my hand for the book: "Let me write something down to-day;" and I hastily scribbled: "_September_ 28. Charles Munro and Bessie Stewart, to sail for Europe in ten days, ask of their friend f.a.n.n.y Meyrick her warm congratulations."

"Will that do?" I whispered as I handed the book to Bessie.

"Not at all," said Bessie scornfully and coldly, tearing out the leaf as she spoke and crumpling it in her hand.--"Sorry to spoil your book, f.a.n.n.y dear, but the sentiment would have spoiled it more. Let us go home."

As we pa.s.sed the hotel on that dreary walk home, f.a.n.n.y would have left us, but Bessie clung to her and whispered something in a pleading voice, begging her, evidently, to come home with us.

"If Mr. Munro will take word to papa," she said, indicating that worthy, who sat on the upper piazza smoking his pipe.

"We will walk on," said Bessie coldly. "Come, f.a.n.n.y dear."

Strange, thought I as I turned on my heel, this sudden fond intimacy!

Bessie is angry. Why did I never tell her of the ducking? And yet when I remembered how f.a.n.n.y had clung to me, how after we had reached the sh.o.r.e I had been forced to remind her that it was no time for sentimental grat.i.tude when we both were s.h.i.+vering, I could see why I had refrained from mentioning it to Bessie until our closer confidences would allow of it.

No man, unless he be a downright c.o.xcomb, will ever admit to one woman that another woman has loved him. To his wife--perhaps. But how much f.a.n.n.y Meyrick cared for me I had never sought to know. After the dismal ending of that moonlight boat-row--I had been already disenchanted for some time before--I had scarce called at Meyrick Place more than civility required. The young lady was so inclined to exaggerate the circ.u.mstance, to hail me as her deliverer, that I felt like the hero of a melodrama whenever we met. And after I had met Bessie there were pleasanter things to think about--much pleasanter.

How exasperating girls can be when they try! I had had my _conge_ for the walk home, I knew, and I was vexed enough to accept it and stay at the hotel to dinner.

"I will not be played upon in this way. Bessie knows that I stayed over the morning train just to be with her, and piled up for to-morrow no end of work, as well as sarcastic remarks from D. & Co. If she chooses to show off her affection for f.a.n.n.y Meyrick in these few hours that we have together--f.a.n.n.y Meyrick whom she _hated_ yesterday--she may enjoy her friends.h.i.+p undisturbed by me."

So I loitered with my cigar after dinner, and took a nap on the sofa in my room. I was piqued, and did not care to conceal it. As the clock struck five I bethought me it was time to betake me to the Sloman cottage. A sound of wheels and a carriage turning brought me to the window. The two young ladies were driving off in f.a.n.n.y Meyrick's phaeton, having evidently come to the hotel and waited while it was being made ready.

"Pique for pique! Serves me right, I suppose."

Evening found me at the Sloman cottage, waiting with Mrs. Sloman by the tea-table. Why do I always remember her, sitting monumental by the silver urn?

"The girls are very late to-night."

"Yes." I was beginning to be uneasy. It was nearing train-time again.

"Such lovely moonlight, I suppose, has tempted them, or they may be staying at Foxcroft to tea."

Indeed? I looked at my watch: I had ten minutes.

A sound of wheels: the phaeton drove up.

"Oh, Charlie," said Bessie as she sprang out, "you bad boy! you'll miss your train again. f.a.n.n.y here will drive you to the hotel. Jump in, quick!"

And as the moonlight shone full on her face I looked inquiringly into her eyes.

"The letter," I said, "for Judge Hubbard?" hoping that she would go to the house for it, and then I could follow her for a word.

"Oh! I had almost forgotten. Here it is;" and she drew it from her pocket and held it out to me in her gloved hand. I pressed the hand to my lips, riding-glove and all, and sprang in beside f.a.n.n.y, who was with some difficulty making her horse stand still.

"Good-bye!" from the little figure at the gate. "Don't forget, f.a.n.n.y, to-morrow at ten;" and we were off.

By the wretched kerosene lamp of the car, going down, I read my letter, for it was for me: "I will not go to Europe, and I forbid you to mention it again. I shall never, never forget that _I_ proposed it, and that you--_accepted_ it. Come up to Lenox once more before you go."

This was written in ink, and was sealed. It was the morning's note.

But across the envelope these words were written in pencil: "Go to Europe with f.a.n.n.y Meyrick, and come up to Lenox, both of you, when you return."

CHAPTER VI.

I had a busy week of it in New York--copying out instructions, taking notes of marriages and intermarriages in 1690, and writing each day a long, pleading letter to Bessie. There was a double strain upon me: all the arrangements for my client's claims, and in an undercurrent the arguments to overcome Bessie's decision, went on in my brain side by side.

I could not, I wrote to her, make the voyage without her. It would be the s.h.i.+pwreck of all my new hopes. It was cruel in her to have raised such hopes unless she was willing to fulfill them: it made the separation all the harder. I could not and would not give up the plan.

"I have engaged our pa.s.sage in the Wednesday's steamer: say yes, dear child, and I will write to Dr. Wilder from here."

I could not leave for Lenox before Sat.u.r.day morning, and I hoped to be married on the evening of that day. But to all my pleading came "No,"

simply written across a sheet of note-paper in my darling's graceful hand.

Well, I would go up on the Sat.u.r.day, nevertheless. She would surely yield when she saw me faithful to my word.

"I shall be a sorry-looking bridegroom," I thought as I surveyed myself in the little mirror at the office. It was Friday night, and we were shutting up. We had worked late by gaslight, all the clerks had gone home long ago, and only the porter remained, half asleep on a chair in the hall.

It was striking nine as I gathered up my bundle of papers and thrust them into a bag. I was rid of them for three days at least. "Bill, you may lock up now," I said, tapping the sleepy porter on the shoulder.

"Oh, Mr. Munro, shure here's a card for yees," handing me a lady's card.