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diff --git a/41801-8.txt b/41801-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f383c1a..0000000 --- a/41801-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10196 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Diary of a Saint, by Arlo Bates - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Diary of a Saint - -Author: Arlo Bates - -Release Date: January 7, 2013 [EBook #41801] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DIARY OF A SAINT *** - - - - -Produced by Michael Seow, sp1nd and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - -=Books by Arlo Bates.= - - - THE DIARY OF A SAINT. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - LOVE IN A CLOUD. A Novel. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - THE PURITANS. A Novel. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - THE PHILISTINES. A Novel. 12mo, $1.50. - THE PAGANS. A Novel. 16mo, $1.00. - PATTY'S PERVERSITIES. A Novel. 16mo, $1.00; paper, 50 cents. - PRINCE VANCE. The Story of a Prince with a Court in his Box. - By Arlo Bates and Eleanor Putnam. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - A LAD'S LOVE. 16mo, $1.00. - UNDER THE BEECH-TREE. Poems. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - TALKS ON WRITING ENGLISH. First Series. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - TALKS ON WRITING ENGLISH. Second Series. Crown 8vo, $1.30, _net_. - TALKS ON THE STUDY OF LITERATURE. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - - HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. - Boston and New York. - - - - - THE DIARY OF A - SAINT - - BY - ARLO BATES - - - For many saints have lived and died, be sure, - Yet known no name for God. - - Faith's Tragedy. - - - [Illustration] - - - BOSTON AND NEW YORK - HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY - The Riverside Press, Cambridge - 1902 - - - - - COPYRIGHT 1902 BY ARLO BATES - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - - _Published September, 1902_ - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAP. PAGE - - I. January 1 - - II. February 39 - - III. March 55 - - IV. April 85 - - V. May 133 - - VI. June 163 - - VII. July 186 - - VIII. August 214 - - IX. September 244 - - X. October 263 - - XI. November 284 - - XII. December 302 - - - - -THE DIARY OF A SAINT - - - - -I - -JANUARY - - -January 1. How beautiful the world is! I might go on to say, and how -commonplace this seems written down in a diary; but it is the thing I -have been thinking. I have been standing ever so long at the window, and -now that the curtains are shut I can see everything still. The moon is -shining over the wide white sheets of snow, and the low meadows look far -off and enchanted. The outline of the hills is clear against the sky, -and the cedars on the lawn are almost green against the whiteness of the -ground and the deep, blue-black sky. It is all so lovely that it somehow -makes one feel happy and humble both at once. - -It is a beautiful world, indeed, and yet last night-- - -But last night was another year, and the new begins in a better mood. I -have shaken off the idiotic mawkishness of last night, and am more like -what Father used to tell me to be when I was a mite of a girl: "A -cheerful Ruth Privet, as right as a trivet." Though to be sure I do not -know what being as right as a trivet is, any more than I did then. Last -night, it is true, there were alleviating circumstances that might have -been urged. For a week it had been drizzly, unseasonable weather that -took all the snap out of a body's mental fibre; Mother had had one of -her bad days, when the pain seemed too dreadful to bear, patient angel -that she is; Kathie Thurston had been in one of her most despairing -fits; and the Old Year looked so dreary behind, the New Year loomed so -hopeless before, that there was some excuse for a girl who was tired to -the bone with watching and worry if she did not feel exactly cheerful. I -cannot allow, though, that it justified her in crying like a -watering-pot, and smudging the pages of her diary until the whole thing -was blurred like a composition written with tears in a primary school. I -certainly cannot let this sort of thing happen again, and I am -thoroughly ashamed that it happened once. I will remember that the last -day Father lived he said he could trust me to be brave both for Mother -and myself; and that I promised,--I promised. - -So last night may go, and be forgotten as soon as I can manage to forget -it. To-night things are different. There has been a beautiful snow-fall, -and the air is so crisp that when I went for a walk at sunset it seemed -impossible ever to be sentimentally weak-kneed again; Mother is -wonderfully comfortable; and the New Year began with a letter to say -that George will be at home to-morrow. Mother is asleep like a child, -the fire is in the best of spirits, and does the purring for itself and -for Peter, who is napping with content expressed by every hair to the -tip of his fluffy white tail. Even Hannah is singing in the kitchen a -hymn that she thinks is cheerful, about - - "Sa-a-a-acred, high, e-ter-er-er-nal noon." - -It is evident that there is every opportunity to take a fresh start, -and to conduct myself in the coming year with more self-respect. - -So much for New Year resolutions. I do not remember that I ever made one -before; and very likely I shall never make one again. Now I must decide -something about Kathie. I tried to talk with Mother about her, but -Mother got so excited that I saw it would not do, and felt I must work -the problem out with pen and paper as if it were a sum in arithmetic. It -is not my business to attend to the theological education of the -minister's daughter, especially as it is the Methodist minister's -daughter, and he, with his whole congregation, thinks it rather doubtful -whether it is not sinful for Kathie even to know so dangerous an -unbeliever. I sometimes doubt whether my good neighbors in Tuskamuck -would regard Tom Paine himself, who, Father used to say, lingers as the -arch-heretic for all rural New England, with greater theological horror -than they do me. It is fortunate that they do not dislike me personally, -and they all loved Father in spite of his heresies. In this case I am -not clear, on the other hand, that it is my duty to stand passive and -see, without at least protesting, a sensitive, imaginative, delicate -child driven to despair by the misery and terror of a creed. If Kathie -had not come to me it would be different; but she has come. Time after -time this poor little, precocious, morbid creature has run to me in such -terror of hell-fire that I verily feared she would end by going frantic. -Ten years old, and desperate with conviction of original sin; and this -so near the end of the nineteenth century, so-called of grace! Thus far -I have contented myself with taking her into my arms, and just loving -her into calmness; but she is getting beyond that. She is finding being -petted so delightful that she is sure it must be a sin. She is like what -I can fancy the most imaginative of the Puritan grandmothers to have -been in their passionate childhood, in the days when the only recognized -office of the imagination was to picture the terrors of hell. I so long -for Father. If he were alive to talk to her, he could say the right -word, and settle things. The Bible is very touching in its phrase, "as -one whom his mother comforteth," but to me "whom his father comforteth" -would have seemed to go even deeper; but then, there is Kathie's father, -whose tenderness is killing her. I don't in the least doubt that he -suffers as much as she does; but he loves her too much to risk damage to -what he calls "her immortal soul." There is always a ring of triumph in -his voice when he pronounces the phrase, as if he already were a -disembodied spirit dilating in eternal and infinite glory. There is -something finely noble in such a superstition. - -All this, however, does not bring me nearer to the end of my sum, for -the answer of that ought to be what I shall do with Kathie. It would -never do to push her into a struggle with the creeds, or to set her to -arguing out the impossibility of her theology. She is too young and too -morbid, and would end by supposing that in reasoning at all on the -matter she had committed the unpardonable sin. Her father would not let -her read stories unless they were Sunday-school books. Perhaps she might -be allowed some of the more entertaining volumes of history; but she is -too young for most of them. She should be reading about Red Riding-hood, -and the White Cat, and the whole company of dear creatures immortal in -fairy stories. I will look in the library, and see what there may be -that would pass the conscientiously searching ordeal of her father's -eye. If she can be given anything which will take her mind off of her -spiritual condition for a while, that is all that may be done at -present. I'll hunt up my old skates for her, too. A little more exercise -in the open air will do a good deal for her humanly, and perhaps blow -away some of the theology. - - * * * * * - -Later. Hannah has been in to make her annual attack on my soul. I had -almost forgotten her yearly missionary effort, so that when she appeared -I said with the utmost cheerfulness and unconcern, "What is it, Hannah?" -supposing that she wanted to know something about breakfast. I could see -by the instant change in her expression that she regarded this as -deliberate levity. She was so full of what she had come to say that it -could not occur to her that I did not perceive it too. - -Dear old Hannah! her face has always so droll an expression of mingled -shyness and determination when, as she once said, she clears her skirts -of blood-guiltiness concerning me. She stands in the doorway twisting -her apron, and her formula is always the same:-- - -"Miss Ruth, I thought I'd take the liberty to say a word to you on this -New Year's day." - -"Yes, Hannah," I always respond, as if we had rehearsed the dialogue. -"What is it?" - -"It's another year, Miss Ruth, and your peace not made with God." - -To me there is something touching in the fidelity with which she clings -to the self-imposed performance of this evidently painful duty. She is -distressfully shy about it,--she who is never shy about anything else -in the world, so far as I can see. She feels that it is a "cross for her -to bear," as she told me once, and I honor her for not shirking it. She -thinks I regard it far more than I do. She judges my discomfort by her -own, whereas in truth I am only uncomfortable for her. I never could -understand why people are generally so afraid to speak of religious -things, or why they dislike so to be spoken to about them. I mind -Hannah's talking about my soul no more than I should mind her talking -about my nose or my fingers; indeed, the little flavor of personality -which would make that unpleasant is lacking when it comes to discussion -about intangible things like the spirit, and so on the whole I mind the -soul-talk less. I suppose really the shyness is part of the general -reticence all we New Englanders have that makes it so hard to speak of -anything which is deeply felt. Father used to say, I remember, that it -was because folk usually have a great deal of sentiment about religion -and very few ideas, and thus the difficulty of bringing their expression -up to their feelings necessarily embarrasses them. - -I assured Hannah I appreciated all her interest in my welfare, and that -I would try to live as good a life during the coming year as I could; -and then she withdrew with the audible sigh of relief that the heavy -duty was done with for another twelvemonth. She assured me she should -still pray for me, and if I do not suppose that there is any great -efficacy in her petition, I am at least glad that she should feel like -doing her best in my behalf. Mother declares that she is always offended -when a person offers to pray for her. She looks at it as dreadfully -condescending and patronizing, as if the petitioner had an intimate -personal hold upon the Almighty, and was willing to exert his influence -in your behalf. But I hardly think she means it. She never fails to see -when a thing is kindly meant, even if she has a keen sense of the -ludicrous. At any rate, it does us no harm that kindly petitions are -offered for us, even if they may go out into an unregarding void; and I -am not sure that they do. - - -January 2. Kathie is delighted with the skates, and she does not think -that her father will object to her having them; so there is at least one -point gained. - -We have had such a lovely sunset! I do not see how there can be a -doubter in a world where there are so many beautiful things. The whole -west, through the leafless branches of the elms on the south lawn, was -one gorgeous mass of splendid color. I hope George saw it. It is almost -time for him to be here, and I have caught myself humming over and over -his favorite tunes as I waited. Mother has had a day of uneasiness, so -that I could not leave her much, but rubbing her side for an hour or two -relieved her. It has cramped my fingers a little, so that I write a -funny, stiff hand. Poor Mother! It made me ashamed to be so glad in my -heart as I saw how brave and quiet she was, with the lines of pain round -her dear mouth. - - * * * * * - -Later. "How long is it that we have been engaged?" - -That is what George asked me, and out of all the long talk we had this -evening this is the one thing which I keep hearing over and over. Why -should it tease me so? It is certainly a simple question, and when two -persons have been engaged six years there need no longer be any false -sensitiveness about things of this sort. About what sort? Do I mean that -the time has come when George would not mind hurting my feelings? It may -as well come out. As Father used to say: "You cannot balance the books -until the account is set down in full." Well, then, I mean that there is -a frankness about a long engagement which may not be in a short one, so -that when George and I meet after a separation it is natural that almost -the first question should be,-- - -"How long is it that we have been engaged?" - -The question is certainly an innocent one,--although one would think -George might have answered it himself. How much did the fact that he -talked afterward so eagerly about the Miss West he met while at his -aunt's, and of how pretty she is, have to do with the pain which the -question gave me? At my age one might think that I was beyond the -jealousies of a school-girl. - -We have been engaged six years and four months and five days. It is not -half the time that Jacob served for Rachel, although it is almost the -time he bowed his neck to the yoke for Leah, and I am afraid lest I am -nearer to being like the latter than the former. I always pitied Leah, -for she must have understood she had not her husband's love; any woman -would perceive that. Six years--and life is so short! Poor George, it -has not been easy for him! He has not even been able to wish that the -obstacle between us was removed, since that obstacle is Mother. Surely -she is my first duty; and since she needs me day and night, I cannot -divide my life; but I do pity George. He is wearing out his youth with -that old frump of a housekeeper, who makes him uncomfortable with an -ingenuity that seems to show intellectual force not to be suspected from -anything else. But she is a faithful old soul, and it is not kind to -abuse her. - -"How long is it that we have been engaged?" - -I have a tendency to keep on writing that over and over all down the -page as if this were the copy-book of a child at school. How Tom used to -admire my writing-books in our school-days! His were always smudged and -blotted. He is too big-souled and manly to niggle over little things; -and he laughed at the pains I took, turning every corner with absurd -care. He was so strong and splendid on the ice when we went skating over -on Getchell's Pond; and how often and often he has drawn me all the way -home on my sled! - -But all that was ages and ages ago, and long before I even knew George. -It never occurred to me until to-night, but I am really growing old. The -birthdays that Tom remembered, and on which he sent me little bunches of -Mayflowers, have not in the least troubled me or seemed too many. I have -not thought much of birthdays of late years, but to-night I realize that -I am twenty-nine, and that George has asked me,-- - -"How long is it that we have been engaged?" - - -January 7. Sackcloth and ashes have been my portion for days, and if I -could by tearing from my diary the last leaves blot out of remembrance -the foolish things I have written, it would be quickly done. My New -Year's resolutions were even less lasting than are those in the jokes -of the comic papers; and I am ashamed all through and through. I have -tried to reason myself into something resembling common sense, but I am -much afraid I have not yet entirely accomplished it. I have said to -myself over and over that it would be the best thing for George if he -did fall in love with that girl he saw at Franklin, and go his way -without wasting more time waiting for me. He has wasted years enough, -and it is time for him to be happy. But then--has he not been happy? Or -is it that I have been so happy myself I have not realized how the long -engagement was wearying him? He must have wearied, or he could never -have asked me-- - -No, I will not write it! - - -January 8. George came over last night, and was so loving and tender -that I was thoroughly ashamed of all the wicked suspicions I have had. -After all, what was there to suspect? I almost confessed to him what a -miserable little doubter I had been; but I knew that confession would -only be relieving my soul at the expense of making him uncomfortable. I -hated to have him think me better than I am; but this, I suppose, is -part of the penalty I ought to pay for having been so weak. - -Besides,--probably it was only my weakness in another form, the petty -jealousy of a small soul and a morbid fancy,--he seemed somehow more -remote than I have ever known him, and I could not have told him if I -would. We did not seem to be entirely frank with each other, but as if -each were trying to make the other feel at ease when it was not really -possible. Of course I was only attributing my own feelings to him, for -he was dearly good. - -He told me more about his visit to Franklin, and he seems to have seen -Miss West a good deal. She is a sort of cousin of the Watsons, he says, -and so they had a common ground. When she found that he lived so near to -the Watsons she asked him all kinds of questions. She has never seen -them, having lived in the West most of her life, and was naturally much -interested in hearing about her relatives. I found myself leading him on -to talk of her. I cannot see why I should care about this stranger. -Generally I deal very little in gossip. Father trained me to be -interested in real things, and meaningless details about people never -attracted me. Yet this girl sticks in my mind, and I am tormented to -know all about her. It cannot be anything he said; though he did say -that she is very pretty. Perhaps it was the way in which he said it. He -seemed to my sick fancy to like to talk of her. She must be a charming -creature. - - -January 9. Why should he not like to talk of a pretty girl? I hope I am -not of the women who cannot bear to have a man use his eyes except to -see their graces. It is pitiful to be so small and mean. I certainly -want George to admire goodness and beauty, and to be by his very -affection for me the more sensitive to whatever is admirable in others. -If I am to be worthy of being his wife, I must be noble enough to be -glad at whatever there is for him to rejoice in because of its -loveliness: and yet as I write down all these fine sentiments I feel my -heart like lead! Oh, I am so ashamed of myself! - - -January 10. Miss Charlotte came in this afternoon, looking so thin, and -cold, and tall, that I have been rather sober ever since. - -"I wish I had on shoes with higher heels," I said to her as we shook -hands; "then perhaps I shouldn't feel so insignificant down here." - -She looked down at me, laughing that rich, throaty laugh of hers. - -"Mother always used to say she knew the Kendalls couldn't have been -drowned in the Flood," she answered, "for they must all have been tall -enough to wade to Mt. Ararat." - -"You know the genealogy so far back that you must be able to tell -whether she was right." - -"I don't go quite so far as that," she said, sitting down by the fire, -"but I know that my great-great-grandfather married a Privet, so that I -always considered Judge Privet a cousin." - -"If Father was a cousin, I must be one too," said I. - -"You are the same relation to me on one side," Miss Charlotte went on, -"that Deacon Webbe is on the other. It's about fortieth cousin, you see, -so that I can count it or not, as I please." - -"I am flattered that you choose to count us in," I told her, smiling; -"and I am sure also you must be willing to count in anybody so good as -Deacon Webbe." - -"Yes, Deacon Webbe is worth holding on to, though he's so weak that he'd -let the shadow of a mosquito bully him. The answer to the question in -the New England Primer, 'Who is the meekest man?' ought to be 'Deacon -Webbe.' He used up all the meekness there was in the whole family, -though." - -"I confess that I never heard Mrs. Webbe called meek," I assented. - -"Meek!" sniffed Miss Charlotte; "I should think not. A wasp is a -Sunday-school picnic beside her. While as for Tom"-- - -She pursed up her lips with an expression of disapproval so very marked -I was afraid at once that Tom Webbe must have been doing something -dreadful again, and my heart sank for his father. - -"But Tom has been doing better," I said. "This winter he"-- - -"This winter!" she exclaimed. "Why, just now he is worse than ever." - -"Oh, dear," I asked, "what is it now? His father has been so unhappy -about him." - -"If he'd made Tom unhappy it would have been more to the purpose. Tom's -making himself the town talk with that Brownrig girl." - -"What Brownrig girl?" - -"Don't you know about the Brownrigs that live in that little red house -on the Rim Road?" - -"I know the red house, and now that you say the name, I remember I have -heard that such a family have moved in there. Where did they come from?" - -"Oh, where do such trash come from ever?" demanded Miss Charlotte. "I'm -afraid nobody but the Old Nick could tell you. They're a set of drunken, -disreputable vagabonds, that turned up here last year. They were -probably driven out of some town or other. Tom's been"-- - -But I did not wish to hear of Tom's misdeeds, and I said so. Miss -Charlotte laughed, as usual. - -"You never take any interest in wickedness, Ruth," she said -good-naturedly. "That's about the only fault I have to find with you." - -Poor Deacon Webbe! Tom has made him miserable indeed in these years -since he came from college. The bitterness of seeing one we love go -wrong must be unbearable, and when we believe that the consequences of -wrong are to be eternal--I should go mad if I believed in such a creed. -I would try to train myself to hate instead of to love; or, if I could -not do this--But I could not believe anything so horrible, so that I -need not speculate. Deacon Daniel is a saint, though of course he does -not dream of such a thing. A saint would not be a saint, I suppose, who -was aware of his beatitude, and the deacon's meekness is one of his most -marked attributes of sanctity. I wonder whether, in the development of -the race, saintliness will ever come to be compatible with a sense of -humor. A saint with that persuasively human quality would be a -wonderfully compelling power for good. Deacon Daniel is a fine influence -by his goodness, but he somehow enhances the desirability of virtue in -the abstract rather than brings home personally the idea that his -example is to be followed; and all because he is so hopelessly without a -perception of the humorous side of existence. But why do I go on writing -this, when the thought uppermost in my mind is the grief he will have if -Tom has started again on one of his wild times. I do hope that Miss -Charlotte is mistaken! So small a thing will sometimes set folk to -talking, especially about Tom, who is at heart so good, though he has -been wild enough to get a bad name. - - -January 11. Things work out strangely in this world; so that it is no -wonder all sorts of fanciful beliefs are made out of them. There could -hardly be a web more closely woven than human life. To-day, when I had -not seen Tom for months, and when the gossip of last night made me want -to talk with him, chance brought us face to face. - -Mother was so comfortable that I went out for an hour. The day was -delightful, cold enough so that the walking was dry and the snow firm, -but the air not sharp to the cheek. The sun was warm and cheery, and the -shadows on the white fields had a lovely softness. I went on in a sort -of dream, it was so good to be alive and out of doors in such wonderful -weather. I turned to go down the Rim Road, and it was not until I came -in sight of the red house that I remembered what Miss Charlotte said -last night. Then I began to think about Tom. Tom and I have always been -such good friends. I used to understand Tom better in the old -school-days than the others did, and he was always ready to tell me what -he thought and felt. Nowadays I hardly ever see him. Since I became -engaged he has almost never come to the house, though he used to be here -so much. I meet him only once or twice a year, and then I think he tries -to avoid me. I am so sorry to have an old friendship broken off like -that. The red house made me think of Tom with a sore heart, of all the -talk his wild ways have caused, the sorrow of his father, and the good -that is being lost when a fellow with a heart so big as Tom's goes -wrong. - -Suddenly Tom himself appeared before my very eyes, as if my thought had -conjured him up. He came so unexpectedly that at first I could hardly -realize how he came. Then it flashed across me that he must have walked -round the red house. I suppose he must have come out of a back door -somewhere, like one of the family; such folk never use their front -doors. He walked along the road toward me, at first so preoccupied that -he did not recognize me. When he saw my face, he half hesitated, as if -he had almost a mind to turn back, and his whole face turned red. He -came on, however, and was going past me with a scant salutation, when I -stopped him. I stood still and put out my hand, so that he could not go -by without speaking. - -"Good-afternoon, Tom," I said. "Isn't it a glorious day?" - -He looked about him with a strange air as if he had not noticed, and I -saw how heavy and weary his eyes were. - -"Yes," he answered, "it is a fine day." - -"Where do you keep yourself, Tom?" I went on, hardly knowing what I -said, but trying to think what it was best to say. "I never see you, and -we used to be such good friends." - -He looked away, and moved his lips as if he muttered something; but when -I asked what he said, he turned to me defiantly. - -"Look here, Ruth, what's the good of pretending? You know I don't go to -see you because you're engaged to George Weston. You chose between us, -and there's the end of that. What's more, you know that nowadays I'm not -fit to go to see anybody that's decent." - -"Then it is time that you were," was my answer. "Let me walk along with -you. I want to say something." - -I turned, and we walked together toward the village. I could see that -his face hardened. - -"It's no sort of use to preach to me, Ruth," he said, "though your -preaching powers are pretty good. I've had so much preaching in my life -that I'm not to be rounded up by piety." - -I smiled as well as I could, though it made me want to cry to hear the -hard bravado of his tone. - -"I'm not generally credited with overmuch piety, Tom. The whole town -thinks all the Privets heathen, you know." - -"Humph! It's a pity there weren't a few more of 'em." - -I laughed, and thanked him for the compliment, and then we went on in -silence for a little way. I had to ignore what he said about George, but -it did not make it easier to begin. I was puzzled what to say, but the -time was short that we should be walking together, and I had to do -something. - -"Tom," I began, "you may not be very sensitive about old friendships, -but I am loyal; and it hurts me that those I care for should be talked -against." - -"Oh, in a place like Tuskamuck," he returned, at once, I could see, on -the defensive, "they'll talk about anybody." - -"Will they? Then I suppose they talk about me. I'm sorry, Tom, for it -must make you uncomfortable to hear it; unless, that is, you don't count -me for a friend any longer." - -He threw back his head in the way he has always had. I used to tell him -it was like a colt's shaking back its mane. - -"What nonsense! Of course they don't talk about you. You don't give -folks any chance." - -"And you do," I added as quietly as I could. - -He looked angry for just the briefest instant, and then he burst into a -hard laugh. - -"Caught, by Jupiter! Ruth, you were always too clever for me to deal -with. Well, then, I do give the gossips plenty to talk about. They would -talk just the same if I didn't, so I may as well have the game as the -name." - -"Does that mean that your life is regulated by the gossips? I supposed -that you had more independence, Tom." - -He flushed, and stooped down to pick up a stick. With this he began -viciously to strike the bushes by the roadside and the dry stalks of -yarrow sticking up through the snow. He set his lips together with a -grim determination which brought out in his face the look I like least, -the resemblance to his mother when she means to carry a point. - -"Look here, Ruth," he said after a moment; "I'm not going to talk to you -about myself or my doings. I'm a blackguard fast enough; but there's no -good talking about it. If you'd cared enough about me to keep me -straight, you could have done it; but now I'm on my way to the Devil, -and no great way to travel before I get there either." - -We had come to the turn of the Rim Road where the trees shut off the -view of the houses of the village. I stopped and put my hand on his arm. - -"Tom," I begged him, "don't talk like that. You don't know how it hurts. -You don't mean it; you can't mean it. Nobody but yourself can send you -on the wrong road; and I know you're too plucky to hide behind any such -excuse. For the sake of your father, Tom, do stop and think what you are -doing." - -"Oh, father'll console himself very well with prayers; and anyway he'll -thank God for sending me to perdition, because if God does it, it must -be all right." - -"Don't, Tom! You know how he suffers at the way you go on. It must be -terrible to have an only son, and to see him flinging his life away." - -"It isn't my fault that I'm his son, is it?" he demanded. "I've been -dragged into this infernal life without being asked whether I wanted to -come or not; and now I'm here, I can't have what I want, and I'm -promised eternal damnation hereafter. Well, then, I'll show God or the -Devil, or whoever bosses things, that I can't be bullied into a -molly-coddle!" - -The sound of wheels interrupted us, and we instinctively began to walk -onward in the most commonplace fashion. A farmer's wagon came along, and -by the time it had passed we had come to the head of the Rim Road, in -full sight of the houses. Tom waited until I turned to the right, toward -home, and then he said,-- - -"I'm going the other way. It's no use, Ruth, to talk to me; but I'm -obliged to you for caring." - -I cannot see that I did any good, and very likely I have simply made him -more on his guard to avoid giving me a chance; but then, even if I had -all the chance in the world, what could I say to him? And yet, Tom is so -noble a fellow underneath it all. He is honest and kind, and strong in -his way; only between his father's meekness and his mother's -sharpness--for she is sharp--he has somehow come to grief. They have -tried to make him religious so that he would be good; and he is of the -sort that must be good or he will not be religious. He cannot be pressed -into a mould of orthodoxy, and so in the end--But it cannot be the end. -Tom must somehow come out of it. - - -January 13. When George came in to-night I was struck at once with the -look of pleasant excitement in his face. - -"What pleases you?" I asked him. - -"Pleases me?" he echoed, evidently surprised. "Isn't it a pleasure to -see you?" - -"But that's not the whole of it," I said. "You've something pleasant to -tell me. Oh, I can read you like a book, my dear; so it is quite idle -trying to keep a secret from me." - -He seemed confused, and I was puzzled to know what was the matter. - -"You are too wise entirely," was his reply. "I really hadn't anything to -tell." - -"Then something good has happened," I persisted; "or you have heard good -news." - -"What a fanciful girl you are, Ruth," George returned. "Nothing has -happened." - -He walked away from me, and went to the fire. He was strangely -embarrassed, and I could only wonder what I had said to confuse him. I -reflected that perhaps he was planning some sort of a surprise, and felt -I ought not to pry into his thoughts in this fashion whatever the matter -was that interested him. I sat down on the other side of the hearth, and -took up some sewing. - -"George," I asked, entirely at random, "didn't you say that the Miss -West you met at Franklin is a cousin of the Watsons?" - -I flushed as soon as I had spoken, for I thought how it betrayed me that -in my desire to hit on a new subject I had found the thought of her so -near the surface of my mind. I had not consciously been thinking of her -at all, and certainly I did not connect her with George's strangeness of -manner. There was something almost weird, it seems to me now, in my -putting such a question just then. Perhaps it was telepathy, for she -must have been vividly in his thoughts at that moment. He started, -flushed as I have never seen him, and turned quickly toward me. - -"What makes you think that it was Miss West?" - -"Think what was Miss West?" I cried. - -I was completely astonished; then I saw how it was. - -"Never mind, George," I went on, laughing and putting out my hand to -him. "I didn't mean to read your thoughts, and I didn't realize that I -was doing it." - -"But what made you"-- - -"I'm sure I don't know," I broke in; and I managed to laugh again. "Only -I see now that you know something pleasant about Miss West, and you may -as well tell it." - -He looked doubtful a minute, studying my face. The hesitation he had in -speaking hurt me. - -"It's only that she's coming to visit the Watsons," he said, rather -unwillingly. "Olivia Watson told me just now." - -"Why, that will be pleasant," I answered, as brightly as if I were -really delighted. "Now I shall see if she is really as pretty as you -say." - -I felt so humiliated to be playing a part,--so insincere. Somebody has -said the real test of love is to be unwilling to deceive the loved one, -even in the smallest thing. That may be the test of a man's love, but a -woman will bear the pain of that very deception to save the man she -cares for from disquiet. I am sure it has hurt me as much not to be -entirely frank with George as it could have hurt a man; but I could not -make him uncomfortable by letting him see that I was disturbed. Yet that -he should have been afraid or unwilling to tell me did trouble me. He -knows that I am not jealous or apt to take offense. He is always saying -that I am too cold to be really in love. It made me feel that the coming -of this girl must mean much to him when he feared to speak of it. If he -had not thought it a matter of consequence, he would have realized that -I should take it lightly. - -I am not taking it lightly; but what troubles me is not that she is -coming, but that he hesitated to tell me. Something is wrong when George -fears to trust me. - - -January 17. I have seen her. I went to church this morning for that -especial reason. Mother was a little astonished at me when I said that I -was going. - -"Well, Ruth," she said, "you don't have much dissipation, but I didn't -suppose that you were so dull you would take to church-going." - -"You can never tell," I answered, making a jest of a thing which to me -was far from funny. "Mr. Saychase will be sure to conclude I'm under -conviction of sin, and come in to finish the conversion." - -She looked at me keenly. - -"What is the matter, Ruth?" she asked in that soft voice of hers which -goes straight to my heart. - -"It isn't anything very serious, Mother," I said. "Since you will have -the truth, I am going to church to see that Miss West who's visiting the -Watsons. George thinks her so pretty that my curiosity is roused to a -perfect bonfire." - -She did not say more, but I saw the sudden light in her eye. Mother has -never felt about George as I have wished. She has never done him -justice, and she thinks I idealize him. That is her favorite way of -putting it; but this is because she is my mother, and doesn't see how -much idealizing there must have been on his side before he could fall in -love with me. - -Miss West is very pretty. All the time I watched in church I tried to -persuade myself that she was not. I meanly and contemptibly sat there -finding fault with her face, saying to myself that her nose was too -long, her eyes too small, her mouth too big; inventing flaws as if my -invention would change the fact. It was humiliating business; and -utterly and odiously idiotic. Miss West is pretty; she is more than -this, she is wonderfully pretty. There is an appealing, baby look about -her big blue eyes which goes straight to one's heart. She looks like a -darling child one would want to kiss and shelter from all the hard -things of life. I own it all; I realize all that it means; and if in my -inmost soul I am afraid, I will not deny what is a fact or try to shut -my eyes to the littleness of my feeling about her. Of course George -found her adorable. She is. The young men in the congregation all -watched her, and even grim Deacon Richards could not keep his eyes off -of her. - -She does not have the look of a girl of any especial mind. Her -prettiness is after all that of a doll. Her large eyes are of the sort -to please a man because of their appealing helplessness; not because -they inspire him with new meanings. Her little rosebud lips will never -speak wisdom, I am afraid; but in my jealousy I wonder whether most men -do not care more for lips which invite kisses than for lips which speak -wisdom. I am frankly and weakly miserable. George walked home with me, -but he had not two words to say. - -I must try to meet this. If George should come to care for her more than -for me! If he should,--if by a pretty face he forgets all the years that -we have belonged to each other, what is there to do? I cannot yet -believe that it is best for him; but if it will make him happy, even if -he thinks that it will, what is there for me but to make it as easy for -him as I may? He certainly would not be happy to marry me and love -somebody else. He cannot leave me without pain; that I am sure. I shall -show my love for him more truly if I spare him the knowledge of what it -must cost me. - -But what mawkish nonsense all this is! A man may admire a pretty face, -and yet not be ready for it to leave behind all that has been dear to -him. Oh, if he had not asked me that question when he came back from -Franklin! I cannot get it out of my mind that even if he was not -conscious of it, it meant he still was secretly tired of his long -engagement; that he was at least dreaming of what he would do if he were -free. He shall not be bound by any will of mine; and if his heart has -gone out to this beautiful creature, I must bear it as nobly as I can. -Father used to say,--and every day I go back more and more to what he -said to me,--"What you cannot at need sacrifice nobly you are not worthy -to possess." - - -January 18. I have had a note which puzzles me completely. Tom Webbe -writes to say that he is going away; that I am to forgive him for the -shame of having known him, and that his address is inclosed in a sealed -envelope. I am not to open it unless there is real need. Why should he -give his address to me? - - -January 19. The disconcerting way Aunt Naomi has of coming in without -knocking, stealing in on feet made noiseless by rubbers, brought her -into the sitting-room last night while I was mooning in the twilight, -and meditating on nothing in particular. I knew her slow fashion of -opening the door, "like a burglar at a cupboard," as Hannah says,--so -that I was able to compose my face into an appropriate smile of welcome -before she was fairly in. - -"Sitting here alone?" was her greeting. - -"Mother is asleep," I answered, "and I was waiting for her to wake." - -Aunt Naomi seated herself in the stiffest chair in the room, and began -to swing her foot as usual. - -"Deacon Daniel's at it again," she observed dispassionately. - -I smiled a little. It always amuses me that the troubles of the church -should be so often brought to me who am an outsider. Aunt Naomi arrives -about once a month on the average, with complaints about something. They -are seldom of any especial weight, but it seems to relieve her to tell -her grievances. - -"Which Deacon Daniel?" I asked, to tease her a little. - -"Deacon Richards, of course. You know that well enough." - -"What is it now?" - -"He won't have any fire in the vestry," she answered. - -"Why not let somebody else take care of the vestry then, if you want a -fire?" - -"You don't suppose," was her response, with a chuckle, "that he'd give -up the key to anybody else, do you?" - -"I should think he'd be glad to." - -"He'll hold on to that key till he dies," retorted Aunt Naomi with a -sniff; "and I shouldn't be surprised if he had it buried with him. He -wouldn't lose the chance of making folks uncomfortable." - -"Oh, come, Aunt Naomi, you are always so hard on Deacon Richards," I -protested. "He is always good-natured with me." - -"I wish you'd join the church, then, and see if you can't keep him in -order. Last night it was so cold at prayer-meeting that we were all half -frozen, and Mr. Saychase had to dismiss the meeting. Old lady Andrews -spoke up in the coldest part of it, when we were all so chilled that we -couldn't speak, and she said in that little, high voice of hers: 'The -vestry is very cold to-night, but I trust that our hearts are warm with -the love of Christ.'" - -I laughed at the picture of the half-frozen prayer-meeting, and dear old -lady Andrews coming to the rescue with a pious jest; it was so -characteristic. - -"But has anybody spoken to Deacon Richards?" I asked. - -"You can't speak to him," she responded, wagging her foot with a -violence that seemed to speak celestial anger within. "I try to after -every prayer-meeting; but he has the lights out before I can say two -words. I can't stay there in the dark with him; and the minute he gets -me outside he locks the door, and posts off like a streak." - -"Why not go down to his mill in broad daylight?" I suggested. - -"Oh, he'd stick close to the grinding-thing just so he couldn't hear, -and I'm afraid of being pitched into the hopper," she said, laughing. -"You must speak to him. He pays some attention to what you say." - -"But it's none of my business. I don't go to prayer-meeting." - -"But it's your duty to go," she answered, with a shrewd smile that -showed that she appreciated her response; "and if you neglect one duty -it's no excuse for neglecting another. Besides, you can't be willing to -have the whole congregation die of cold." - -So in the end it was somehow fixed that I am to remonstrate with Deacon -Daniel because the faithful are cold at their devotions. It would seem -much simpler for them to stay at home and be warm. They do not, as far -as I can see, enjoy going; but they are miserable if they do not go. -Their consciences trouble them worse than the cold, poor things. I -suppose that I can never be half thankful enough to Father for bringing -me up without a theological conscience. Prayer-meetings seem to be a -good deal like salt in the boy's definition of something that makes food -taste bad if you don't put it on; prayer-meetings make church-goers -uneasy if they do not go. If they will go, however, and if they are -better for going, or believe they are better, or if they are only worse -for staying away, or suppose they are worse, they should not be expected -to sit in a cold vestry in January. Why Deacon Daniel will not have a -fire is not at all clear. It may be economy, or it may be a lack of -sensitiveness; it may be for some recondite reason too deep to be -discovered. I refuse to accept Aunt Naomi's theory that it is sheer -obstinacy; and I will beard the deacon in his mill, regardless of the -danger of the hopper. At least he generally listens to me. - - -January 20. Hannah came up for me this evening while I was reading to -Mother. - -"Deacon Webbe's down in the parlor," she announced. "Says he wants to -see you if you're not busy. 'Ll come again if you ain't able to see -him." - -"Go down, Ruth dear," Mother said at once. "It may be another church -quarrel, and I wouldn't hinder you from settling it for worlds." - -"But don't you want me to finish the chapter?" I asked. "Church quarrels -will generally keep." - -"No, dear. I'm tired, and we'll stop where we are. I'll try to go to -sleep, if you'll turn the light down." - -As I bent over to kiss her, she put up her feeble thin fingers, and -touched my cheek lovingly. - -"You're a dear girl," she said. "Be gentle with the deacon." - -There was a twinkle in her eye, for the idea of anybody's being anything -but gentle with Deacon Daniel Webbe is certainly droll enough. Miss -Charlotte said the other night that a baby could twist him round its -finger and never even know there was anything there; and certainly he -must call out the gentle feelings of anybody. Only Tom seemed always -somehow to get exasperated with his father's meekness. Poor Tom, I do -wonder why he went away! - -The deacon dries up by way of growing old. I have not seen him this -winter except the other day at church, and then I did not look at him. -To-night he seemed worn and sad, and somehow his face was like ashes, it -was so lifeless. The flesh has dried to the bones of his face till he -looks like a pathetic skull. His voice is not changed, though. It has -the same strange note in it that used to affect me as a child; a weird, -reedy quality which suggests some vague melancholy flavor not in the -least fretful or whining,--a quality that I have never been able to -define. I never hear him speak without a sense of mysterious -suggestiveness; and I remember confiding to Father once, when I was -about a dozen years old, that Deacon Webbe had the right voice to read -fairy stories with. Father, I remember, laughed, and said he doubted -much if Deacon Daniel knew what a fairy story was, unless he thought it -was something wickedly false. Tom's voice has something of the same -quality, but only enough to give a little thrill to his tone when he is -really in earnest. There is an amusing incongruity between that odd -wind-harp strain in Deacon Webbe's voice and his gaunt New England -figure. - -"Ruth," the deacon asked, almost before we had shaken hands, "did you -know Tom had gone away?" - -I was impressed and rather startled by the intensity of his manner, and -surprised by the question. - -"Yes," I said. "He sent me word he was going." - -"Do you know where he has gone?" - -"No." - -I wondered whether I ought to tell him about the sealed address, but it -seemed like a breach of confidence to say anything yet. - -"Did he say why he was going?" the deacon asked. - -"No," I said again. - -The deacon turned his hat over and over helplessly in his knotted hands -in silence for a moment. He was so pathetic that I wanted to cry. - -"Then you don't know," he said after a moment. - -"I only know he has gone." - -There was another silence, as if the deacon were pondering on what he -could possibly do or say next. Peter, who was pleased for the moment to -be condescendingly kind to the visitor, came and rubbed persuasively -against his legs, waving a great white plume of tail. Deacon Daniel bent -down absently and stroked the cat, but the troubled look in his face -showed how completely his mind was occupied. - -"I'm afraid there's something wrong," he broke out at length, with an -energy unusual with him; an energy which was suffering rather than -power. "I don't know what it is, but I'm afraid it's worse than ever. -Oh, Miss Ruth, if you could only have cared for Tom, you'd have kept him -straight." - -I could only murmur that I had always liked Tom, and that we had been -friends all our lives; but the deacon was too much moved to pay -attention. - -"Of course," he went on, "I hadn't any right to suppose Judge Privet's -daughter would marry into our family; but if you had cared for him, Miss -Ruth"-- - -"Deacon Webbe," I broke in, for I could not hear any more, "please don't -say such things! You know you mustn't say such things!" - -As I think of it, I am afraid I was a little more hysterical than would -have been allowed by Cousin Mehitable, but I could not help it. At least -I stopped him from going on. He apologized so much that I set to work to -convince him I was not offended, which I found was not very easy. Poor -Deacon Daniel, he is really heart-broken about Tom, but he has never -known how to manage him, or even to make the boy understand how much he -loves him. Meekness may be a Christian virtue; but over-meekness is a -poor quality for one who has the bringing up of a real, wide-awake, -head-strong boy. A little less virtue and a little more common sense -would have made Deacon Webbe a good deal more useful in this world if it -did lessen his value to heaven. He is the very salt of the earth, yet he -has so let himself be trampled upon that to Tom his humility has seemed -weakness. I know, too, Tom has never appreciated his father, and has -failed to understand that goodness need not always be in arms to be -manly. And so here in a couple of sentences I have come round to the -side of the deacon after all. Perhaps in the long run the effect of his -goodness, with all its seeming lack of strength, may effect more than -sterner qualities. - - -January 21. I was interrupted last night in my writing to go to Mother; -but I have had Deacon Webbe and Tom in my mind ever since. I could not -help remembering the gossip about Tom, and the fact that I saw him -coming from the red house. I wonder if he has not gone to break away -from temptation. In new surroundings he may turn over a new leaf. Oh, I -would so like to write to him, and to tell him how much I hope for this -fresh start, but I hardly like to open the envelope. - -I have been this afternoon to call on Miss West. The Watsons are not -exactly of my world, but it seemed kind to go. If you were really -honest, Ruth Privet, you would add that you wanted to see what Miss West -is like. It is all very well to put on airs of disinterested virtue; but -if George had not spoken of this girl it is rather doubtful whether you -would have taken the trouble to go to her in your very best bib and -tucker,--and you did put on your very best, and wondered while you were -doing it whether she would appreciate the lace scarf you bought at -Malta. I understand you wanted to impress her a little, though you did -try to make yourself believe that you were only wearing your finest -clothes to do honor to her. What a humbug you are! - -Olivia Watson came to the door, and asked me into the parlor, where I -was left to wait some time before Miss West appeared. I confessed then -to myself how I had really half hoped that she would not be in; but now -the call is over I am glad to have seen her. I am a little confused, but -I know what she is. - -She is the most beautiful creature I ever saw. She has a clear color, -when she flushes, like a red clover in September, the last and the -richest of all the clovers of the year. Then her hair curls about her -forehead in such dear little ringlets that it is enough to make one want -to kiss her. She speaks with a funny little Western burr to her r's -which might not please me in another, but is charming from her lips, the -mouth that speaks is so pretty. Yes, George was right. - -Of her mind one cannot say quite as much. She is not entirely well bred, -it seemed to me; but then we are a little old-fashioned in Tuskamuck. -She did notice the scarf, and asked me where I got it. - -"Oh," she said, when I had told her, "then you have been abroad." - -"Yes," I said, "I went with my father." - -"Judge Privet took you abroad several times, didn't he?" Olivia put in. - -"Yes; I went with him three times." - -"Oh, my!" commented Miss West. "How set up you must feel!" - -"I don't think I do," I answered, laughing. "Do you feel set up because -you have seen the West that so few of us have visited?" - -"Why, I never thought of that," she responded. "You haven't any of you -traveled in the West, have you?" - -"I haven't, at least." - -"But that ain't anything to compare with going abroad," she continued, -her face falling; "and going abroad three times, too. I should put on -airs all the rest of my life if I'd done that." - -It is not fair to go on putting down in black and white things that she -said without thinking. I am ashamed of the satisfaction I found myself -taking in her commonness. I was even so unfair to her that I could not -help thinking that she somehow did not ring true. I wonder if a woman -can ever be entirely just to another woman who has been praised by the -man she cares for? If not I will be an exception to my sex! I will not -be small and mean, just because Miss West is so lovely that no man could -see her without--well, without admiring her greatly. - - -January 22. I went down to the grist-mill this afternoon to see Deacon -Daniel, and to represent to him the sufferings of the faithful at frozen -prayer-meetings. He was standing in the door of the mill, which was open -to the brisk air, and his mealy frock gave a picturesque air to his -great figure. He greeted me pleasantly, as he always does. - -"I've come on business," I said. - -"Your own or somebody's else?" he asked, with a grin. - -"Not exactly mine," I admitted. - -"What has Aunt Naomi sent you for now?" he demanded. - -I laughed at his penetration. - -"You are too sharp to be deceived," I said. "Aunt Naomi did send me. -They tell me you are trying to destroy the church by freezing them all -to death at the prayer-meetings." - -"Aunt Naomi can't be frozen. She's too dry." - -"That isn't at all a nice thing to say, Deacon Richards," I said, -smiling. "You can't cover your iniquities by abusing her." - -He showed his teeth, and settled himself against the door-post more -comfortably. - -"Why didn't she come herself?" he inquired. - -"She said that she was afraid you'd pop her into the hopper. You see -what a monster you are considered." - -"I wouldn't be willing to spoil my meal." - -Deacon Daniel likes to play at badinage, and if he had ever had a -chance, might have some skill at it. As it is, I like to see how he -enjoys it, if I am not always impressed by the wit of what he says. - -"Deacon Richards," I said, "why do you freeze the people so in the -vestry?" - -"I haven't known of anybody's being frozen." - -"But why don't you have a fire?" I persisted. "If you don't want to -build it, there are boys enough that can be hired." - -"How is your mother to-day?" was the only answer the deacon vouchsafed. - -"She's very comfortable, thank you. Why don't you have a fire?" - -"Makes folks sleepy," he declared; and once more switched off abruptly -to another subject. "Did you know Tom Webbe's gone off?" - -"Yes." - -"Where's he gone?" - -"I don't know. Why should I?" - -"If you don't know," Deacon Daniel commented, "I suppose nobody does." - -"Why don't you have a fire in the vestry?" I demanded, determined to -tire him out. - -"You asked me that before," he responded, with a grin of delight. - -I gave it up then, for I saw that there was nothing to be got out of him -in that mood. I looked up at the sky, and saw how the afternoon was -waning. - -"I must go home," I said. "Mother may want me; but I do wish you would -be reasonable about the vestry. I'll give you a load of wood if you'll -use it." - -"Send the wood, and we'll see," was all the promise I could extract from -the dear old tease. - -Deacon Daniel was evidently not to be cornered, and I came away without -any assurance of amendment on his part. The faithful will have still to -endure the cold, I suppose; but I have made an effort. - -What I said to Deacon Richards and what Deacon Richards said to me is -not what I sat down to write. I have been lingering over it because I -hated to put down what happened to me after I left the mill. Why should -I write it? This diary is not a confessional, and nothing forces me to -set these things down. I really write it as a penance for the -uncharitable mood I have been in ever since. I may as well have my -thoughts on paper as to keep turning them over and over in my mind. - -I crossed the foot-bridge and turned up Water Street. I went on, pleased -by the brown water showing through the broken ice in the mill-flume, and -the fantastic bunches of snow in the willows beyond, like queer, white -birds. I smiled to myself at the remembrance of Deacon Daniel, and -somehow felt warmed toward him, as I always do, despite all his -crotchety ways. He radiates kindness of heart through all his -gruffness. - -Suddenly I saw George coming toward me with Miss West. They did not -notice me at first, they were so engaged in talking and laughing -together. My mood sobered instantly, but I said to myself that I -certainly ought to be glad to see George enjoying himself; and, in any -case, a lady does not show her foolish feelings. So I went toward them, -trying to look as I had before I caught sight of them. They saw me in a -moment, and instantly their laughter stopped. If they had come forward -simply and at ease, I should have thought no more about it, I think; but -no one could see their confusion without feeling that they expected me -to disapprove. And if they expected me to disapprove, it seems to me -they must have been saying things--But probably this is all my -imagination and mean jealousy. - -"You see I've captured him," Miss West called out in rather a high -voice, as we came near each other. - -"I have no doubt he was a very willing captive," I answered, smiling, -and holding out my hand. - -I realize now how I hated to give her my hand, and most certainly her -manner was not entirely that of a lady. - -"We've been for a long walk," she went on, "and now I suppose I ought to -let you have him." - -"I couldn't think of taking him. I am only going home." - -"But it seems real mean to keep him, after I've had him all the -afternoon. I must give him to you." - -"I hope he wouldn't be so ungallant as to be given, and leave you to go -home alone," I said. "That is not the way we treat strangers in -Tuskamuck." - -"Oh, you mustn't call me a stranger," Miss West responded, twisting her -head to look up into George's face. "I'm really in love with the place, -and I should admire to live here all the rest of my life." - -To this I had nothing to say. George had not spoken a word. I could not -look at him, but I moved on now. I felt that I must get away from this -girl, with her strange Western speech, and her familiar manner. - -"Good-by," I said. "Mother will want me, and I mustn't linger any -longer." - -I managed to smile until I had left them, but the tears would come as I -hurried up the hill toward home. Oh, how can I bear it! - - -January 23. The happiness of George is the thing which should be -considered. In any case I am helpless. I can only wait, in woman's -fashion. Even if I were convinced he would be happier and better with -me,--and how can I tell that?--what is there I could do? My duty is by -mother's sick-bed, and even if my pride would let me struggle for the -possession of any man, I am not free to try even that degrading -conflict. I should know, moreover, that any man saved in spite of -himself would be apt to look back with regret to the woman he was saved -from. Jean Ingelow's "Letter L" is not often repeated in life, I am -afraid. Still, if one could be sure that it is a danger and he were -saved, this might be borne. If it were surely for his good to think less -of me, I might bear it somehow, hard as it would be. But my hands are -tied. There is nothing for me but waiting. - - -January 24. George met Kathie last night as she was coming here, and -sent word that he had to drive over to Canton. I thought it odd for him -to send me such a message instead of coming himself, for he had not seen -me since I met him in the street with Miss West. To-day Aunt Naomi came -in, and the moment I saw her I knew that she had something to say that -it would not be pleasant to hear. - -"What's George Weston taking that West girl over to Canton for?" she -asked. - -It was like a stab in the back, but I tried not to flinch. - -"Why shouldn't he take her?" I responded. - -Aunt Naomi gave a characteristic sniff, and wagged her foot violently. - -"If he wants to, perhaps he should," she answered enigmatically. - -The subject dropped there, but I wonder a little why she put it that -way. - - -January 26. Our engagement is broken. George is gone, and the memory of -six years, he says, had better be wiped out. - - -January 27. I could not tell Mother to-day. By the time I got my courage -up it was afternoon, and I feared lest she should be too excited to -sleep to-night. To-morrow morning she must know. - - - - -II - -FEBRUARY - - -February 1. I wonder sometimes if human pride is not stronger than human -affection. Certainly it seems sometimes that we feel the wound to vanity -more than the blow to love. I suppose that the truth is that the little -prick stings where the blow numbs. For the moment it seemed to me -to-night as if I felt more the sudden knowledge that the village knows -of my broken engagement than I did the suffering of the fact; but I -shall have forgotten this to-morrow, and the real grief will be left. - -Miss Charlotte, tall and gaunt, came in just at twilight. She brought a -lovely moss-rose bud. - -"Why, Miss Charlotte," I said, "you have never cut the one bud off your -moss-rose! I thought that was as dear to you as the apple of your eye." - -"It was," she answered with her gayest air. "That's why I brought it." - -"Mother will be delighted," I said; "that is, if she can forgive you for -picking it." - -"It isn't for your mother," Miss Charlotte said, with a sudden softening -of her voice; "it is for you. I'm an old woman, you know, and I've -whims. It's my whim for you to have the bud because I've watched it -growing, and loved it almost as if it were my own baby." - -Then I knew that she had heard of the broken engagement. The sense of -the village gossip, the idea of being talked over at the sewing-circle, -came to me so vividly and so dreadfully that for a moment I could hardly -get my breath. Then I remembered the sweetness of Miss Charlotte's act, -and I went to her and kissed her. The poor old dear had tears in her -eyes, but she said nothing. She understood, I am sure, that I could not -talk, but that I had seen what she meant me to see, her sympathy and her -love. We sat down before the fire in the gathering dusk, and talked of -indifferent things. She praised Peter's beauty, although the ungrateful -Peter refused to stay in her lap, and would not be gracious under her -caresses. She did not remain long, and she was gay after her fashion. -Miss Charlotte is apt to cover real feeling with a decent veil of -facetiousness. - -"Now I must go home and get my party ready," she said, rising with -characteristic suddenness. - -"Are you going to have a party?" I asked in some surprise. - -"I have one every night, my dear," she returned, with her explosive -laugh. "All the Kendall ghosts come. It isn't very gay, but it's very -select." - -She hurried away, and left me more touched than I should have wished her -to see. - - -February 2. It was well for me that Miss Charlotte's visit prepared me -last night, for to-day Kathie broke in upon me with the most childish -frankness. - -"Miss Ruth," she burst out, "ain't you going to marry George Weston?" - -"No, my dear," I answered; "but you mustn't say 'ain't.'" - -"'Aren't,' then. But I thought you promised years and years ago." - -"Kathie, dear," said I, "this isn't a thing that you may talk about. You -are too young to understand, and it is vulgar to talk to people about -their private affairs unless they begin." - -"But it's no wronger than"-- - -"There's no such word as 'wronger,' Kathie." - -"No worse than to break one's word, is it?" - -"When two persons make an agreement they have a right to unmake it if -they change their minds; and that is not breaking their word. How do the -skates work?" - -"All right," Kathie answered; "but father said that you and George -Weston"-- - -"Kathie," I said as firmly as I could, "I have told you before that you -must not repeat what your father says." - -"It isn't wrong," she returned rather defiantly. - -I was surprised at her manner, but I suppose that she is always fighting -with her conscience about right and wrong, so the mere idea makes her -aggressive. - -"I am not so sure," I told her, trying to turn the whole matter off with -a laugh. "I don't think it's very moral to be ill bred. Do you?" - -"Why, Father says manners don't matter if the heart is right." - -"This is only another way of saying that if the heart is right the -manners will be right. If you in your heart consider whether your father -would wish you to tell me what he did not say for my ears, you will not -be likely to say it." - -That sounds rather priggish now it is written down, but I had to stop -the child, and I could not be harsh with her. She evidently wanted much -to go on with the subject, but I would not hear another word. How the -town must be discussing my affairs! - - -February 5. Mother is certainly growing weaker, and although Dr. -Wentworth will not admit to me that she is failing, I am convinced that -he thinks so. She has been telling me this afternoon of things which she -wishes given to this and that relative or friend. - -"It will not make me any more likely to die, Ruth," she said, "and I -shall feel more comfortable if I have these things off my mind. I've -thought them out, and if you'll put them on paper, then I shall feel -perfectly at liberty to forget them if I find it too much trouble to -remember." - -I put down the things which she told me, trying hard not to let her see -how the tears hindered my writing. When I had finished she lay quiet for -some time, and then she said,-- - -"May I say one thing, Ruth, about George?" - -She has said nothing to me before except comforting words to show me -that she felt for me, and that she knew I could not bear to talk about -it. - -"You know you may," I told her, though I confess I shrank at the -thought. - -"I know how it hurts you now," she said, "and for that I am grieved to -the heart; but Ruth, dear, I can't help feeling that it is best after -all. You are too much his superior to be happy with him. You would try -to make him what you think he ought to be, and you couldn't do it. The -stuff isn't in him. He'd get tired of trying, and you would be so -humiliated for him that in the end I'm afraid neither of you would be -happy." - -She stopped, and rested a little, and then went on. - -"I am afraid I don't comfort you much," she said, with a sigh. "I -suppose that that must be left to time. But I want you to remember it is -much less hard for me to leave you alone than it would have been to go -with the feeling that you were to make a mistake that would hamper and -sadden your whole life." - -The tears came into her eyes, and she put out her dear, shadowy hand so -feebly that I could not bear it. I dropped on my knees by the bed, and -fell to sobbing in the most childish way. Mother patted my head as if I -were the baby I was acting. - -"There, there, Ruth," she said; "the Privets, as your father would have -said, do not cry over misfortunes; they live them down." - -She is right; and I must not break down again. - - -February 7. There are times when I seem like a stranger visiting myself, -and I most inhospitably wish that this guest would go. I must determine -not to think about my feelings; or, rather, without bothering to make -resolutions, I must stop thinking about myself. The way to do it, I -suppose, is to think about others; and that would be all very well if it -were not that the others I inevitably think about are George and Miss -West. I cannot help knowing that he is with her a great deal. Somehow it -is in the air, and comes to me against my will. If I go out, I cannot -avoid seeing them walking or driving together. I am afraid that George's -law business must suffer. I should never have let him neglect it so for -me. Perhaps I am cold-blooded. - -What Mother said to me the other day has been much in my thoughts. I -wonder how it was ever possible for me to be engaged to a man of whom -neither Father nor Mother entirely approved. To care for him was -something I could not help; I am sure of that. But the engagement is -another matter. It came about very naturally after his being here so -much in Father's last illness. George was so kind and helpful about the -business that we were all full of gratitude, and in my blindness I did -not perceive how Mother really felt. I realize now it was his kindness -to Father, and the relief his help brought to Mother, which made it hard -for her to say then that she did not approve of the engagement; and so -soon after she became a helpless invalid that things went on naturally -in their own course. - -I am sure that if Mother could have known George as I have known him, -she would have cared for him. She has hardly seen him in all these -years. She hopes that I will forget, but I should be poorer if I could. -One does not leave off loving just because circumstances alter. He is -free to go his way, but that does not make me any the less his if there -is any virtue in my being so. - - -February 8. I met Mrs. Webbe in the street to-day, her black eyes -brighter, more piercing, more snapping than ever. She came up to me in -her quick, jerky way, stopped suddenly, tall and strong, and looked at -me as if she were trying to read some profound secret, hid in the very -bottom of my soul. I could never by any possibility be half so -mysterious as Mrs. Webbe's looks seemed to make me. - -"Do you write to Tom?" she demanded. - -"I don't even know where he is," I answered. - -"Then you don't write to him?" - -"No." - -"That's a pity," Mrs. Webbe went on, her eyes piercing me so that they -almost gave me a sensation of physical discomfort. "He ought to know." - -I looked at her a moment in silence, thinking she might explain her -enigmatic words. - -"To know what?" I asked at length. - -"About you and George Weston," she responded, nodding her head -emphatically; "but if you don't know where he is, that's the whole of -it. Good-day." - -She was gone before I could gather my wits to tell her that the news -could make no difference to Tom. In discussing my separation from George -I suppose the village gossips--But I will not be unkind because I am -unhappy. I know, and know with sincere pain, that Deacon and Mrs. Webbe -believe that I could have saved Tom if I had been willing to marry him. -I have cared for Tom from girlhood, and I am fond of him now, in spite -of all that has happened to show how weak he is; but it would be wicked -for him to be allowed to suppose the breaking of my engagement makes any -difference in our relations. He cannot be written to, however, so I need -not trouble. - - -February 10. Miss West has gone back to Franklin, but I do not see that -this makes any especial difference to me. Aunt Naomi told me this -afternoon, evidently thinking that I should wish to hear it, and -evidently, too, trying not to let me see that she regarded it as more -than an ordinary bit of news. I only wonder how long it will be before -George will follow her. Oh, I do hope she will make him happy! - - -February 12. The consequence of my being of no religion seems to be -that I am regarded as a sort of neutral ground by persons of all -religions, where they may air their theological troubles. Now it is a -Catholic who asks advice. Perhaps I had better set up as a consulting -something or other. Mediums are the only sort of female consulting -things that I think of, and they are so far from respectable that I -could not be a medium; but I shall have to invent a name to call myself -by, if this goes much further. - -This time it is Rosa. Rosa is as devout a little superstitious body as I -ever saw. She firmly believes all that her church teaches her, and she -believes all sorts of queer things besides. I wonder sometimes that her -small mind, which never can remember to lay the table properly, can hold -in remembrance all the droll superstitions she shiveringly accepts. -Perhaps the reason why she is so inefficient a servant, and is so -constantly under the severe blight of Hannah's awful disapproval, is -that her mental faculties are exhausted in remembering signs and omens. -I've no right to make fun of her, however, for I don't like to spill -salt myself! - -The conundrum which Rosa brings to me is not one which it is easy to -handle. She believes that her church has the power of eternal life and -death over her, and she wishes, in defiance of her church's prohibition, -to marry a divorced man. She declares that unless she can marry Ran -Gargan her heart will be broken into the most numerous fragments, and -she implores me to devise a method by which she can accomplish the -difficult feat of getting the better of the church. - -"Sure, Miss Privet," she said in the most naïve way in the world, -"you're that clever that ye could invint a way what would get round -Father O'Rafferty; he's no that quick at seein' things." - -I suspect, from something the child let fall, that Hannah, with genuine -righteous hatred of the Scarlet Woman, had urged Rosa to fly in the face -of her church, and marry Ran. Hannah would regard it as a signal triumph -of grace if Rosa could be so far persuaded to disobey the tenets of -Catholicism. I can understand perfectly Hannah's way of looking at the -matter; but I have no more against Rosa's church than I have against -Hannah's, so this view does not appeal to me. - -"Rosa," I said, "don't you believe in your church?" - -She broke into voluble protestations of her entire faithfulness, and -seemed inclined to feel that harm might come to her from some unseen -malevolence if such charges were made so as to be heard by spying -spirits. - -"Then I don't see why you come to me," I said. "If you are a good -Catholic, I should think that that settled the matter." - -"But I thought you'd think of some way of gettin' round it," she -responded, beginning to cry. "Me heart is broke for Ran, an' it is -himsilf that'll go to the bad if I don't have him." - -Poor little ignorant soul! How could one reason with her, or what was -there to say? I could only try to show her that she could not be happy -if she did the thing that she knew to be wrong. - -"But what for is ye tellin' me that, when ye don't belave it's wrong?" -she demanded, evidently aggrieved. - -"I do think it is wrong to act against a church in which you believe," I -said. - -I am afraid I did not in the least comfort her, for she went away with -an air in which indignation was mingled with disappointment. - - -February 15. Rosa is all right. She told me to-day, fingering her apron -and blushing very prettily, that she saw Dennis Maloney last night, and -was engaged to him already. He has, it seems, personal attractions -superior to those of Ran, and Rosa added that on the whole she prefers a -first-hand husband. - -"So I'm obliged to ye for yer advisin' me to give Ran the go-by," she -concluded. "I thought yer would." - -I do not know whether the swiftness of the change of sweethearts or the -amazing conclusion of her remarks moved me more. - - -February 16. Father used to say that Peggy Cole was the proudest thing -on the face of the earth, and he would certainly be amused if he could -know how her pride has increased. I could not leave Mother this -afternoon, and so I sent Rosa down with a pail of soup to the poor old -goody. Peggy refused to have it because I did not bring it myself. She -wasn't a pauper to have me send her soup, she informed Rosa. I am afraid -that Rosa was indiscreet enough to make some remark upon the fact that I -carry her food pretty often, for old Peggy said,--I can see her wrinkled -old nose turned up in supreme scorn as she brought it out,--"That's -different. When Miss Ruth brings me a little thing now and then,--and it -ain't often she'll take that trouble, either!--that's just a friend -dropping in with something to make her sure of her welcome!" I shall -have to leave everything to-morrow to go and make my peace with Peggy, -for the old goose would starve to death before she would take anything -from the Overseers of the Poor, and I do not see how she keeps alive, -anyway. - - -February 17. I had a note from George this morning about the Burgess -mortgage, and in it he said that he is to be away for a week or two. -That means-- - -But I have no longer any right to speculate about him. It is not my -business what it means. Henceforth he must come and go, and I must not -even wonder about it. - - -February 19. I must face the fact that Mother will not be with me much -longer. I can see how she grows weaker, and I can only be thankful that -she does not suffer. She speaks of death now and then as calmly as if it -were a matter of every-day routine. - -"Mrs. Privet," Dr. Wentworth said this morning, "you seem to be no more -afraid of death than you are of a sunrise." - -"I'm not orthodox enough to be afraid," she answered, with her little -quizzical smile. - -Dear little Mother, she is so serene, so sweet, so quiet; nothing could -be more dignified, and yet nothing more entirely simple. She is dying -like a gentlewoman. She lies there as gracious as if she had invited -death as a dear friend, and awaited him with the kindliest welcome. The -naturalness of it all is what impresses me most. When I am with her it -is impossible for me to feel that anything terrible is at hand. She -might be going away to pass a pleasant summer visit somewhere; but there -is no suspicion of anything dreadful or painful. - -It is not that she is indifferent, either,--she has always found life a -thing to be glad of. - -"I should have liked well enough to stay a while longer to bother you, -Ruth," she said, after Dr. Wentworth had gone, "but we must take things -as they come. It's better, perhaps; you need a rest." - -Dear Mother! She is always so lovely and so wonderful! - - -February 21. Mother has been brighter to-day, and really seems better. -If it will only last! I asked her last night if she expected to see -Father. She lay quiet a moment, and then she turned her face to smile on -me before she answered. - -"I don't know, Ruth," she said. "I have wondered about that a good deal, -and I cannot be sure. If he is alive and knows, then I shall see him. I -am sure of that. It is only life that has been keeping us apart. If he -is not any more, why, then I shall not be either, and so of course I -can't be unhappy. I feel just as he used to when he had you read that -translation from something to him the week before he died; the thing -that said death could not be an evil, for if we kept on existing we -would be no longer bothered by the body, and that if we didn't, it was -no matter, for we shouldn't know." - -She was still a moment, looking into some great distance with her -patient, sunken eyes. Then she smiled again, and said as if to herself, -"But I think I shall see him." - - -February 25. George is married. Aunt Naomi has been in to tell me. She -mentioned it as if it were a thing in which I should have no more -interest than in any bit of village news. She did not watch me, I -remember now, or ask my opinion as she generally does. She was -wonderfully tactful and kind; only I can see she thought I ought to know -about it, and that the best way was to put the matter bluntly and -simply, as if it had no possible sentiment connected with it. When she -had done her errand, she went on to make remarks about Deacon Richards -and the vestry fires; just what, I do not know, for I could not listen. -Then she mercifully went away. - -I did not expect it so soon! I knew that it must come, but I was not -prepared for this suddenness. I supposed that I should hear of the -engagement, and get used to it; and then come to know the wedding was to -be, and so come gradually to the thing itself that shuts George forever -out of my life. It is better, it is a thousand times better to have it -all over at once. I might have brooded morbidly through the days as they -brought nearer and nearer the time when George was to be her husband -instead of mine. Now it is done without my knowing. For three days he -has been married; and I have only to think of him as the husband of -another woman, and try to take it as a matter of course. Whether George -has done this because he cares so much for her or not, he has done what -is kindest for me. It is like waking from the ether to find that the -tooth is out. We may be sick and sore, but the worst is past, and we may -begin, slowly perhaps, but really, to recover. - -Yet it is so soon! How completely he must be carried away to be so -forgetful of all that is past! We were engaged six years; and he marries -Miss West after an acquaintance of hardly as many weeks. I wonder if -all men are like this. It seems sometimes as if they were not capable of -the long, brooding devotion of women. But it is better so, and I would -not have him thinking about me. He must be wrapped up in her. I do care -most for his happiness, and his happiness now lies in his thinking of -her and forgetting all the six years when he was--when I thought he was -mine. - -I will not moon, and I will not fret. That George has changed does not, -of course, alter my feeling. I am sore and hurt; I see life now -restricted in its uses. He has cut me off from the happiness of serving -him and helping him as a wife; but as a friend there is still much that -I may do. Very likely I can help his wife,--she seems so far short of -what his wife should be. For service in all loyalty I belong to him -still; and that is the thought which must help me. - - -February 28. I have already had a chance to do something for George. I -hope that I have not been unfair to my friends; but I do not see how I -could decide any other way. - -Old lady Andrews came in this afternoon, with her snowy curls and cheeks -pink from the wind. Almost as soon as she was seated she began with -characteristic directness. - -"I know you won't mind my coming straight to the point, my dear," she -said. "I came to ask you about George Weston's new wife. Do you think we -had better call on her?" - -The question had come to me before, but I confess I had selfishly -thought of it only as a personal matter. - -"Mr. Weston's people were hardly of our sort, you know," she continued -in her gentle voice, "though of course after your father took him into -his office as a student we all felt like receiving him. I never knew him -until after that." - -"I have seen a good deal of him," I said, wondering if my voice sounded -queer; "you know he helped settle the estate." - -"It did seem providential," Mrs. Andrews went on, "that his mother did -not live, for of course we could hardly have known her. She was a Hardy, -you know, from Canton. But I have always found Mr. Weston a very -presentable young man, especially for one of his class. He is really -very intelligent." - -"As we have received him," I said, "I don't see how we can refuse to -receive his wife." - -"That's the way I thought you would feel about it," old lady Andrews -answered; "but I wished to be sure. As he has been received entirely on -account of his connection with your family, I told Aunt Naomi that it -ought to be for you to say whether the favor should be extended to his -wife. I am informed that she is very pretty, but she is not, I believe, -exactly one of our sort." - -"She is exceedingly pretty," I assured her. "I have seen her. She is -not--Well, I am afraid that she is rather Western, but I shall call." - -"Then that settles it. Of course we shall do whatever you decide. I -suppose he will bring her to our church. I say 'our,' Ruth, because you -really belong to it. You are just a lamb that has found a place with a -picket off, and got outside the fold. We shall have you back some time." - -"I am afraid," I said laughing, "that I should only disgrace you and -injure the fold by pulling a fresh picket off somewhere to get out -again." - -She laughed in turn, and fluttered her small hands in her delightful, -birdlike way. - -"I am not afraid of that," she responded. "When the Lord leads you in, -He is able to make you want to stay. I hope your mother is comfortable." - -So that is settled, and Miss West--Why am I such a coward about writing -it?--Mrs. Weston is to be one of us. George will be glad that she is not -left out of society. - - - - -III - -MARCH - - -March 2. Mother's calmness keeps me ashamed of the hot ache in my heart -and the restlessness which makes it so hard for me to keep an outward -composure. Hannah is rather shocked that she should be so entirely -unmoved in the face of death, and the dear, foolish old soul, steeped in -theological asperities from her cradle, must needs believe that Mother -is somehow endangering her future welfare by this very serenity. - -"Don't you think, Miss Ruth," she said to me yesterday, "that you could -persuade your mother to see Mr. Saychase? She'd do it to oblige you." - -"But it wouldn't oblige me, Hannah." - -"Oh, Miss Ruth, think of her immortal soul!" - -"Hannah," I said as gently as I could, she was so distressed, "you know -how Mother always felt about those things. It certainly couldn't do any -good now to try to alter her opinions, and it would only tire her." - -I left Hannah as quickly as I could without hurting her feelings, but I -might have known that her conscience would force her to speak to Mother. - -"Bless me, Hannah," Mother said to her, "I'm no more wicked because I'm -going to die than if I were going to live. I can't help dying, you know, -so I don't feel responsible." - -When Hannah tried to go on, and broke down with tears, Mother put out -her thin hand, like a sweet shadow. - -"Hannah," she said, "I know how you feel, and I thank you for speaking; -but don't be troubled. Where there are 'many mansions,' don't you think -there may be one even for those who did not see the truth, if they were -honest in their blindness?" - - -March 4. How far away everything else seems when the foot of death is -almost at the door! As I sit by the bedside in the long nights, -wondering whether he will come before morning, I think of the nights in -which I may sometime be waiting for death myself. I wonder whether I -shall be as serene and absolutely unterrified as Mother is. It is after -all only the terror of the unknown. Why should we be more ready to think -of the unknown as dreadful than as delightful? We certainly hail the -thought of new experiences in the body; why not out of it? Novelty in -itself must give a wonderful charm to that new life, at least for a long -time. Think of the pleasure of having youth all over again, for we shall -at least be young to any new existence into which we go, just as babies -are young to this. - -Death is terrible, it seems to me, only when we think of ourselves who -are left behind, not when we think of those who go. Life is a thing so -beautiful that it may be sad to think of them as deprived of it; but the -more beautiful it is, the more I am assured that whatever power made the -earth must be able to make something better. If life is good, a higher -step in evolution must be nobler; and however we mourn, none of us would -dare to say that our grief is caused by the belief that our friends -have through death gone on to sorrow. - - -March 8. This morning-- - - -March 11. Mother was buried to-day. I have taken out this book to try to -set down--to set down what? Not what I have felt since the end came. -That is not possible, and if it were, I have not the courage. I suppose -the mournful truth is that in the dreadful loneliness which death has -left in the house, I got out my diary as a companion. One's own thoughts -are forlorn company when they are so sad, but if they are written out -they may come to have more reality, and the journal to seem more like -another personality. How strange and shameful the weakness is which -makes it hard for us to be alone; the feeling that we cannot endure the -brooding universe about us unless we have hold of some human hand! Yet -we are so small,--the poor, naked, timorous soul, a single fleck of -thistle-down tossed about by all the winds which fill the immensities of -an infinite universe. Why should we not be afraid? Father would say, -"Why should we?" He believed that the universe took care of everything -in it, because everything is part of itself. "You've only to think of -our own human instinct of self-preservation on a scale as great as you -can conceive," he told me the day before he died, "and you get some idea -of the way in which the universal must protect the particular." I am -afraid that I am not able to grasp the idea as he did. I have thought of -it many times, and of how calm and dignified he was in those last days. -I am a woman, and the universe is so great that it turns me cold to -think of it. I am able to get comfort out of Father's idea only by -remembering how sure he was of it, and how completely real it was to -him. Yet Mother was as sure as he. She told me once that not to be -entirely at ease would be to dishonor Father's belief, and she was no -less serene in the face of death than he was. Yes; it would be to -dishonor them both to doubt, and I do not in my heart of hearts; but it -is lonely, lonely. - - -March 12. It is touching to see how human kindness, the great sympathy -with what is real and lasting in the human heart, overcomes the -narrowness of creeds in the face of the great tragedy of death. Hannah -would be horrified at any hint that she wavered in her belief, yet she -said to me to-day:-- - -"Don't you worry about your mother, Miss Ruth. She was a good woman, if -her eyes were not opened to the truth as it is in Jesus. Her Heavenly -Father'll look after her. I guess she sees things some different now -she's face to face with Him; and I believe she had the root of the -matter in her somehow, though she hadn't grace given her to let her -light shine among men." - -Dear old Hannah! She is too loving in her heart not to be obliged to -widen her theology when she is brought to the actual application of the -awful belief she professes, and she is too human not to feel that a life -so patient and so upright as Mother's must lead to eternal peace, no -matter what the creed teaches. - - -March 13. The gray kitten is chasing its tail before the fire, and I -have been looking at it and the blazing wood through my tears until I -could bear it no longer. The moonlight is on the snow in the graveyard, -and must show that great black patch where the grave is. She cannot be -there; she cannot be conscious of the bleak chill of the earth; and the -question whether she is anywhere and is conscious at all is in my mind -constantly. She must be; she cannot have gone out like a candle-flame. -She said to Mr. Saychase, that day Hannah brought him and Mother was too -gentle to refuse to see him, that she had always believed God must have -far too much self-respect not to take care of creatures He had made, and -that she was not in the least troubled, because she did not feel any -responsibility about what was to happen after death. She was right, of -course; but he was horrified. He began to stammer out something, but -Mother stopped him. - -"I didn't mean to shock you," she said gently; "but don't you think, Mr. -Saychase, I am near enough to the end to have the privilege of saying -what I really believe?" - -He wouldn't have been human if he could have resisted the voice that -said it or the smile that enforced the words. Now she knows. She has -found the heart of truth somewhere out there in the sky, which to us -looks so wide, so thick with stars which might be abiding-places. She -may have met Father. How much he, at least, must have to tell her! -Whether he would know about us or not, I cannot decide. In any case I -think he would like her to tell him. She is learning wonderful things. -Yes; she knows, and I am sure she is glad. - - -March 14. George has been to see me. In the absorption and grief of the -last fortnight I have hardly remembered him, and he has brought his -wife home without my giving the matter a thought. It is wonderful that -anything could so hold me that I have not been moved, but they came back -the day after the funeral, and I did not hear of it until a couple of -days later. It gave me a great shock when I saw him coming up the walk, -but by the time he was in the house, I had collected myself, and I had, -I think, my usual manner. - -He was most kind and sympathetic, and yet he could not help showing how -ill at ease he was. Perhaps he could not help reflecting that my duty to -Mother had been the thing which kept us apart, and that it was strange -for this to end just as there was no longer the possibility of our -coming together. - -I do not remember what George and I said to each other to-night, any -more than I can recall what we said on that last time when he was here. -I might bring back that other talk out of the dull blur of pain, but -where would be the good? Nothing could come of it but new suffering. We -were both outwardly calm and self-possessed, I know, and talked less -like lovers than like men of business. So a merchant might sell the -remnants of a bankrupt fortune, I fancy; and when he was gone I went to -prepare Mother's night drink as calmly as if nothing had happened. I did -not dare not to be calm. - -To-night we met like the friends we promised to be. He was uncomfortable -at first, but I managed to make him seem at ease, or at least not show -that he felt strange. He looked at me rather curiously now and then. I -think he was astonished that I showed no more feeling about our past. I -cannot have him unhappy through me, and he must feel that at least I -accept my fate serenely, or he will be troubled. I must not give myself -the gratification of proving that I am constant. He may believe I am -cold and perhaps heartless, but that is better than for him to feel -responsible for my being miserable. - -What did he tell me that night? It was in effect--though I think he -hardly realized what he said or implied--how our long engagement had -worn out the passion of a lover, and he felt only the friendship of a -brother; the coming of a new, real love had shown him the difference. -Does this mean that married love goes through such a change? Will he by -and by have lived through his first love for his wife, and if so what -will be left? That is not my concern; but would this same thing have -come if I had been his wife, and should I now find myself, if we had -been married when we hoped to be, only a friend who could not so fill -his heart as to shut out a new love? Better a hundredfold that it should -be as it is. At least he was not tied to me when the discovery came. But -it is not always so. Certainly Father and Mother loved each other more -after long years of living together.--But this is not a train of thought -which it is well to follow. What is must be met and lived with; but I -will not weaken my heart by dwelling on what might have been. - -George was most kind to come, and it must have been hard for him; but I -am afraid it was not a happy half-hour for either of us. I suppose that -any woman brought face to face with a man she still loves when he has -done with loving her must feel as if she were shamed. That is nonsense, -however, and I fought against the feeling. Now I am happy in the thought -that at least I have done one thing. I have made it possible for George -to come to me if hereafter he need me. If he were in trouble and I could -help, I know he would appeal to me as simply as ever. If I can help him, -I am yet free to do it. I thank God for this! - - -March 16. I have asked Charlotte Kendall to stay with me for a while. -Dear old Miss Charlotte, she is so poor and so proud and so plucky! I -know that she is half starving in that great, gaunt Kendall house, that -looms up so among its Balm of Gilead trees, as if it were an asylum for -the ghosts of all the bygone generations of the family. Somehow it seems -to me that in America the "decayed gentlewomen," as they are -unpleasantly called in England, have a harder time than anywhere else in -the world. Miss Charlotte has to live up to her instincts and her -traditions or be bitterly humiliated and miserable. People generally -assume that the family pride behind this is weak if it is not wicked; -but surely the ideal of an honorable race, cultivated and right-minded -for generations, is a thing to be cherished. The growth of civilization -must depend a good deal upon having these ideas of family preserved -somehow. Father used to say the great weakness of modern times is that -nowadays the best of the race, instead of saying to those below, "Climb -up to us," say, "We will come down to you." I suppose this is hardly a -fair summing up of modern views of social conditions, though of course I -know very little about them; but I am sure that the way in which class -distinctions are laughed at is a mistake. I hope I hate false pride as -much as anybody could; yet dear Miss Charlotte, trying hard not to -disgrace her ancestors, and being true to her idea of what a -gentlewoman should do, is to me pathetic and fine. She cares more for -the traditions of her race than she does for her own situation; and -anybody who did not admire this strong and unselfish spirit must look at -life from a point of view that I cannot understand. I can have her here -now on an excuse that she will not suspect, and she shall be fed and -rested as she has not been for years. - - -March 17. I forgot Miss Charlotte's plants when I asked her to come -here. I went over this morning to invite her, and I found her trimming -her great oleander tree with tender little snips and with loving glances -which were like those a mother gives her pet child in dressing it for a -party. The sun came in at the bay window, and the geraniums which are -the pride of Miss Charlotte's heart were coming finely into blossom. If -the poor old soul is ever really happy it is in the midst of her plants, -and things grow for her as for nobody else. - -"Do look, Ruth," she said with the greatest eagerness; "that slip of -heather that came from the wreath is really sprouting. I do think it -will live." - -She brought me a vial full of greenish water into which was stuck a bit -of heather from the wreath that Cousin Mehitable sent for Mother. Miss -Charlotte had asked me if she might go to the graveyard for the slip. -She was so pathetic when she spoke of it! - -"It isn't just to have a new plant," she said. "It is partly that it -would always remind me of your mother, and I should love it for that." - -To-day she was wonderful. Her eyes shone as she looked at the twig, and -showed me the tiny white point, like a little mouse's tooth, that had -begun to come through the bark under the green water. It was as if she -had herself somehow accomplished the miracle of creation. I could have -taken her into my arms and cried over her as she stood there so happy -with just this slip and her plants for family and riches. - -I told her my errand, and she began to look troubled. Unconsciously, I -am sure, she glanced around at the flowers, and in an instant I -understood. - -"Oh, I beg your pardon," I said before she had time to speak, "I forgot -that you cannot leave the plants." - -"I was thinking how I could manage," she answered, evidently troubled -between the wish to oblige me and the thought that her precious plants -could not be left. - -"You need not manage," I said. "I was foolish enough not to think of -them. Of course you can't leave them." - -"I might come over in the daytime," she proposed hesitatingly. "I could -make up the fire in the morning, and at this time of the year the room -would be warm enough for them till I came back at night. I know you must -be most lonely at night, and I would stay as late as I could." - -"You are a dear thing," I said, and her tone brought tears to my eyes. -"If you will come over after breakfast and stay until after supper that -will do nicely,--if you think you can spare the time." - -"There's nothing I can spare better," she said, laughing. "I'm like the -man that was on his way to jail and was met by a beggar. 'I've nothing -to give you but time,' he said, 'and that his Honor just gave me, so I -don't like to give it away.' That's one of your father's stories, -Ruth." - -I stayed talking with her for an hour, and it was touching to see how -she was trying to be entertaining and to make me cheerful. I did come -away with my thoughts entirely taken off of myself and my affairs, and -that is something. - - -March 20. It has done me good to have Miss Charlotte here. She makes her -forlorn little jests and tells her stories in her big voice, and somehow -all the time is thinking, I can see, of brightening the days for me. -Peter was completely scornful for two days, but now he passes most of -his time in her lap, condescending, of course, but gracious. - -Miss Charlotte has been as dear and kindly as possible, and to-night in -the twilight she told me the romance of her life. I do not know how it -came about. I suppose that she was thinking of Mother and wanted me to -know what Mother had been to her. Perhaps, too, she may have had a -feeling that it would comfort me to know that she understood out of her -own suffering the pain that had come to me through George's marriage. - -I do not remember her father and mother. They both died when I was very -young. I have heard that Mr. Kendall was a very handsome man, who -scandalized the village greatly by his love of horses and wine, but -Father used to tell me he was a scholar and a cultivated man. I am -afraid he did not care very much for the comfort of others; and Aunt -Naomi always speaks of him as a rake who broke his wife's heart. -Charlotte took care of him after Mrs. Kendall died, and was devoted to -him, they say. She was a middle-aged woman before she was left alone -with that big house, and she sold the Kendall silver to pay his debts. -To-night she spoke of him with a sort of pitiful pride, yet with an air -as if she had to defend him, perhaps even to herself. - -"I'm an old woman, Ruth," she said, "and my own life seems to me like an -old book that I read so long ago that I only half remember it. It is -forty years since I was engaged." - -It is strange I had never known of this before; but I suppose it passed -out of people's minds before I was old enough to notice. - -"I never knew you had been engaged, Miss Charlotte," I said. - -"Then your mother never told you what she did for me," she answered, -looking into the fire. "That was like her. She was more than a mother to -me at the time"--She broke off, and then repeated, "It was like her not -to speak of it. There are few women like your mother, Ruth." - -We were both silent for a time, and I had to struggle not to break down. -Miss Charlotte sat looking into the fire with the tears running -unchecked down her wrinkled cheeks. She did not seem conscious of them, -and the thought came to me that there had been so much sadness in her -life that she was too accustomed to tears to notice them. - -"It is forty years," she said again. "I was called a beauty then, though -you'd find that hard to believe now, Ruth, when I'm like an old -scarecrow in a cornfield. I suppose no young person ever really believes -that an old woman can have been beautiful unless there's a picture to -prove it. I'll show you a daguerreotype some time; though, after all, -what difference does it make? At least he thought"-- - -Another silence came here. The embers in the fire dropped softly, and -the dull March twilight gathered more and more thickly. I felt as if I -were being led into some sacred room, closed many years, but where the -dead had once lain. Perhaps it was fanciful, but it seemed almost as if -I were seeing the place where poor Miss Charlotte's youth had died. - -"It wasn't proper that I should marry him, Ruth. I know now father was -right, only sometimes--For myself I suppose I hadn't proper pride, and I -shouldn't have minded; but father was right. A Kendall couldn't marry a -Sprague, of course. I knew it all along; and I vowed to myself over and -over that I wouldn't care for him. When a girl tells herself that she -won't love a man, Ruth," she broke in with a bitter laugh, "the thing's -done already. It was so with me. I needn't have promised not to love him -if I hadn't given him my whole heart already,--what a girl calls her -heart. I wouldn't own it; and over and over I told him that I didn't -care for him; and then at last"-- - -It was terrible to hear the voice in which she spoke. She seemed to be -choking, and it was all that I could do to keep control of myself. I -could not have spoken, even if there had been anything to say. I wanted -to take her in my arms and get her pitiful, tear-stained face hidden; -but I only sat quiet. - -"Well, we were engaged at last, and I knew father would never consent; -but I hoped something would happen. When we are young enough we all hope -the wildest things will happen and we shall get what we want. Then -father found out; and then--and then--I don't blame father, Ruth. He was -right. I see now that he was right. Of course it wouldn't have done; but -then it almost killed me. If it hadn't been for your mother, dear, I -think I should have died. I wanted to die; but I had to take care of -father." - -I put out my hand and got hold of hers, but I could not speak. The tears -dropped down so that they sparkled in the firelight, but she did not -wipe them away. I was crying myself, for her old sorrow and mine seemed -all part of the one great pain of the race, somehow. I felt as if to be -a woman meant something so sad that I dared not think of it. - -"And the hardest was that he thought I was wrong to give him up. He -could not see it as I did, Ruth; and of course it was natural that he -couldn't understand how father would feel about the family. I could -never explain it to him, and I couldn't have borne to hurt his feelings -by telling him." - -"Is he"-- - -"He is dead, my dear. He married over at Fremont, and I hope he was -happy. I think probably he was. Men are happy sometimes when a woman -wouldn't be. I hope he was happy." - -That was the whole of it. We sat there silent until Rosa came to call us -to supper. When we stood up I put my arms about her, and kissed her. -Then she made a joke, and wiped her eyes, and through supper she was so -gay that I could hardly keep back the tears. Poor, poor, lonely, brave -Miss Charlotte! - - -March 21. Cousin Mehitable arrived yesterday according to her usual -fashion, preceded by a telegram. I tell her that if she followed her -real inclinations, she would dispatch her telegram from the station, and -then race the messenger; but she is constrained by her breeding to be a -little more deliberate, so I have the few hours of her journey in which -to expect her. It is all part of her brisk way. She can never move fast -enough, talk quickly enough, get through whatever she is doing with -rapidity enough. I remember Father's telling her once that she would -never have patience to lie and wait for the Day of Judgment, but would -get up every century or two to hurry things along. It always seems as if -she would wear herself to shreds in a week; yet here she is, more lively -at sixty than I am at less than half that age. - -She was very kind, and softened wonderfully when she spoke of Mother. I -think that she loved her more than she does any creature now alive. - -"Aunt Martha," she said last night, "wasn't human. She was far too -angelic for that. But she was too sweet and human for an angel. For my -part I think she was something far better than either, and far more -sensible." - -This was a speech so characteristic that it brought me to tears and -smiles together. - -To-night Cousin Mehitable came to the point of her errand with customary -directness. - -"I came down," she said, "to see how soon you expect to arrange to live -with me." - -"I hadn't expected anything about it," I returned. - -"Of course you would keep the house," she went on, entirely disregarding -my feeble protest. "You might want to come back summers sometimes. This -summer I'm going to take you to Europe." - -I am too much accustomed to her habit of planning things to be taken -entirely by surprise; but it did rather take my breath away to find my -future so completely disposed of. I felt almost as if I were not even to -have a chance to protest. - -"But I never thought of giving up the house," I managed to say. - -"Of course not; why should you?" she returned briskly. "You have money -enough to keep up the place and live where you please. Don't I know that -for this ten years you and Aunt Martha haven't spent half your income? -Keep it, of course; for, as I say, sometimes you may like to come back -for old times' sake." - -I could only stare at her, and laugh. - -"Oh, you laugh, Ruth," Cousin Mehitable remarked, more forcibly than -ever, "but you ought to understand that I've taken charge of you. We are -all that are left of the family now, and I'm the head of it. You are a -foolish thing anyway, and let everybody impose on your good-nature. You -need somebody to look after you. If I'd had you in charge, you'd never -have got tangled up in that foolish engagement. I'm glad you had the -sense to break it." - -I felt as if she had given me a blow in the face, but I could not -answer. - -"Don't blush like that," Cousin Mehitable commanded. "It's all over, and -you know I always said you were a fool to marry a country lawyer." - -"Father was a country lawyer," I retorted. - -"Fudge! Cousin Horace was a judge and a man whose writings had given him -a wide reputation. Don't outrage his memory by calling him a rustic. For -my part I never had any patience with him for burying himself in the -country like a clodhopper." - -"You forget that Mother's health"--I began; but with Cousin Mehitable -one is never sure of being allowed to complete a sentence. - -"Oh, yes," she interrupted, "of course I forgot. Well, if there could be -an excuse, Aunt Martha would serve for excusing anything. I beg your -pardon, Ruth. But now all that is past and gone, and fortunately the -family is still well enough remembered in Boston for you to take up life -there with very little trouble. That's what I had in mind ten years ago, -when I insisted on your coming out." - -"People who saw me then will hardly remember me." - -"The folks that knew your father and mother," she went on serenely, "are -of course old people like me; but they will help you to know the younger -generation. Besides, those you know will not have forgotten you. A -Privet is not so easily forgotten, and you were an uncommonly pretty -bud, Ruth. What a fool you were not to marry Hugh Colet! You always were -a fool." - -Cousin Mehitable generally tempers a compliment in this manner, and it -prevents me from being too much elated by her praise. - -She was interrupted here by the necessity of going to prepare for -supper. Miss Charlotte did not come over to-day, so we were alone -together. No sooner were we seated at the supper-table than she returned -to the attack. - -"When you live in Boston," she said, "I shall"-- - -"Suppose I should not live in Boston?" I interrupted. - -"But you will. What else should you do?" - -"I might go on living here." - -"Living here!" she cried out explosively. "You don't call this living, -do you? How long is it since you heard any music, or saw a picture, or -went to the theatre, or had any society?" - -I was forced to confess that music and painting and acting were all -entirely lacking in Tuskamuck; but I remarked that I had all the books -that attracted me, and I protested against her saying I hadn't any -society. - -"Oh, you see human beings now and then," Cousin Mehitable observed -coolly; "and I dare say they are very worthy creatures. But you know -yourself they are not society. You haven't forgotten the year I brought -you out." - -I have not forgotten it, of course; and I cannot deny that when I think -of that winter in Boston, the year I was nineteen, I do feel a little -mournful sometimes. It was all so delightful, and it is all so far away -now. I hardly heard what Cousin Mehitable said next. I was thinking how -enchanting a home in Boston would be, and how completely alone as for -family I am. Cousin Mehitable is the only near relative I have in the -world, and why should I not be with her? It would be delightful. Perhaps -I may manage to get in a week or two in town now and then; but I cannot -go away for long. There would be nobody to start the reading-room, or -keep up the Shakespeare Club; and what would become of Kathie and Peggy -Cole, or of all that dreadful Spearin tribe? I dare say I am too proud -of my consequence, and that if I went away somebody would be found to -look after things. Still I know I am useful here; and it seems to me I -am really needed. Besides, I love the place and the people, and I think -my friends love me. - - -March 23. Cousin Mehitable went home to-day. Easter is at hand, and she -has a bonnet from Paris,--"a perfect dream of a bonnet," she said with -the enthusiasm of a girl, "dove-colored velvet, and violets, and steel -beads, and two or three white ostrich tips; a bonnet an angel couldn't -resist, Ruth!"--and this bonnet must form part of the church service on -Easter. The connection between Paris bonnets and the proper observance -of the day is not clear in my mind; but when I said something of this -sort to Cousin Mehitable she rebuked me with great gravity. - -"Ruth, there is nothing in worse form than making jokes about sacred -subjects." - -"Your bonnet isn't sacred," I retorted, for I cannot resist sometimes -the temptation to tease her; "or at least it can't be till it's been to -church on Easter." - -"You know what I mean," was her answer. "When you live with me I shall -insist upon your speaking respectfully of the church." - -"I wasn't speaking of the church," I persisted, laughing at the gravity -with which she always takes up its defense; "I was speaking of your -bonnet, your Paris bonnet, your Easter bonnet, your ecclesiastical, -frivolous, giddy, girlish bonnet." - -"Oh, you may think it too young for me," she said eagerly, forgetting -the church in her excitement, "but it isn't really. It's as modest and -appropriate as anything you ever saw; and so becoming and _chic_!" - -"Oh, I can always trust your taste, Cousin Mehitable," I told her, "but -you know you're a worldly old thing. You'd insist upon having your -angelic robes fitted by a fashionable tailor." - -Again she looked grave and shocked in a flash. - -"How can you, Ruth! You are a worse heathen than ever. But then there is -no church in Tuskamuck, so I suppose it is not to be wondered at. That's -another reason for taking you away from this wilderness." - -"There are two churches, as you know very well," I said. - -"Nonsense! They're only meeting-houses,--conventicles. However, when you -come to Boston to live, we will see." - -"I told you last night that I shouldn't give up Tuskamuck." - -"I know you did, but I didn't mind that. You must give it up." - -She went away insisting upon this, and refusing to accept any other -decision. I did so far yield as to promise provisionally that I would go -abroad with her this summer. I need to see the world with a broader view -again, and I shall enjoy it. To think of the picture galleries fills me -with joy already. I should be willing to cross the Atlantic just to see -once more the enchanting tailor of Moroni's in the National Gallery. It -is odd, it comes into my mind at this moment that he looks something -like Tom Webbe, or Tom looks something like him. Very likely it is all -nonsense. Yes; I will go for the summer--to leave here altogether--no, -that is not to be thought of. - - -March 24. The whole town is excited over an accident up at the lake this -morning. A man and his son were drowned by breaking through the ice. -They had been up to some of the logging camps, and it is said they were -not sober. They were Brownrigs, and part of the family in the little red -house. The mother and the daughter are left. I hope it is not heartless -to hate to think of them. I have no doubt that they suffer like others; -only it is not likely folk of this sort are as sensitive as we are. It -is a mercy that they are not. - - -March 25. The Brownrig family seems just now to be forced upon my -attention, and that in no pleasant way. - -Aunt Naomi came in this forenoon, and seated herself with an air of -mysterious importance. She looked at me with her keen eyes, penetrating -and humorous even when she is most serious, and seemed to be examining -me to discover what I was thinking. It was evident at once that she had -news. This is generally true, for she seems always to have something to -tell. Her mind gathers news as salt gathers moisture, and her greatest -pleasure is to impart what she has heard. She has generally with me the -air of being a little uncertain how I may receive her tidings. Like all -persons of strong mind and a sense of humor, she is by nature in -sympathy with the habit of looking at life frankly and dispassionately, -and I believe that secretly and only half consciously she envies me my -mental freedom. Sometimes I have suspected her of leading me on to say -things which she would have felt it wrong to say herself because they -are unorthodox, but which she has too much common sense not to -sympathize with. She is convinced, though, that such freedom of thought -as mine is wrong, and she nobly deprives herself of the pleasure of -being frank in her thoughts when this would involve any reflection upon -the theological conventions which are her rule of life. She gratifies a -lively mind by feeding it on scraps of gossip and commenting on them in -her pungent way; she is never unkind in her thought, I am sure, but she -does sometimes say sharp things. Like Lady Teazle, however, she abuses -people out of pure good nature. I looked at her this morning as she sat -swinging her foot and munching--there is no other word for it!--her -green barège veil, and I wondered, as I have often wondered before, how -a woman really so clever could be content to pass so much of her time in -the gathering and circulating of mere trivialities. I suppose that it is -because there is so little in the village to appeal to the intellectual -side of her, and her mind must be occupied. She might be a brilliant -woman in a wider sphere. Now she seems something like a beaver in -captivity, building dams of hairbrushes and boots on a carpeted floor. - -I confess, too, that I wondered, as I looked at her, if she represented -my future. I thought of Cousin Mehitable's doleful predictions of what I -should come to if I stay in Tuskamuck, and I tried to decide whether I -should come in time to be like Aunt Naomi, a general carrier of news -from house to house, an old maid aunt to the whole village, with no real -kindred, and with no interests wider than those of village gossip. I -cannot believe it, but I suppose at my age she would not have believed -it of herself. - -"We're really getting to be quite like a city," Aunt Naomi said, with a -grimness which showed me there was something important behind this -enigmatic remark. - -"Are we?" I responded. "I confess I don't see how." - -"Humph!" she sniffed. "There's wickedness here that isn't generally -looked for outside of the city." - -"Oh, wickedness!" I said. "There is plenty of that everywhere, I -suppose; but I never have thought we have more than our share of it." - -She wagged her foot more violently, and had what might have seemed a -considerable lunch on her green veil before she spoke again--though it -is wicked for me to make fun of her. Then she took a fresh start. - -"What are you knitting?" she asked. - -"What started in January to be some mittens for the Turner boy. He -brings our milk, and he never seems to have mittens enough." - -"I don't wonder much," was her comment. "His mother has so many babies -that she can't be expected to take care of them." - -"Poor Mrs. Turner," I said. "I should think the poor thing would be -discouraged. I am ashamed that I don't do more for her." - -"I don't see that you are called upon to take care of all the poor in -the town; but if you could stop her increasing her family it'd be the -best thing you could do." - -When Aunt Naomi makes a remark like this, I feel it is discreet to -change the subject. - -"I hope that now the weather is getting milder," I observed, "you are -not so cold in prayer-meetings." - -She was not diverted, even by this chance to dwell on her pet grievance, -but went her own way. - -"I suppose you'll feel now you've got to look out for that Brownrig -girl, too," she said. - -"That Brownrig girl?" I repeated. - -I tried not to show it, but the blood rushed to my heart and made me -faint. I realized something terrible was coming, though I had nothing to -go upon but the old gossip about Tom and the fact that I had seen him -come from the red house. - -"Her sin has found her out," returned Aunt Naomi with indignant -emphasis. "For my part, I don't see what such creatures are allowed to -live for. Think what kind of a mother she will make. They'd better take -her and her baby and drown 'em along with her father and brother." - -"Aunt Naomi!" was all I could say. - -"Well, I suppose you think I'm not very charitable, but it does make me -mad to see that sort of trash"-- - -"I don't know what you are talking about," I interrupted. "Has the -Brownrig girl a child?" - -"No; but she's going to have. Her mother's gone off and left her, and -she's down sick with pneumonia besides." - -"Her mother has gone off?" - -"Yes; and it'd be good riddance, if there was anybody to take care of -the girl." - -It is useless to ask Aunt Naomi how she knows all that goes on in the -town. She collects news from the air, I believe. I reflected that she is -not always right, and I hoped now she might be mistaken. - -"But somebody must be with her if she's down with pneumonia," I said. - -"Yes; that old Bagley woman's there. The Overseers of the Poor sent her, -but she's about twice as bad as nobody, I should think. If I was sick, -and she came round, I know I'd ask her to go away, and let me die in -peace." - -It was evident enough that Aunt Naomi was a good deal stirred up, but I -did not dare to ask her why. If there is anything worse behind this -scandal, I had rather not know it. We were fortunately interrupted, and -Aunt Naomi went soon, so I heard no more. I was sick with the -loathsomeness of having Tom Webbe connected in my thought with that -wretched girl, and I do hope that it is only my foolishness. He cannot -have fallen to such depths. - - -March 27. I have heard no more from the Brownrigs, and I must hope -things were somehow not as Aunt Naomi thought. To-day I learned that she -is shut up with a cold. I must go in to-morrow and see her. Miss -Charlotte is a great comfort. The dear old soul begins really to look -better, and the thinness about her lips is yielding to good feeding. She -tells me stories of the old people of the town whom I can just remember, -and she is full of reverence for both Father and Mother. Of course I -never talk theology with her, but I am surprised sometimes to find that -under the shell of her orthodoxy is a good deal of liberalism. I suppose -any kindly mortal who accepted the old creeds made allowances for those -nearest and dearest, and human nature will always make allowances for -itself. I should think that an imaginative belief in a creed, a belief -that realized the cruelty of theology, must either drive one mad or make -one disbelieve from simple horror. Nobody but a savage could worship a -relentless god and not become insane from the horror of being in the -clutch of an implacable power. - - -March 28. I have had a most painful visit from Deacon Webbe. He came in -looking so gray and old that it shocked me to see him. He shook hands as -if he did not know what he was doing, and then sat down in a dazed way, -slowly twirling his hat and fixing his eyes on it as if he were blind. I -tried to say something, but only stumbled on in little commonplaces -about the weather, to which he paid so little attention that it was -evident he had no idea what I was saying. In a minute or two I was -reduced to silence. One cannot go on saying mechanical nothings in the -face of suffering, and it was impossible not to see that Deacon Webbe -was in grievous pain. - -"Deacon Webbe," I said at last, when I could not bear the silence any -longer, "what is the matter?" - -He raised his eyes to mine with a look of pitiful helplessness. - -"I've no right to come to you, Miss Ruth," he said in his slow way, "but -there's nobody else, and you always were Tom's friend." - -"Tom?" I repeated. "What has happened?" - -"It isn't a thing to talk to a woman about," he went on, "and you'll -have to excuse me, Miss Ruth. I'm sure you will. It's that Brownrig -girl." - -I sat silent, and I felt my hands growing cold. - -"She's had a baby," he said after a moment. - -The simple bald fact was horrible as he said it. I could not speak, and -after a little hesitation he continued in a tone so low I could scarcely -hear him. - -"It's his. Think of the shame of it and the sin of it. It seems to me, -if it could only have been the Lord's will, I would have been glad to -die rather than to have this happen. My son!" - -The wail of his voice went to my heart and made me shiver. I would have -given anything I possessed to comfort him, but what could I say? Shame -is worse than death. When one dies you can at least speak of the -happiness that has been and the consolation of the memory of this. In -disgrace whatever has been good before makes the shame only the harder -to bear. What could I say to a father mourning the sin and the disgrace -of his only son? - -It seemed to me a long time that we sat there silent. At last he said:-- - -"I didn't come just to make you feel bad, Miss Ruth. I want you to tell -me what I ought to do, what I can do. I ought to do something to help -the girl. Bad as she is, she's sick, and she's a woman. I don't know -where Tom is, and I'm that baby's grandfather." His voice choked, but he -went on. "Of course I ought not to trouble you, but I don't know what to -do, I don't know what to do. My wife"-- - -The poor old man stopped. He is not polished, but he has the instinct of -a good man to screen his wife, and plainly was afraid he might say -something which would seem to reflect on her. - -"My wife," he said, evidently changing the form of his words, "is -dreadfully put out, as she naturally would be, and of course I don't -like to talk much with her about it. I thought you might help me, Miss -Ruth." - -Never in my life have I felt more helpless. I tried to think clearly, -but the only thing I could do was to try to comfort him. I have no -remembrance of what I said, and I believe it made very little -difference. What he wanted was sympathy. I had no counsel to give, but I -think I sent Deacon Daniel away somewhat comforted. I could only advise -him to wait and see what was needed. He of course must have thought of -this himself, but he liked to have me agree with him and be good to him. -He will do his duty, and what is more he will do his best, but he will -do it with very little help from Mrs. Webbe, I am afraid. Poor Deacon -Daniel! I could have put my arms round his neck and kissed his -weather-beaten cheek, but he would not have understood. I suppose he -would have been frightened half out of his wits, and very likely would -have thought that I had suddenly gone mad. It is so hard to comfort a -slow-minded person; he cannot see what you mean by a caress. Yet I hope -that Deacon Daniel went away somewhat heartened. Oh, if Tom could only -realize the sorrow I saw in his father's eyes, I think he would have his -punishment. - - -March 29. When Deacon Webbe said last night that he did not know where -Tom was, I thought for just a moment of the sealed address Tom left me. -I was so taken up with pity, however, that the thought passed from my -mind. After the Deacon was gone I wondered whether I should have spoken -of the letter; but it seemed to me that it was better to have said -nothing. I thought I should open it before saying anything; and I needed -to consider whether the time had come when I was justified in reading -it. Tom trusted me, and I was bound by that; yet surely he ought to be -told the state of things. It was imperative that he should know about -the poor girl. I have never been able to be sure why he did not let his -family know where he was, but I fear he may have quarreled with them. -Now he must be told. Oh, it is such wretched business, so sad and -dreadful! - -I went upstairs after thinking by the fire until it had burned to -embers, and indeed until the very ashes were cold. I took out Tom's -letter, and for a moment I was half sick at the thought that he had -degraded himself so. It seemed almost as if in holding his letter I was -touching her, and I would gladly have thrown it in the fire unopened. -Then I was ashamed to be so squeamish and so uncharitable, and realized -how foolish I was. The sealed envelope had in it a card with Tom's -address in New York, and this note:-- - -"If you open this it must mean that you know. I have nothing to say in -my own defense that you could understand; only this is true, Ruth: I -have never really cared for any woman in the world but you. You will not -believe it, and you will not be likely to find it very easy to forgive -me for saying it now, but it is true. I never knew better how completely -you have possession of me than I do just at this moment, when I know I -am writing what you will read hating me. No, I suppose you can't really -hate anybody; but you must despise me, and it is an insult for me to say -I love you. But I have loved you all my life, and I cannot help it. I -shall go on till I die, even if you do not speak to me again in my whole -life. Do not make me come home unless I must. Forgive me, if you can." - -The note had neither end nor beginning. I was so overcome by it all, by -the pity of it, that I could not trust myself to think. I sat down and -wrote to Tom just this message, without salutation or signature:-- - -"Your father has been here to see me. The Brownrig girl is ill of -pneumonia. Her baby was born night before last, and is alive." - -I sent this off to-day. What he will do I cannot tell. I cannot even be -sure what he ought to do, and I had no right to urge him to come or to -stay away. Certainly for him to marry that outcast creature seems -impossible; but if he does not the baby must go through life with a -brand of shame on her. The world is so cruel to illegitimate children! -Perhaps it has to be; at least Father believed that the only -preservation of society lay in this severity; but I am a woman, and I -think of the children, who are not to blame. Things are so tangled up in -human relations that one thread cannot be drawn taut without bringing -about tragedies on other lines. - -Yet to marry this girl--Oh, it is not possible! To think of Tom Webbe's -living in the same house with that dreadful creature, of his having it -known that he had married such a woman-- - -It is horrible, whichever way I look at it. I cannot be kind in my -thoughts to one of them without being cruel to the other. I am so -thankful that I have not to decide. I know I should be too weak to be -just, and then I should be always unhappy at the wrong I had done. Now, -whatever I was called upon to take the responsibility of was done when I -had written to Tom. - - - - -IV - -APRIL - - -April 1. When a new month comes in it always seems as if something -should happen. The divisions of time do not appeal to the feelings as -simple arbitrary conveniences, but as real endings and beginnings; so -the fancy demands that the old order shall end and some better, new -fashion begin. I suppose everybody has had the vague sense of -disappointment that the new month or the new year is so like the one -before. I used to feel this very strongly as a child, though never -unhappily. It was a disappointment, but as all times were happy times, -the disappointment was not bitter. The thought is in my mind to-night -because I am troubled, and because I would so gladly leave the fret and -worry behind, to begin afresh with the new month. - -The thought of Tom and his trouble weighs on me so that I have been -miserable all day. Miss Charlotte has not been here this week. Her -beloved plants need attention, and she is doing mysterious things with -clippers and trowels, selecting bulbs, sorting out seeds, making plans -for her garden beds, and working herself into a delightful fever of -excitement over the coming glories of her garden. It is really rather -early, I think, but in her impatience she cannot wait. Her flowers are -her children, and all her affection for family and kin, having nothing -nearer to cling to, is lavished on them. It is so fortunate that she -has this taste. I cannot help to-day feeling so old and lonely that I -could almost envy her her fondness for gardening. I must cultivate a -taste for something, if it is only for cats. I wonder how Peter would -like to have me set up an asylum for crippled and impoverished tabbies! - -Over and over again I have asked myself what I can do to help Deacon -Webbe, but I have found no answer. One of the hardest things in life is -to see our friends bear the consequences of their mistakes. Deacon -Daniel is suffering for the way he brought Tom up, and yet he has done -as well as he was able. Father used to say what I declared was a hard -saying, and which was the harder because in my heart of hearts I could -never with any success dispute it. "You cannot wisely help anybody until -you are willing not to interfere with the discipline that life and -nature give," he said. "You would not offer to take a child's medicine -for it; why should you try to bear the brunt of a friend's suffering -when it comes from his own fault? That is nature's medicine." I remember -that once I answered I would very gladly take a child's medicine for it -if I could, and Father laughed and pinched my ear. "Don't try to be -Providence," he said. I would like to be Providence for Deacon Webbe and -Tom now,--and for the girl, too. It makes me shiver to think of her, and -if I had to see or to touch her, it would be more than I could endure. - -This moralizing shows that I am low in my mind. I have been so out of -sorts that I was completely out of key to-day with George. I have had to -see him often about the estate, but he has seemed always anxious to get -away as quickly as possible. To-day he lingered almost in the old -fashion; and I somehow found him altered. He is--I cannot tell how he is -changed, but he is. He has a manner less-- - -It is time to stop writing when I own the trouble to be my own -wrong-headedness and then go on to set down imaginary faults in my -neighbors. - - -April 3. I am beset with deacons lately. Deacon Richards has been here -for an hour, and he has left me so restless that I may as well try to -write myself into calmness. - -Deacon Richards never seems so big as when he stands talking with me, -looking down on the top of my head, with his great bald forehead looming -above his keen eyes like a mountain-top. I always get him seated as soon -as I can, and he likes to sit in Father's wide arm-chair. One of the -things that I like best about him is that, brusque and queer as he is, -he never takes that seat until he has been especially asked. Then as he -sits down he says always, with a little softening of his great voice,-- - -"This was your father's chair." - -He has never been out of Tuskamuck a fortnight, I dare say; but there is -something about this simple speech, ready for it as I of course always -am, that almost brings the tears to my eyes. He is country born and -country bred, but the delicacy of the courtesy underlying his -brusqueness is pure gold. What nonsense it is for Cousin Mehitable to -insist that we are too countrified to have any gentlemen! She does not -appreciate the old New England stock. - -What Deacon Daniel wanted I could not imagine, but while we were talking -of the weather and the common things of the day I could see that he was -preparing to say something. He has a wonderful smile when he chooses to -show it. It always reminds me of the picture one sees sometimes of a -genial face peering from behind a glum mask. When I teased him about the -vestry fires, he only grinned; but his grin is to his smile as the smell -of peppermint to that of a rose. He amused me by his comments of Aunt -Naomi. - -"She runs after gossip," he said, "just as a kitten runs after its tail. -It doesn't mean anything, but it must do something." - -"She is a shrewd creature," I answered. "It is absurd enough to compare -anybody so decorous to a kitten." - -"Aunt Naomi's nobody's fool," was his response. "She sent me here -to-night." - -"Sent you here?" I echoed. - -His face grew suddenly grave. - -"I don't know how this thing will strike you, Miss Ruth," he said -explosively. "It seems to me all wrong. The fact is," he added more -calmly, but with the air of meaning to have a disagreeable thing over, -"it's about the Brownrig girl. You know about her, and that she is very -sick." - -"Yes," I said. - -He stretched out his large hand toward the fire in a way that showed he -was not at ease. I could not help noticing the difference between the -hand of this Deacon Daniel and that of the other. Deacon Webbe is a -farmer, and has a farmer's hand. Deacon Richards has the white hand of a -miller. - -"I don't see myself," he said grimly, looking into the coals, "that -there is likely to be anything contagious in her wickedness, but none -of the women are willing to go near her. I should think she'd serve -pretty well as a warning. The Overseers of the Poor 've sent old Marm -Bagley to nurse her, and that seems to be their part; but who's to look -out that Marm Bagley doesn't keep drunk all the time's more than I can -see." - -He sniffed scornfully, as if his opinion of women was far from -flattering. - -"How did you know about it?" I asked. - -"Job Pearson--he's one of the Overseers--came to see if there wasn't -somebody the church could send down. I went to Aunt Naomi, but she -couldn't think of anybody. She's housed with a cold, and she wouldn't be -the one to go into a sick-room anyway." - -"And she sent you here?" - -He turned to me with the smile which I can never resist. - -"The truth is," he answered, "that when there's nothing else to do we -all come to you, Miss Ruth." - -"But what can I do?" - -"That is what I came to see." - -"Did you expect me to go down and nurse the girl?" - -He looked at me with a shrewd twinkle in his eye, and for a moment said -nothing. - -"I just expected if there was anything possible to be done you'd think -of it," he replied. - -I thought for a moment, and then I told him I would write to Cousin -Mehitable to send down a trained nurse from Boston. - -"The Overseers won't pay her," he commented with a grin. - -"Perhaps you will," I returned, knowing perfectly that he was trying to -tease. - -"It will take several days at least to get her here." - -We considered for a little in silence. I do not know what passed through -his mind, but I thought with a positive sickening of soul of being under -the same roof with that girl. I knew that it must be done, though; and, -simply to be rid of the dread of it, I said as steadily as I could,-- - -"I will go down in the morning." - -And so it has come about that I am to be nurse to the Brownrig girl and -to Tom Webbe's baby. - - -April 6. The last four days have been so full and so exhausting that -there has been no time for scribbling in diaries. Like Pepys I have now -to write up the interval, although I cannot bring myself to his way of -dating things as if he always wrote on the very day on which they -happened. Father used to laugh at me because I always insisted that it -was not honest of Pepys to put down one date when he really wrote on -another. - -Tuesday forenoon I went down to the Brownrig house. I had promised -myself not to let the sick girl see how I shrank from her, but I had a -sensation of sickening repugnance almost physical. When I got to the red -house I was so ashamed of myself that I forgot everything else. The girl -was so sick, the place so cheerless, so dirty, so poverty-stricken; she -was so dreadful to look at, with her tangled black hair, her hot cheeks, -her fierce eyes; everything was so miserable and dreadful, that I could -have cried with pity. Julia was in a bed so dirty that it would have -driven me to distraction; the pillow-slip was ragged, and the comforter -torn in great places, as if a wild cat had clawed it. Marm Bagley was -swaying back and forth in an old broken rocking-chair, smoking a black -pipe, which perhaps she thought fumigated the foul air of the sick-room. -She had the appearance of paying very little attention to the patient -and none at all to the baby, which wailed incessantly from a shabby -clothes-basket in a corner. The whole scene was so sordid, so pitiful, -so hopeless, that I could think only of the misery, and so forget my -shrinking and dread. - -A Munson boy, that the Overseers of the Poor had sent down, was chopping -wood in the yard, and I dispatched him to the house for Hannah and clean -linen, while I tried to get Marm Bagley to attend to the baby and to -help me to put things to rights a little. She smelled of spirits like -another Sairey Gamp, and her wits did not appear to be entirely steady. -After I found her holding the baby under her arm literally upside down, -while she prepared its food, I decided that unless I wished to run the -risk of being held as accessory to the murder of the infant, I had -better look after it myself. - -"Can't you pick up the room a little while I feed the baby?" I asked. - -"Don't see no use of clearing up none," she said. "'Tain't time for the -funeral yet." - -This, I suppose, was some sort of an attempt at a rudimentary joke, but -it was a most ghastly one. I looked at the sick girl to see if she heard -and understood. It was evident that she had, but it seemed to me that -she did not care. I went to the bedside. - -"I ought to have spoken to you when I came in," I said, "but your eyes -were shut, and I thought you might be asleep. I am Miss Privet, and I -have come to help Mrs. Bagley take care of you till a regular nurse can -get here from Boston." - -She looked at me with a strange sparkle in her eyes. - -"From Boston?" she repeated. - -"Yes," I said. "I have sent to my cousin to get a regular trained -nurse." - -She stared at me with her piercing eyes opened to their fullest extent. - -"Do they train 'em?" she asked. - -"Yes," I told her. "A trained nurse is almost as good as a doctor." - -"Then I shall get well?" she demanded eagerly. "She'll get me well?" - -"I hope so," I said, with as much of a smile as I could muster when I -wanted to cry. "And before she comes we must clear up a little." - -I began to do what I could about the room without making too much -bustle. The girl watched me with eager eyes, and at last, as I came near -the bed, she asked suddenly,-- - -"Did he send you?" - -I felt myself growing flushed, though there was no reason for it. - -"Deacon Richards asked me to come," I answered. - -"I don't know him," she commented, evidently confused. "Is he Overseer?" - -I hushed her, and went on with my work, for I wanted to think what I had -better tell her. Of course Marm Bagley was of no use, but when Hannah -came things went better. Hannah was scandalized at my being there at -all, and of course would not hear of my doing the rough work. She took -possession of Mrs. Bagley, and ordered her about with a vigor which -completely dazed that unsatisfactory person, and amused me so much that -my disturbed spirits rose once more. This was all very well as long as -it lasted, but Hannah had to go home for dinner, and when the restraint -of her presence was removed Marm Bagley reasserted herself. She tied a -frowzy bonnet over a still more frowzy head, lighted her pipe, and -departed for the woods behind the house. - -"When that impudent old hired girl o' yours's got all through and got -out," she remarked, "you can hang a towel out the shed winder, and I'll -come back. I ain't got no occasion to stay here and git ordered round by -no hired girl of anybody's." - -My remonstrances were of no avail, since I would not promise not to let -Hannah come into the house, and the fat old woman waddled away into the -seclusion of the woods. I suppose she slept somewhere, though the woods -must be so damp that the indulgence seems rather a dangerous one; but at -nightfall she returned more odorous, and more like Sairey Gamp than -ever. - -Hannah came back, and we did what we could. When Dr. Wentworth came in -the afternoon he allowed us to get Julia into clean linen, and she did -seem grateful for the comfort of fresh sheets and pillow-slips. It -amused me that Hannah had not only taken the servants' bedding, but had -picked out the oldest. - -"I took the wornest ones," she explained. "Of course we wouldn't any of -us ever want to sleep in them again." - -She was really shocked at my proposing to remain for the night. - -"It ain't for you, Miss Ruth, to be taking care of such folks," she -declared; "and as for that Bagley woman, I'd as soon have a bushel -basket of cockroaches in the house as her, any time." - -Even this lively image did not do away with the necessity of my -remaining. I could not propose to Hannah to take my place. The mere fact -of being mistress often forces one to do things which servants would -feel insulted if asked to undertake. Father used to say, "Remember that -_noblesse oblige_ does not exist in the kitchen;" though of course this -is true only in a sense. Servants have their own ideas of what is due to -position, I am sure; only that their ideas are so different, and often -so funnily different, from ours. I could not leave the sick girl to the -mercies of Mrs. Bagley, and so I had no choice but to stay. - -All day long Julia watched me with a closeness most strangely -disconcerting. She evidently could not make out why I was there. In the -evening, as I sat by her, she said suddenly,-- - -"I dunno what you think yer'll get by it." - -"Get by what?" - -"Bein' here." - -I smiled at her manner, and told her that at least I had already got the -satisfaction of seeing her more comfortable. She made no reply for a -time, but evidently was considering the matter. I did not think it well -for her to talk, so I sat knitting quietly, while Mrs. Bagley loomed in -the background, rocking creakingly. - -"'Twon't please him none," she said at last. "He don't care a damn for -me." - -I tried to take this without showing that I understood it. - -"I'm not trying to please anybody," I responded. "When a neighbor is -sick and needs help, of course anybody would come." - -"Humph! Folks hain't been so awful anxious to help me." - -"There is a good deal of sickness in town," I explained. - -"'Tain't nobody's business to come, anyhow," commented Mrs. Bagley -dispassionately. - -"There's precious few'd come if 'twas," the girl muttered. - -"Has anybody been to see you?" I asked. - -The Brownrig girl turned her fierce eyes up to me with a look which made -me think of some wild bird hurt and caged. - -"One old woman that sat and chewed her veil and swung her foot at me. -She never come but once." - -I had no difficulty in recognizing this portrait, even without Mrs. -Bagley's explanatory comment. - -"That was Aunt Naomi Dexter," she remarked. "She's always poking round." - -"Miss Dexter is one of the kindest women alive," I said, "though she is -a little odd in her manner sometimes." - -"She said she hoped I'd found things bad enough to give me a hankerin' -for something better," went on Julia with increasing bitterness. "God! -How does she think I'd get anything better? What does she know about it, -anyway?" - -"There, there, Jule," interposed Mrs. Bagley in a sort of professional -tone, "now don't go to gettin' excited and rampageous. You know she -brought you some rippin' flannel for the baby. Them pious folks has to -talk, but, Lord, nobody minds it, and you hadn't ought ter. They don't -really mean nothing much." - -It seemed to be time to interpose, and I forbade Julia to talk, sent -Mrs. Bagley off to sleep in the one other bedroom, and settled down for -the night's watching. The patient fell asleep at last, and I was left to -care for the fire and the poor little pathetic, forlorn, dreadful baby. -The child was swathed in Aunt Naomi's "rippin' flannel," and I fell into -baffling reflections in regard to human life. After all, I had no right -to judge this poor broken girl lying there much more in danger than she -could dream. What do I know of the intolerable life that has not -self-respect, not even cleanliness of mind or body? Society and morality -have so fenced us about and so guarded us that we have rather to try to -get outside than to struggle to keep in; and what do we know of the poor -wretches fighting for life with wild beasts in the open? I am so glad I -do not believe that sin is what one actually does, but is the proportion -between deeds and opportunity. How carefully Father explained this to me -when I was not much more than a child, and how strange it is that so -many people cannot seem to understand it! If I thought the moral law an -inflexible thing like a human statute, for which one was held -responsible arbitrarily and whether he knows the law or not, I should -never be able to endure the sense of injustice. Of course men have to be -arbitrary, because they can see only tangible things and must judge by -outward acts; but if this were true of a deity he would cease to be a -deity at all, and be simply a man with unlimited power to do harm. - - -April 7. I found myself so running aground last night in metaphysics -that it seemed just as well to go to bed, diary or no diary. I was -besides too tired to write down my interview with Mrs. Webbe. - -I was just about to go home for a bath and a nap after watching that -first night, when, without even knocking, Mrs. Deacon Webbe opened the -outside door. I was in the kitchen, and so met her before she got -further. Naturally I was surprised to see her at six o'clock in the day. - -"Good-morning," I said. - -"I knew you were here yesterday," she said by way of return for my -greeting, "but I thought I'd get here before you came back this -morning." - -"I have been here all night," I answered. - -She looked at me with her piercing black eyes, which always seem to go -into the very recesses of one's thoughts, and then, in a manner rather -less aggressive, remarked,-- - -"I've come to speak to this Brownrig girl. You know well enough why." - -"I'm afraid you can't see her," I answered, ignoring the latter part of -her words. "She is not so well this morning, and Dr. Wentworth told us -to keep her as quiet as possible." - -Mrs. Webbe leaned forward with an expression on her face which made me -look away. - -"Is she going to die?" she demanded. - -I turned away, and began to close the door. I could not bear her manner. -She has too much cause to hate the girl, but just then, with the poor -thing sick to the very point of death, I could never have felt as she -looked. - -"I'm sure I hope not," I returned. "We expect to have a professional -nurse to-morrow, and then things will go better." - -"A professional nurse?" - -"Yes; we have sent to Boston for one." - -"Sent to Boston for a nurse for that creature? She's a great deal better -dead! She only leads men"-- - -"If you will excuse me, Mrs. Webbe," interrupted I, pushing the door -still nearer to closing, "I ought to go back to my patient. It isn't my -business to decide who had better be dead." - -She started forward suddenly, taking me unawares, and before I -understood what she intended, she had thrust herself through the door -into the house. - -"If it isn't your business," she demanded sharply, "what are you here -for? What right have you to interfere? If Providence is willing to take -the creature out of the way, what are you trying to keep her alive for?" - -I put up my hand and stopped her. - -"Will you be quiet?" I said. "I cannot have her disturbed." - -"You cannot!" she repeated, raising her voice. "Who gave you a right to -order me round, Ruth Privet? Is this your house?" - -I knew that her shrill voice would easily penetrate to Julia's bedroom, -and indeed there was only a thin door between the sick girl and the -kitchen where we were. I took Mrs. Webbe by the wrist as strongly as I -could, and before she could collect her wits, I led her out of the -house, and down to the gate. - -"What are you doing?" she demanded. "How dare you drag me about?" - -"I beg your pardon," I said, dropping my hold. "I think you did not -understand, Mrs. Webbe, that as nurse I cannot have my patient excited." - -She looked at me in a blaze of anger. I have never seen a woman so -carried away by rage, and it is frightful. Yet she seemed to be making -an effort to control herself. I was anxious to help her if I could, so I -forced a smile, although I am afraid it was not a very warm one, and I -assumed as conciliatory a manner as I could muster. - -"You must think I was rather abrupt," I said, "but I did not mean to be. -I couldn't explain to you in the kitchen, the partition is so thin. You -see she's in the room that opens out of it." - -Mrs. Webbe softened somewhat. - -"It is very noble of you to be here," she said in a new tone, and one -which I must confess did not to me have a genuine ring; "it's splendid -of you, but what's the use of it? What affair of yours is it, anyway?" - -I was tempted to serve her up a quotation about a certain man who went -down to Jericho and fell among thieves, but I resisted. - -"I could come, Mrs. Webbe, and apparently nobody else could." - -"They wouldn't," she rejoined frankly. "Don't you see everybody else -knew it was a case to be let alone?" - -I asked her why. - -"Everybody felt as if it was," responded she quickly. "I hope you don't -set up to be wiser than everybody else put together." - -"I don't set up for anything," I declared, "but I may as well confess -that I see no sense in what you say. Here's a human creature that needs -help, and it seems to be my place to help her." - -"It's a nice occupation for the daughter of Judge Privet to be nursing a -disreputable thing like a Brownrig." - -"A Privet," I answered, "is likely to be able to stand it. You wouldn't -let the girl die alone, would you?" - -"She wasn't alone. Mrs. Bagley was here." - -"You wouldn't let her die with Mrs. Bagley, then?" - -Mrs. Webbe looked me straight in the eye for a moment, with a look as -hard as polished steel. - -"Yes," she said, "I would." - -I could only stare at her in silence. - -"There," she went on, "make the best of that. I'm not going to be -mealy-mouthed. I would let her die, and be glad of it. Why should I want -her alive? Do you think I've no human feelings? Do you think I'd ever -forgive her for dragging Tom into the mud? I've been on my knees half -the night praying she and her brat might both die and leave us in peace! -If there's any justice in heaven, a man like Deacon Webbe won't be -loaded down with the disgrace of a grandchild like that." - -There was a sort of fascination in her growing wildness. Everybody knows -how she sneers at the meekness of her husband, and that she is -continually saying he hasn't any force, but here she was catching at his -goodness as a sort of bribe to Heaven to let her have the life of mother -and child. I could not answer her, but could only be thankful no houses -were near. Mrs. Bagley would hear, I supposed, but that could not be -helped. - -"What do you know about how I feel?" she demanded, swooping down upon me -so that I involuntarily shrank back against the fence. "It is all very -pretty for you to have ideas of charity, and play at taking care of the -sick. I dare say you mean well enough, Miss Privet, but this isn't a -case for you. Go home, and let Providence take care of that girl. -God'll look after her!" - -I stood up straight, and faced her in my turn. - -"Stop!" I cried. "I'm not a believer in half the things you are, but I -do have some respect for the name of God. If you mean to kill this girl, -don't try to lay the blame on Providence!" - -She shrank as if I had struck her; then she rallied again with a sneer. - -"I think I know better than an atheist what it is right to say about my -own religion," was her retort. - -Somehow the words appealed to my sense of humor, and unconsciously I -smiled. - -"Well," I said, "we will not dispute about words. Only I think you had -better go now." - -Perhaps my slight smile vexed her; perhaps it was only that she saw I -was off my guard. She turned quickly, and before I had any notion of -what she intended, she had run swiftly up the path to the house. I -followed instantly. The idea of having a personal encounter with Mrs. -Webbe was shocking, but I could not let her go to trouble Julia without -making an effort to stop her. I thought I might reach the door first, -but she was too quick for me. Before I could prevent her, she had -crossed the kitchen and opened the door of the sick-room. I followed, -and we came almost together into the room, although she was a few steps -in advance. She went hastily to the bed. Julia had been awakened by the -noise, and stared at Mrs. Webbe in a fright. - -"Oh, here you are, are you?" Mrs. Webbe began. "How did you dare to say -that my son was the father of your brat? I'd like to have you whipped, -you nasty slut!" - -"Mrs. Webbe," I said resolutely, "if you do not leave the house -instantly, I will have you arrested before the sun goes down." - -She was diverted from her attack upon Julia, and wheeled round to me. - -"Arrested!" she echoed. "You can't do it." - -"I can do it, and you know me well enough to know that if I say it, I -mean it. I'm not a lawyer's daughter for nothing. Go out of the house -this instant, and leave that sick girl alone. Do you want to kill her?" - -She blazed at me with eyes that might have put me to flight if I had had -only myself to defend. - -"Do you think I want her to live? I told you once she ought to be out of -the way. Do you think you are doing a favor to Tom by keeping this -disreputable thing alive?" - -I took her by the wrist again. - -"You had better go," I said. "You heard what I said. I mean it." - -I confess that now I consider it all, the threat to have her arrested -seems rather silly, and I do not see how I could well have carried it -out. At the moment it appeared to me the simplest thing in the world, -and at least it effected my purpose to frighten Mrs. Webbe with the law. -She turned slowly toward the door, but as she went she looked over her -shoulder at Julia. - -"You are a nice thing to try to keep alive," she sneered. "The doctor -says you haven't a chance, and you'd better be making your peace with -God. I wouldn't have your heap of sins on my head for anything." - -I put my hand over her lips. - -"Mrs. Bagley," I said, "take her other arm." - -Mrs. Bagley, who had apparently been too confused to understand what -was going on, and had stood with her mouth wide open in blear-eyed -astonishment, did as I commanded, and we led Mrs. Webbe out of the room. -I motioned Mrs. Bagley back into the bedroom to look after Julia, and -shut the door behind her. Then I took Mrs. Webbe by the shoulders and -looked her in the face. - -"I had rather have that girl's sins on my head than yours," I said. "You -came here with murder in your heart, and you would be glad to kill her -outright, if you dared. If you have not murdered her as it is, you may -be thankful." - -I felt as if I was as much of a shrew as she, but something had to be -done. She looked as if she were as much astonished as impressed, but she -went. Only at the door she turned back to say,-- - -"I'll come again to see my grandchild." - -After that I hardly dared to leave the house, but I got Hannah to stand -guard while I was at home. She has a deep-seated dislike for Mrs. Webbe, -and I fear would greatly have enjoyed an encounter with her; but Mrs. -Webbe did not return. - -Now that I go over it all, I seem to have been engaged in a disreputable -squabble, but I do not see what else there was for me to do. Julia was -so terrified and excited that I had to send for Dr. Wentworth as soon as -I could find anybody to go. I set Mrs. Bagley to watch for a passer, and -she took her pipe and went placidly to sleep before the door. I had to -be with Julia, yet keep running out to spy for a messenger, and it was -an hour before I caught one. By the time the doctor got to us the girl -was in hysterics, declaring she did not want to die, she did not dare to -die, could not, would not die. All that day she was constantly starting -out of her sleep with a cry; and by the time night had come, I began to -feel that Mrs. Webbe would have her wish. - - -April 8. That night was a dreadful one to me. The nurse from Boston had -not come, and I could not leave the girl alone with Mrs. Bagley. Indeed -Marm Bagley seemed more and more inefficient. I think she took advantage -of the fact that she no longer felt any responsibility. The smell of -spirits and tobacco about her grew continually stronger, and I was kept -from sending her away altogether only by the fact that it did not seem -right for me to be alone with Julia. No house is near, and if anything -happened in the night I should have been without help. Julia was -evidently worse. The excitement of Mrs. Webbe's visit had told on her, -and whenever she went to sleep she began to cry out in a way that was -most painful. - -About the middle of the night, that dreadfully forlorn time when the day -that is past has utterly died out and nothing shows the hope of another -to come, Julia woke moaning and crying. She started up in bed, her eyes -really terrible to see, her cheeks crimson with fever, and her black -hair tangled all about her face. - -"Oh, I am dying!" she shrieked. - -For the instant I thought that she was right, and it was dreadful to -hear her. - -"I shall die and go to hell!" she cried. "Oh, pray! Pray!" - -I caught at my scattered wits and tried to soothe her. She clung to me -as if she were in the greatest physical terror. - -"I am dying!" she kept repeating. "Oh, can't you do something for me? -Can't you save me? Oh, I can't die! I can't die!" - -She was so wild that her screams awakened Mrs. Bagley, who came running -in half dressed, as she had lain down for the night. - -"Lawk-a-marcy, child," she said, coming up to the bed, "if you was dying -do you think you'd have strength to holler like that?" - -The rough question had more effect than my efforts to calm the girl. She -sank back on the pillow, sobbing, and staring at Mrs. Bagley. - -"I ain't got no strength," she insisted. "I know I'm goin' to die right -away." - -"Nonsense, Jule," was Mrs. Bagley's response. "I know when folks is -dyin', I guess. I've seen enough of 'um. You're all right if you'll stop -actin' like a blame fool." - -I see now that this was exactly the way in which the girl needed to be -talked to. It was her own language, and she understood it. At the time -it seemed to me brutal, and I interposed. - -"There, Mrs. Bagley," I said as soothingly as I could, "you are rather -hard on Julia. She is too sick to be talked to so." - -Marm Bagley sniffed contemptuously, and after looking at us a moment, -apparently decided that the emergency was not of enough importance to -keep her from her rest, so she returned to her interrupted slumbers. I -comforted my patient as well as I could, and fortunately she was not -again violent. Still she moaned and cried, and kept urging me to pray -for her. - -"Pray for me! Pray for me!" she kept repeating. "Oh, can't you pray and -keep me from hell, Miss Ruth?" - -There was but one thing to be done. If prayer was the thing which would -comfort her, evidently I ought to pray with her. - -"I will pray if you will be quiet," I said. "I cannot if you go on like -this." - -"I'll be still, I'll be still," she cried eagerly. "Only pray quick!" - -I kneeled down by the bed and repeated the Lord's Prayer as slowly and -as impressively as I could. The girl, who seemed to regard it as a sort -of spell against invisible terrors, clutched my hand with a desperate -grasp, but as I went on the pressure of her hot fingers relaxed. Before -I had finished she had fallen asleep as abruptly as she had awakened. - -I sat watching her, thinking what a strange thing is this belief in -prayer. The words I had said are beautiful, but I do not suppose this -made an impression on Julia. To her the prayer was a fetich, a spell to -ward her soul from the dark terrors of Satan, a charm against the powers -of the air. I wondered if I should be happier if I could share this -belief in the power of men to move the unseen by supplication, but I -reflected that this would imply the continual discomfort of believing in -invisible beings who would do me harm unless properly placated, and I -was glad to be as I am. The faith of some Christians is so noble, so -sweet, so tender, that it is not always easy to realize how narrowing -are the conditions of mind which make it possible. When one sees the -crude superstition of a creature like Julia, it is not difficult to be -glad to be above a feeling so ignorant and degrading; when I see the -beautiful tenderness of religion in its best aspect I am glad it can be -so fine and so comforting, but I am glad I am not limited in that way. - -My prayer with Julia had one unexpected result. While I was at home in -the morning Mr. Thurston came to see her. The visit was most kind, and I -think it did her good. - -"He did some real praying," Mrs. Bagley explained to me afterward. -"Course Jule'd rather have that." - -My efforts in the devotional line had more effect, so far as I could -judge, upon Mr. Thurston than upon Julia. I met him when I was going -back to the house, and he stopped me with an expression of gladness and -triumph in his face. - -"My dear Miss Privet," he said, "I am so glad that at last you have come -to realize the efficacy of prayer." - -I was so astonished at the remark that for the moment I did not realize -what he meant. - -"I don't understand," I said, stupidly enough. - -My look perhaps confused him a little, and his face lost something of -its brightness. - -"That poor girl told me of your praying with her last night, when she -thought she was dying." - -"Yes," I repeated, before I realized what I was saying, "she thought she -was dying." - -Then I reflected that it was useless to hurt his feelings, and I did not -explain. I could not wound him by saying that if Julia had wanted me to -repeat a gypsy charm and I had known one I should have done it in the -same spirit. I wanted to make the poor demented thing comfortable, and -if a prayer could soothe her there was no reason why I should not say -one. People think because I do not believe in it I have a prejudice -against prayer; but really I think there is something touching and noble -in the attitude of a mind that can in sincerity and in faith give itself -up to an ideal, as one must in praying. It seems to me a pathetic -mistake, but I can appreciate the good side of it; only to suppose that -I believe because I said a prayer to please a frightened sick girl is -absurd. - -It is well that we are not read by others, for our thoughts would often -be too disconcerting. Poor Mr. Thurston would have been dreadfully -horrified if he had realized I was thinking as we stood there how like -my saying this prayer for Julia was to my ministering to Rosa's -chilblains. She believes that crosses cut out of a leaf of the Bible and -stuck on her feet take away the soreness, but she regards it as wicked -to cut up a Bible. I have an old one that I keep for the purpose, and -she comes to me every winter for a supply. We began at the end, and are -going backwards. Revelation is about used up now. She evidently thinks -that as I am a heretic anyway, the extra condemnation which must come -from my act will make no especial difference, and I am entirely willing -to run the risk. Still, it is better Mr. Thurston did not read my -thought. - -"I wish you might be brought into the fold," the clergyman said after a -moment of silence. - -I could only thank him, and go on my way. - - -April 10. Yesterday the new nurse, Miss Dyer, arrived, and great is the -comfort of having her here. She is a plain, simple body, in her neat -uniform, rather colorless except for her snapping black eyes. Her eyes -are interestingly at variance with the calmness of her demeanor, and -give one the impression that there is a volcano somewhere within. She -interests me much,--largely, I fancy, from the suggestion about her of -having had a history. She is swift and yet silent in her motions, and -understands what she has to do so well that I felt like an awkward -novice beside her. She disposed of Mrs. Bagley with a turn of the hand, -as it were, somehow managing that the frowzy old woman was out of the -house within an hour, with her belongings, pipe and all, yet without any -fuss or any contention. Mrs. Bagley had the appearance of being too -dazed to be angry, although I fancy when she has had time to think -matters over she will be indignantly wrathful at having been so -summarily expelled. - -"I pity you more for having that sort of a woman in the house than for -having to take care of the patient, Miss Privet," Miss Dyer said. "I -don't see what the Lord permits such folks in the world for, without it -is to sharpen up our Christian charity." - -"She would sharpen mine into vinegar, I'm afraid," I answered, laughing. -"I confess it has been about all I could do to stay in the house with -her." - -To-night I can sleep peacefully in my own bed, secure that Julia is well -taken care of. The girl seems to me to be worse instead of better, and -Dr. Wentworth does not give much encouragement. I suppose it is better -for her to die, but it is cruel that she wants so to live. She is -horribly afraid of death, and she wants so much to live that it is -pitiful to reflect it is possible she may not. What is there she can -hope for? She does not seem to care for the child. This is because she -is so ill, I think, for anybody must be touched by the helplessness of -the little blinking, pink thing. It is like a little mouse I saw in my -childhood, and which made a great impression on me. That was naked of -hair, just so wrinkled, so pink, so blinking. It was not in the least -pretty, any more than the baby is; but somehow it touched all the -tenderness there was in me, and I cried for days because Hannah gave it -to the cat. I feel much in the same way about this baby. I have not the -least feeling toward it as a human being, I am afraid. To me it is just -embodied babyhood, just a little pink, helpless, palpitating bunch of -pitifulness. - - -April 11. Miss Dyer came just in time. I could not have gone through -to-night without her, I think. I could not have stayed quiet by Julia's -beside, although I am as far as possible from being able to sleep. - -To-night, just as the evening was falling, and I was almost ready to -come home, I heard a knock at the door. Miss Dyer was in the room with -Julia, so I answered the knock myself. I opened the door to find myself -face to face with Tom Webbe. - -The shock of seeing his white face staring at me out of the dusk was so -great that I had to steady myself against the door-post. He did not put -out his hand, but greeted me only by taking off his hat. - -"Father said you were here," he began, in a strained voice. - -"Yes," I answered, feeling my throat contract; "I am here now, but I am -going home soon." - -I was so moved and so confused that I could not think. I had longed for -him to come; I could not have borne that he should have been so base as -not to come; and yet now that he was here I would have given anything to -have him away. He had to come; he had to bear his part of the -consequences of wrong, but it was horrible to me for him to be so near -that dreadful girl, and it was worse because I pitied her, because she -was so helpless, so pathetic, so near even to death. - -We stood in the dusk for what seemed to me a long time without further -speech. Tom must have found it hard to know what to say at such a time. -He looked at me with a sort of wild desperation. Then he cleared his -throat, and moistened his lips. - -"I have come," he said. "What do you want me to do?" - -I could not bear to have him seem to put the responsibility on me. - -"I did not send for you," I answered quickly. - -He gave me the wan ghost of a smile. - -"Do you suppose that I should have come of myself?" he returned. "What -shall I do?" - -I would not take the burden. The decision must be his. - -"You must do what you think right," I said. Then I added, with a queer -feeling as if I were thinking aloud, "What you think right to her and -to--to the baby." - -His face darkened, and I was glad that I had not said "your baby." I -understood it was natural for him to look angry at the thought of the -child, the unwelcome and unwitting betrayer of what he would have kept -hidden; and yet somehow I resented his look. - -"The baby is not to blame, Tom," I said. "It has every right to blame -you." - -"To blame me?" he repeated. - -"If it has to bear a shame all its life, whose fault is it, its own or -yours? If it has been born to a life like that of its mother, it -certainly has no occasion to thank you." - -He turned his flushed and shamed face away from me, and looked out into -the darkening sky. I could see how he was holding himself in check, and -that it was hard for him. I hated to be there, to be seeing him, to be -talking over a matter that it was intolerable even to think about; but -since I was there, I wanted to help him,--only I did not know how. I -wanted to give him my hand, but I somehow shrank from touching his. I -felt as if it was wicked and cruel to hold back, but between us came -continually the consciousness of Julia and that little red baby sleeping -in the clothes-basket. I am humiliated now to think of it, but the truth -is that I was a brute to Tom. - -Suddenly Tom turned for a moment toward the west, so that the little -lingering light of the dying day fell on his face, and I saw by his set -lips and the look in his eyes that he had come to some determination. -Then he faced me slowly. - -"Ruth," he said, "I would go down into hell for you, and I'm going to do -something that is worse. What's past, it's no use to make excuses for, -and you're too good to understand if I told you how I got into this foul -mess. Now"-- - -He stopped, with a catch in his voice, and I wanted more than I can tell -to say something to help him, but no words came. I could not think; I -wanted to comfort him as I comfort Kathie when she is desperate. The -evident difficulty he had in keeping his self-control moved me more than -anything he could have said. - -"I'll marry the girl," he burst out in a moment. "You are right about -the baby. It's no matter about Jule. She isn't of any account anyway, -and she never expected me to marry her. I'll never see her after -she's--after I've done it. It makes me sick to think of her, but I'll do -what I can for the baby." He stopped, and caught his breath. I could -feel in the dusk, rather than see, that he looked up, as if he were -trying to read my face in the darkness. "I will marry her," he went on, -"on one condition." - -"What is that?" I asked, with my throat so dry that it ached. - -"That you will take the child." - -I think now that we must both have spoken like puppets talking by -machinery. I hardly seemed to myself to be alive and real, but this -proposition awoke me like a blow. I could at first only gasp, too much -overcome to bring out a word. - -"But its mother?" I managed to stammer at last. - -"If I'm to marry her for the sake of the child," he answered in a voice -I hardly recognized, "it would be perfect tomfoolery to leave it to grow -up with the Brownrigs. If that's to be the plan, I'll save myself. Jule -doesn't mind not being married. You don't know what a tribe the -Brownrigs are. It's an insult for me to be talking to you about them, -only it can't be helped. Is it a boy or a girl?" - -I told him. - -"And you think a girl ought to be left to follow the noble example of -the mother!" - -"Oh no, no!" I cried out. "Anything is better than that." - -"That is what must happen unless you take the poor thing," he said in a -voice which, though it was hard, seemed somehow to have a quiver in it. - -"But would she give the baby up?" I asked. "She's its mother." - -"Jule? She'll be only too glad to get rid of it. Anyway she'd do what I -told her to." - -I tried to think clearly and quickly. To have the baby left to follow in -the steps of its mother was a thing too terrible to be endured, and yet -I shrank selfishly from taking upon my shoulders the responsibility of -training the child. Whatever Tom decided about the marriage, however, I -felt that he should not have to resolve under pressure. If he were doing -it for the sake of the baby's future, I could clear his way of that -complication. I could not bear the thought of having Tom marry Julia. -This would be a bond on his whole life; and yet I could not feel that he -had a right to shirk it now. If I agreed to take the child, that would -leave him free to decide without being pushed on by fear about the baby. -My mind seemed to me wonderfully clear. I see now it was all in a whirl, -and that the only thing I was sure of was that if it would help him for -me to take the baby there was nothing else for me to do. - -"Tom," I said, "I do not, and I will not, decide for you; and I will not -have anything to do with conditions. If she will give me the baby, I -will take it, and you may decide the rest without any reference to that -at all." - -He took a step forward so quickly and so fiercely that he startled me, -and put out his hand as if he meant to take me by the arm. Then he -dropped it. - -"Do you think," he said, "that I would have an illegitimate brat near -you? It is bad enough as it is, but you shall not have the reproach of -that." - -My cheeks grew hot, but the whole talk was so strange and so painful -that I let this pass with the rest. I cannot tell how I felt, but I know -the remembrance of it makes my eyes swim so that I cannot write without -stopping continually; and I am writing here half the night because I -cannot sleep. I could not answer Tom; I only stood dully silent until he -spoke again. - -"I know I can't have you, Ruth," he said, "and I know you were right. -I'm not good enough for you." - -"I never said that," I interrupted. "I never thought that." - -"Never mind. It's true; but I'd have been a man if you'd have given me a -chance." - -"Oh, Tom," I broke in, "don't! It is not fair to make me responsible!" - -"No," he acknowledged, with the shake of his shoulders I have known ever -since we were children; "you are not to blame. It's only my infernal, -sneaking self!" - -I could not bear this, either. Everything that was said hurt me; and it -seemed to me that I had borne all that I could endure. - -"Will you go away now, Tom," I begged him. "I--I can't talk any more -to-night. Shall I tell Julia you have come?" - -He gave a start at the name, and swore under his breath. - -"It is damnable for you to be here with that girl," he burst out -bitterly; "and I brought it on you! It isn't your place, though. Where -are all the Christians and church members? I suppose all the pious are -too good to come. They might get their righteousness smudged. Oh, how I -hate hypocrisy!" - -"Don't, Tom," I interrupted. "Go away, please." - -My voice was shaky; and indeed I was fast getting to the place where I -should have broken down in hysterical weeping. - -"I'll go," he responded quickly. "I'll come in the morning with a -minister. Will eight o'clock do? I'd like to get it over with." - -The bitterness of his tone was too much for me. I caught one of his -hands in both of mine. - -"Oh, Tom," I said, "are you quite sure this is what you ought to do?" - -"Do you tell me not to marry her?" he demanded fiercely. - -I was completely unnerved; I could only drop his hand and press my own -on my bosom, as if this would help me to breathe easier. - -"Oh no, no," I cried, half sobbing. "I can't, I can't. I haven't the -right to say anything; but I do think it is the thing you ought to do. -Only you are so noble to do it!" - -He made a sound as if he would answer, and then he turned away suddenly, -and dashed off with great strides. I could not go back into the house, -but came home without saying good-night, or letting Miss Dyer know. I -must be ready to go back as soon as it is light. - - -April 12. It seems so far back to this morning that I might have had -time to change into a different person; and yet most of the day I have -simply been longing to get home and think quietly. I wanted to adjust -myself to the new condition of things. Last night the idea that Tom -should marry the girl was so strange and unreal that it could make very -little impression on me. Now it is done it is more appallingly real than -anything else in the world. - -I went down to the red house almost before light, but even as early as I -came I found Tom already there. The nurse had objected to letting him -in, and even when I came she was evidently uncertain whether she had -done right in admitting him; but Tom has generally a way of getting what -he is determined on, and before I reached the house everything had been -arranged with Julia. - -"I wanted to come before folks were about to see me," Tom said to me. -"There'll be talk enough later, and I'd rather be out of the way. I've -arranged it with her." - -"Does she understand"--I began; but he interrupted. - -"She understands all there is to understand; all that she could -understand, anyway. She knows I'm marrying her for the sake of the -child, and that you're to have it." - -The Munson boy that I have hired to sleep in the house now Mrs. Bagley -is gone, in order that Miss Dyer may have somebody within call, appeared -at this minute with a pail of water, and we were interrupted. The boy -stared with all his eyes, and I was half tempted to ask him not to speak -of Tom's being here; but I reflected with a sick feeling that it was of -no use to try to hide what was to be done. If Tom's act was to have any -significance it must be known. I turned away with tears in my eyes, and -went to Julia. - -Julia I found with her eyes shining with excitement, and I could see -that despite Tom's idea that she did not care about the marriage, she -was greatly moved by it. - -"Oh, Miss Privet," she cried out at once, "ain't he good! He's truly -goin' to marry me after all! I never 'sposed he'd do that." - -"You must have thought"--I began; and then, with a sinking consciousness -of the difference between her world and mine, I stopped. - -"And he says you want the baby," she went on, not noticing; "though I -dunno what you want of it. It'll be a pesky bother for yer." - -"Mr. Webbe wanted me to take it and bring it up." - -"Well," Julia remarked with feeble dispassionateness, "I wouldn't 'f I -was you." - -"Are you willing I should have it?" I asked. - -"Oh, I'm willing anything he wants," was her answer. "He's awful good to -marry me. He never said he would. He's real white, he is." - -She was quiet a moment, and then she broke out in a burst of joy. - -"I never 'sposed I'd marry a real gentleman!" she cried. - -Her shallow delight in marrying above her station was too pathetic to be -offensive. I was somehow so moved by it that I turned away to hide my -face from her; but she caught my hand and drew me back. Then she peered -at me closely. - -"You don't like it," she said excitedly. "You won't try to stop him?" - -"No," I answered. "I think he ought to do it for the sake of his child." - -She dropped her hold, and a curious look came into her face. - -"That's what he said. Yer don't either of yer seem to count me for -much." - -I was silent, convicted to the soul that I had not counted her for -much. I had accepted Tom's decision as right, not for the sake of this -broken girl-mother, this castaway doomed to shame from her cradle, but -for the sake purely of the baby that I was to take. It came over me how -I might have been influenced too much by the selfish thought that it -would be intolerable for me to have the child unless it had been as far -as might be legitimatized by this marriage. I flushed with shame, and -without knowing exactly what I was doing I bent over and kissed her. - -"It is you he marries," I said. - -Her tears sprang instantly, tears, I believe, of pure happiness. - -"You're real good," she murmured, and then closed her eyes, whether from -weakness or to conceal her emotion I could not be sure. - -It was nearly eight before Mr. Thurston came. Tom has never been on good -terms with Mr. Saychase, and it must have been easier for him to have a -clergyman with whom he had never, I suppose, exchanged a word, than one -who knew him and his people. I took the precaution to say at once to Mr. -Thurston that Julia was too ill to bear much, and that he must not say a -word more than was necessary. - -"I will only offer prayer," he returned. - -I know Mr. Thurston's prayers. I have heard them at funerals when I have -been wickedly tempted to wonder whether he were not attempting to fill -the interval between us and the return of the lost at the Resurrection. - -"I am afraid it will not do," I told him. "You do not realize how feeble -she is." - -"Then I will only give them the blessing. Perhaps I might talk with Mr. -Webbe afterward, or pray with him." - -I knew that if this proposition were made to Tom he would say something -which would wound the clergyman's feelings. - -"Mr. Thurston," I urged, "if you'll pardon me, I wouldn't try to say -anything to him just now. He is doing a plucky thing, and a thing that's -noble, but it must be terribly hard. I don't think he could endure to -have anybody talk to him. He'll have to be left to fight it out for -himself." - -It was not easy to convince Mr. Thurston, for when once a narrow man -gets an idea of duty he can see nothing else; but I managed in the end -to save Tom at least the irritation of having to fight off religious -appeals. The ceremony was as brief as possible. It was touching to see -how humble and yet how proud Julia was. She seemed to feel that Tom was -a sort of god in his goodness in marrying her,--and after all perhaps -she was partly right. His coldness only made her deprecatory. I wondered -how far she was conscious of his evident shrinking from her. He seemed -to hate even to touch her fingers. I cannot understand-- - - -April 15. I have had many things to do in the last two days, and I find -myself so tired with the stress of it all that I have not felt like -writing. It is perhaps as much from a sort of feverish uneasiness as -from anything else I have got out my diary to-night. The truth is, that -I suffer from the almost intolerable suspense of waiting for Julia to -die. Dr. Wentworth and Miss Dyer both are sure there is no chance -whatever of her getting well, and I cannot think that it would be -better for her, or for Tom, or for her baby--who is to be my baby!--if -she should live. We are all a little afraid to say, or even to think, -that it is better for a life of this sort to end, and I seem to myself -inhuman in putting it down in plain words; but we cannot be rational -without knowing that it is better certain persons should be out of the -way, for their own sakes as well as for the good of the community, and -the more quickly the better. Julia is a weed, poor thing, and the sooner -she is pulled up the better for the garden. And yet I pity her so! I can -understand religion easily when I think of lives like hers. It is so -hard to see the justice of having the weed destroyed for the good of the -flowers that men have to invent excuses for the Eternal. Somebody has -defined theology as man's justification of a deity found wanting by -human standards, and now I realize what this means. Human mercy could -not bear to make a Julia, and a power which allows the possibility of -such beings has to be excused to human reason. The gods that men invent -always turn to Frankensteins on their hands. If there is a conscious -power that directs, He must pity the gropings of our race, although I -suppose seeing what it is all for and what it all leads to must make it -possible to bear the sight of human weakness. - -The baby is growing wonderfully attractive now she is so well fed and -attended to. I am ashamed to think how little the poor wee morsel -attracted me at first. She was so associated with dreadful thoughts, and -with things which I hated to know and did not wish to remember, that I -shrank from her. Perhaps now the fact that she is to be mine inclines me -to look at her with different eyes, but she is really a dear little -thing, pretty and sweet. Oh, I will try hard to make her life lovely! - - -April 16. Aunt Naomi came in last night almost as soon as I was at home. -She should not have been out in the night air, I think, for her cold is -really severe, and has kept her shut up in the house for a fortnight. -She was so eager for news, however, that she could not rest until she -had seen me, and I am away all day. - -"Well," was her greeting, "I am glad to see you at home once more. I've -begun to feel as if you lived down in that little red house." - -I said I had pretty nearly lived there for the last two weeks, but that -since Miss Dyer came I had been able to get home at night most of the -time. - -"How do you like going out nursing?" she asked, thrusting her tongue -into her cheek in that queer way she has. - -I told her I certainly shouldn't think of choosing it as a profession, -at least unless I could go to cleaner places. - -"I hear you had Hannah clean up," she remarked with a chuckle. - -"How did you hear that?" I asked her. "I thought you had been housed -with a cold." - -Aunt Naomi's smile was broad, and she swung her foot joyously. - -"I've had all my faculties," she answered. - -"So I should think. You must keep a troop of paid spies." - -"I don't need spies. I just keep my eyes and ears open." - -I wondered in my heart whether she had heard of the marriage, and as if -she read the question in my mind, she answered it. - -"I thought I'd like to know one thing, though," she observed with the -air of one who candidly concedes that he is not infallible. "I'd like to -know how the new Mrs. Webbe takes his marrying her." - -"Aunt Naomi," I burst out in astonishment, "you are a witch, and ought -to be looked after by the witch-finders." - -Aunt Naomi laughed, and her eyes twinkled at the agreeable compliment I -paid to her cleverness. Then she suddenly became grave. - -"I am not sure, Ruth," she said, "that I should be willing to have your -responsibility in making him marry such a girl." - -I disclaimed the responsibility entirely, and declared I had not even -suggested the marriage. I told her he had done it for the sake of the -child, and that the proposition was his, and his only. - -She sniffed contemptuously, with an air which seemed to cast doubts on -my sanity. - -"Very likely he did, and I don't suppose you did suggest it in words; -but it's your doing all the same." - -"I will not have the responsibility put on me," I protested. "It isn't -for me to determine what Tom Webbe shall do." - -"You can't help it," was her uncompromising answer. "You can make him do -anything you want to." - -"Then I wish I were wise enough to know what he ought to do," I could -not help crying out. "Oh, Aunt Naomi, I do so want to help him!" - -She looked at me with her keen old eyes, to which age has only imparted -more sharpness. I should hate to be a criminal brought before her as my -judge; her eyes would bring out my guilty secret from the cunningest -hiding-place in my soul, and she would sentence me with the utmost rigor -of the law. After the sentence had been executed, though, she would come -with sharp tongue and gentle hands, and bind up my wounds. Now she did -not answer my remark directly, but went on to question me about the -Brownrig girl and the details of her illness; only when she went away -she stopped to turn at the door and say,-- - -"The best thing you can do for Tom Webbe is to believe in him. He isn't -worth your pity, but your caring what happens to him will do him more -good than anything else." - -I have been wondering ever since she went how much truth there is in -what she said. Tom cannot care so much for me as that, although placed -as he is the faith of any woman ought to help him. I know, of course, he -is fond of me, and that he was always desperate over my engagement; but -I cannot believe the motive power of his life is so closely connected -with my opinions as Aunt Naomi seems to think. If it were he would never -have been involved at all in this dreadful business. But I do so pity -him, and I so wish I might really help him! - - -April 18. Julia is very low. I have been sitting alone with her this -afternoon, almost seeing life fade away from her. Only once was she at -all like her old self. I had given her some wine, and she lay for a -moment with her great black eyes gleaming out from the hollows into -which they have sunk. She seemed to have something on her mind, and at -last she put it feebly into words. - -"Don't tell her any bad of me," she said. - -For an instant I did not understand, and I suppose that my face showed -this. She half turned her heavy head on her pillow, so that her glance -might go toward the place where the baby slept in the broken -clothes-basket. The sadness of it came over me so suddenly and so -strongly that tears blinded me. It was the most womanly touch that I -have ever known in Julia; and for the moment I was so moved that I could -not speak. I leaned over and kissed her, and promised that from me her -child should never know harm of its mother. - -"She'd be more likely to go to the devil if she knew," Julia explained -gaspingly. "Now she'll have some sort of a chance." - -The words were coarse, but as they were said they were so pathetic that -they pierced me. Poor little baby, born to a tainted heritage! I must -save her clean little soul somehow. Poor Julia, she certainly never had -any sort of a chance. - - -April 24. She is in her grave at last, poor girl, and it is sad to think -that nobody alive regrets her. Tom cannot, and even her dreadful mother -showed no sorrow to-day. Somehow the vulgarity of the mother and her -behavior took away half the sadness of the tragedy. When I think about -it the very coarseness of it all makes the situation more pathetic, but -this is an afterthought that can be felt only when I have beaten down my -disgust. When one considers how Julia grew up with this woman, and how -she had no way of learning the decencies of life except from a mother -who had no conception of them, it makes the heart ache; and yet when -Mrs. Brownrig broke in upon us at the graveyard this morning, disgust -was the strongest feeling of which I was conscious. The violation of -conventionalities always shocks a woman, I suppose, and when it comes to -anything so solemn as services over the dead, the lack of decency is -shocking and exasperating together, with a little suggestion besides of -sacrilege. - -Miss Charlotte surprised me by coming over just after breakfast to go to -the funeral with me. - -"I don't like to have you go alone," she said, "and I knew you would -go." - -I asked her in some surprise how in the world she knew when the funeral -was to be, for we thought that we had kept it entirely quiet. - -"Aunt Naomi told me last night," she answered. "I suppose she heard it -from some familiar spirit or other,--a black cat, or a toad, or -something of the kind." - -I could only say that I was completely puzzled to see how Aunt Naomi had -discovered the hour in any other way, and I thanked Miss Charlotte for -coming, though I told the dear she should not have taken so much -trouble. - -"I wanted to do it, my dear," she returned cheerfully. "I am getting to -be an old thing, and I find funerals rather lively and amusing. Don't -you remember Maria Harmon used to say that to a pious soul a funeral was -a heavenly picnic?" - -Whatever a "heavenly picnic" may be, the funeral this morning was one of -the most ghastly things imaginable. Tom and Mr. Thurston were in one -carriage and Miss Charlotte and I in another. We went to the graveyard -at the Rim, where Julia's father and brother were buried, a place half -overgrown with wild-rose and alder bushes. In summer it must be a -picturesque tangle of wild shrubs and blossoms, but now it is only -chill, and barren, and neglected. The spring has reddened and yellowed -the tips of the twigs, but not enough to make the bushes look really -alive yet. The heap of clay by the grave, too, was of a hideous ochre -tint, and horribly sodden and oozy. - -Just as the coffin was being lowered a wild figure suddenly appeared -from somewhere behind the thickets of alders and low spruces which skirt -the fence on one side. It proved to be old Mrs. Brownrig, who with rags -and tags, and even her disheveled gray hair fluttering as she moved, -half ran down the path toward us. She must have been hiding in the woods -waiting, and I found afterward that she had been seen lurking about -yesterday, though for some reason she had not been to her house. Now she -had evidently been drinking, and she was a dreadful thing to look at. - -I wonder why it is that nature, which makes almost any other ruin -picturesque, never succeeds in making the wreck of humanity anything but -hideous? An old tower, an old tree, even an old house, has somehow a -quality that is prepossessing; but an old man is apt to look -unattractive, and an old woman who has given up taking care of herself -is repulsive. Perhaps we cannot see humanity with the impartial eyes -with which we regard nature, but I do not think this is the whole of it. -Somehow and for some reason an inanimate ruin is generally attractive, -while a human ruin is ugly. - -Mrs. Brownrig seemed to me an incarnation of the repulsive. She made me -shudder with some sort of a feeling that she was wicked through and -through. Even the pity she made me feel could not prevent my sense that -she was vicious. I wanted to wash my hands just for having seen her. I -was ashamed to be so uncharitable, and of course it was because she was -so hideous to look at; but I do not think I could have borne to have her -touch me. - -"Stop!" she called out. "I'm the mother of the corpse. Don't you dare to -bury her till I get there!" - -I glanced at Tom in spite of myself. He had been stern and pale all the -morning, not saying a word more than was necessary, but now the color -came into his face all at once. I could not bear to see him, and tried -to look at the mother, but repulsion and pity made me choke. She was -panting with haste and intoxication by the time she reached us, and -stumbled over something in the path. She caught at Tom's arm to save -herself, and there she hung, leering up into his face. - -"You didn't mean for me to come, did you?" she broke out, half -whimpering and half chuckling. "She was mine before she was yours. You -killed her, too." - -Tom kept himself still, though it must have been terribly hard. He must -have been in agony, and I could have sobbed to think how he suffered. He -grew white as I have never seen him, but he did not look at the old -woman. She was perhaps too distracted with drink and I hope with grief -to know what she was doing. She turned suddenly, and looked at the -coffin, which rested on the edge of the grave. - -"My handsome Jule!" she wailed. "Oh, my handsome Jule! They're all dead -now! What did you put on her? Did you make a shroud or put on a dress?" - -"She has a white shroud," I said quickly. "I saw to everything myself." - -She turned to me with a fawning air, and let go her clasp on Tom's arm. - -"I'm grateful, Miss Privet," she said. "We Brownrigs ain't much, but -we're grateful. I hope you won't let 'em bury my handsome gel till I've -seen her," she went on, with a manner pitifully wheedling. "She was my -gel before she was anybody else's, and it ain't goin' to hurt nobody for -me to see her. I'd like to see that shroud." - -How much natural grief, how much vanity, how much maudlin excitement was -in her wish, I cannot tell; but manifestly there was nothing to do but -to have the coffin opened. When the face of the dead woman had once more -been uncovered to the light, the dreadful mother hung over it raving and -chuckling. Now she shrieked for her handsome Jule, and wailed in a way -that pierced to the marrow; then she would fall to imbecile laughter -over the shroud, "just like a lady's,--but then Jule was a lady after -she was married." Miss Charlotte, Tom, and I stood apart, while Mr. -Thurston tried to get the excited creature away; and the grave-diggers -looked on with open curiosity. I could not help thinking how they would -tell the story, and of how Tom's name would be bandied about in -connection with it. Sometimes I feel as if it were harder to bear the -vulgarities of life than actual sorrows. Father used to say that pain is -personal, but vulgarity a violation of general principles. This is one -of his sayings which I do not feel that I understand entirely, and yet I -have some sense of what he meant. A thing which is vulgar seems to fly -in the face of all that should be, and outrages our sense of the fitness -of things. - -Well, somehow we got through it all. It is over, and Julia is in her -grave. I cannot but think that it is better if she does not remember; if -she has gone out like an ill-burning candle. Nothing is left now but to -consider what can be done for the lives that we can reach. I am afraid -that the mother is beyond me, but for Tom I can, perhaps, do something. -For baby I should do much. - - -April 25. It is so strange to have a child in the house. I feel queer -and disconcerted when I think of it, although things seem to go easily -enough. The responsibility of taking charge of a helpless life -overwhelms me, and I do not dare to let my thoughts go when they begin -to picture possibilities in the future. I wonder that I ever dared to -undertake to have baby; and yet her surroundings will be so much better -here than with the dreadful Brownrig grandmother that she must surely be -better for them. In any case I had to help Tom. - -I proposed a permanent nurse for baby, but Hannah and Rosa took up arms -at once, and all but upbraided me with having cast doubts on their -ability and faithfulness. Surely we three women among us should be able -to take care of one morsel, although none of us ever had babies of our -own. - - -April 29. Nothing could be more absurd than the way in which the entire -household now revolves about baby. All of us are completely slaves -already, although the way in which we show it is naturally different. -Rosa has surrendered frankly and without reservations. She sniffed and -pouted at the idea of having the child "of that Brownrig creature" in -the house. She did not venture to say this to me directly, of course; -but she relieved her mind by making remarks to Hannah when I could not -help hearing. From the moment baby came, however, Rosa succumbed without -a struggle. It is evident she is born with the full maternal instinct, -and I see if she does not marry her Dennis, or some more eligible lover, -and take herself away before baby is old enough to be much affected, the -child will be spoiled to an unlimited extent. As for Hannah, her method -of showing her affection is to exhibit the greatest solicitude for -baby's spiritual welfare, mingled with the keenest jealousy of Rosa's -claims on baby's love. I foresee that I shall have pretty hard work to -protect my little daughter from Hannah's well-meant but not very wise -theology; and how to do this without hurting the good old soul's -feelings may prove no easy problem. - -As for myself--of course I love the little, helpless, pink thing; the -waif from some outside unknown brought here into a world where -everything is made so hard to her from the start. She woke this -afternoon, and looked up at me with Tom Webbe's eyes, lying there as -sweet and happy as possible, so that I had to kiss and cuddle her, and -love her all at once. It is wonderful how a baby comes out of the most -dreadful surroundings as a seedling comes out of the mud, so clean and -fresh. I said this to Aunt Naomi yesterday, and she sniffed cynically. - -"Yes," she answered, "but a weed grows into a weed, no matter how it -looks when it is little." - -The thought is dreadful to me. I will not believe that because a human -being is born out of weakness and wickedness there is no chance for it. -The difference, it seems to me, is that every human being has at least -the germs of good as well as of bad, and one may be developed as well as -the other. Baby must have much that is good and fine from her father, -and the thing I have to do is to see to it that the best of her grows, -and the worse part dies for want of nourishment. Surely we can do a -great deal to aid nature. Perhaps my baby cannot help herself much, at -least not for years and years; but if she is kept in an atmosphere which -is completely wholesome, whatever is best in her nature must grow strong -and crowd down everything less noble. - - - - -V - -MAY - - -May 1. Baby is more bewitching every day. She is so wonderful and so -lovely that I am never tired of watching her. The miracle of a baby's -growth makes one stand speechless in delight and awe. When this little -morsel of life, hardly as many days in the world as I have been years, -coos and smiles, and stretches out those tiny rosebud fingers only big -enough for a fairy, I feel like going down on my knees to the mystery of -life. I do not wonder that people pray. I understand entirely the -impulse to cry out to something mighty, something higher than our own -strength, some sentient heart of nature somewhere; the desire to find, -by leaning on the invisible, a relief from the oppressiveness of the -emotions we all must feel when a sense of the greatness of life takes -hold on us. If it were but possible to believe in any of the many gods -that have been offered to us, how glad I should be. Father used to say -that every human being really makes a deity for himself, and that the -difference between believers and unbelievers is whether they can allow -the church to give a name to the god a man has himself created. I cannot -accept any name from authority, but the sense of some brooding power is -very strong in me when I see this being growing as if out of nothing in -my very hands. - -When I look at baby I have so great a consciousness of the life outside -of us, the life of the universe as a whole, that I am ready to agree -with any one who talks of God. The trouble is that one idea of deity -seems to me as true and also as inadequate as all the rest; so that in -the end I am left with only my overwhelming sense of the mightiness of -the mystery of existence and of the unity of all the life in the -universe. - - -May 2. To-day we named baby. I would not do it without consulting her -father, so I sent for Tom, and he came over just after breakfast. The -day has been warm, and the windows were open; a soft breath of wind came -in with a feeling of spring in it, and a faint hint of a summer coming -by and by. I was upstairs in the nursery when Tom came; for we have made -a genuine, full-fledged nursery of the south chamber, and installed Rosa -and the baby there. When they told me that he was here, I took baby, all -pink and sweet from her bath, and went down with her. - -Tom stood with his back to the parlor door, looking out of the window. -He did not hear me until I spoke, and said good-morning. Then he turned -quickly. At sight of baby he changed color, and forgot to answer my -greeting. He came across the room toward us, so that we met in the -middle of the floor. - -"Good God, Ruth!" he said. "To think of seeing you with her baby in your -arms!" - -The words hurt me for myself and for him. - -"Tom," I cried out excitedly, "I will not hear you say anything against -baby! It is neither hers nor yours now. It is mine, mine! You shall not -speak of her as if she were anything but the sweetest, purest thing in -the whole world!" - -He looked at me so intently and so feelingly while I snuggled the pink -ball up to me and kissed it, that it was rather disconcerting. To change -the subject, I went straight to the point. - -"Tom," I said, "I want to ask you about baby's name." - -"Oh, call it anything you like," he answered. - -"But you ought to name her," I told him. - -He was silent a moment; then he turned and walked away to the window -again. I thought that he might be considering the name, but when he came -back abruptly he said:-- - -"Ruth, I can't pretend with you. I haven't any love for that child. I -wish it weren't here to remind me of what I would give anything to have -forgotten. If I have any feeling for it, it is pity that the poor little -wretch had to be chucked into the world, and shame that I should have -any responsibility about it." - -I told him he would come to love her some time; that she was after all -his daughter, and so sweet he couldn't help being fond of her. - -"If I ever endure her," he said, almost doggedly, "it will be on your -account." - -"Nonsense, Tom," I retorted, as briskly as I could when I wanted to cry, -"you'll be fond of her because you can't help it. See, she has your -eyes, and her hair is going to be like yours." - -He laughed with a trace of his old buoyant spirit. - -"What idiocy!" was his reply. "Her eyes are any color you like, and she -has only about six hairs on her head anyway." - -I denied this indignantly, partly because it was not true, and partly, -I am afraid, with feminine guile, to divert him. We fell for a moment -almost into the oldtime boy-and-girl tone of long ago, and only baby in -my arms reminded us of what had come between. - -"Well," I said at last, "it is evident that you are not worthy to give -this nice little, dear little, superfine little girl a name; so I shall -do it myself. I shall call her Thomasine." - -"What an outlandish name!" - -"It is your own, so you needn't abuse it. Do you agree?" - -"I don't see how I can help myself, for you can call her anything you -like." - -"Of course I shall," I told him; "but I thought you should be -consulted." - -He shrugged his shoulders with a laugh. - -"Having made up your mind," he said, "you ask my advice." - -"I shouldn't think of consulting you till I had made up my mind," was my -retort. "Now I want you to give her her name." - -"Give it to her how?" - -"Her name is to be Thomasine," I repeated. - -"It is an absurd name," Tom commented. - -"That's as it may be," was all I would answer, "but that's what she's to -be called. You're to kiss her, and"-- - -He looked at me with a sudden flush. He had never, I am sure, so much as -touched his child with the tip of his finger, much less caressed her. -The proposition took him completely by surprise, and evidently -disconcerted him. I did not give him time to consider. I made my tone -and manner as light as I could, and hurried on. - -"You are to kiss her and say, 'I name you Thomasine.' I suppose that -really you ought to say 'thee,' but that seems rather theatrical for us -plain folk." - -He hesitated a second, and then he bent over baby in my arms. - -"I name you Thomasine," he said, and just brushed her forehead with his -lips. Then he looked at me solemnly. "You will keep her?" he said. - -"Yes," I promised. - -So baby is named, and Tom must have felt that she belongs really to him, -however he may shrink from her. - - -May 3. I have had a dreadful call from Mrs. Webbe. She came over in the -middle of the forenoon, and the moment I saw her determined expression I -felt sure something painful was to happen. - -"Good-morning," she said abruptly; "I have come after my son's infant." - -"What?" I responded, my wits scattering like chickens before a hawk. - -"I have come after my son's infant," she repeated. "We are obliged to -you for taking care of it; but I won't trouble you with it any longer." - -I told her I was to keep baby always. She looked at me with tightening -lips. - -"I don't want to have disagreeable words with you, Ruth," she said, "but -you must know we could never allow such a thing." - -I asked her why. - -"You must know," she said, "you are not fit to be trusted with an -immortal soul." - -I fear that I unmeaningly let the shadow of a smile show as I said,-- - -"But baby is so young"-- - -"This is no laughing matter," she interrupted with asperity, "even if -the child is young. I must do my duty to her from the very beginning. Of -course it will be a cross for me, but I hope I shall bear it like a -Christian." - -Something in her voice and manner exasperated me almost beyond -endurance. I could not help remembering the day Mrs. Webbe came to the -Brownrig house, and I am much afraid I was anything but conciliatory in -my tone when I answered. - -"Mrs. Webbe," I said to her, "if you cared for baby, and wanted to love -her, I might perhaps think of giving her up, though I am very fond of -her, dear little thing." - -Mrs. Webbe's keen black eyes snapped at me. - -"I dare say you look at it in that way," she retorted. "That's just it. -It's just the sort of worldliness that would ruin the child. It's come -into the world with sin and shame enough to bear, and you'd never help -it to grace to bear it." - -The words were not entirely clear, yet I had little doubt of their -meaning. The baby, however, was after all her own flesh and blood, and I -was secretly glad that to strengthen me in my resolve to keep Thomasine -I had my promise to the dead mother and to Tom. - -"But, Mrs. Webbe," I said as gently as I could, "don't you think the -fact that baby has no mother, and must bear that, will make her need -love more?" - -"She'll need bracing up," was the emphatic rejoinder, "and that's just -what she won't get here. I don't want her. It's a cross for me to look -at her, and realize we've got to own a brat with Brownrig blood in her. -I'm only trying to do my duty. Where's that baby going to get any -religious training from you, Ruth Privet?" - -I sat quiet a moment, thinking what I had better say. Mrs. Webbe was -entirely conscientious about it all. She did not, I was sure, want baby, -and she was sincere in saying that she was only trying to do her duty. -When I thought of Thomasine, however, as being made to serve as a living -and visible cross for the good of Mrs. Webbe's soul, I could not bear -it. Driven by that strong will over the thorny paths of her -grandmother's theology, poor baby would be more likely to be brought to -despair than to glory. It was of course right for Mrs. Webbe to wish to -take baby, but it could not be right for me to permit her to do so. If -my duty clashed with hers, I could not change on that account; but I -wished to be as conciliatory as possible. - -"Don't you think, Mrs. Webbe," I asked, trying to look as sunny as a -June day, "that baby is rather young to get harm from me or my heresies? -Couldn't the whole matter at least be left till she is old enough to -know the meaning of words?" - -She looked at me with more determination than ever. - -"Well, of course it's handsome of you to be willing to take care of -Tom's baby, and of course you won't mind the expense; but you made him -marry that girl, so it's only fair you should expect to take some of the -trouble that's come of what you did." - -"You don't mean," I burst out before I thought, "that you wouldn't have -had Tom marry her?" - -"It's no matter now, as long as she didn't live," Mrs. Webbe answered; -"though it isn't pleasant knowing that one of that Brownrig tribe -married into our family." - -I had nothing to say. It would have hurt my pride, of course, had one of -my kin made such a marriage, and I cannot help some secret feeling that -Julia had forfeited her right to be treated like an honest girl; but -there was baby to be considered. Besides this, the marriage was made, it -seems to me, by Tom's taking the girl, not by the service at her -deathbed. Mrs. Webbe and I sat for a time without words. I looked at the -carpet, and was conscious that Mrs. Webbe looked at me. She is not a -pleasant woman, and I have had times of wishing she might be carried off -by a whirlwind, so that Deacon Webbe and Tom might have a little peace; -but I believe in her way she tries to be a good one. The trouble is that -her way of being good seems to me to be a great deal more vicious than -most kinds of wickedness. She uses her religion like a tomahawk, and -whacks with it right and left. - -"Look here," she broke out at last, "I don't want to be unpleasant, but -it ain't a pleasant thing for me to come here anyway. I suppose you mean -to be kind, but you'd be soft with baby. That's just what she mustn't -have. She'd better be made to know from the very start what's before -her." - -"What is before her?" I asked. - -Mrs. Webbe flushed. - -"I don't know as there's any use of my telling you if you don't see it -yourself. She's got to fight her way through life against her -inheritance from that mother of hers, and--and her father." - -She choked a little, and I could not help laying my hand on hers, just -to show that I understood. She drew herself away, not unkindly, I -believe, but because she is too proud to endure pity. - -"She's got to be hardened," she went on, her tone itself hardening as -she spoke. "From her cradle she's got to be set to fight the sin that's -in her." - -I could not argue. I respected the sternness of her resolve to do her -duty, and I knew that she was sacrificing much. Every smallest sight of -the child would be an hourly, stinging humiliation to her pride, and -perhaps, too, to her love. In her fierce way she must love Tom, so that -his shame would hurt her terribly. Yet I could not give up my little -soft, pink baby to live in an atmosphere of disapproval and to be -disciplined in the rigors of a pitiless creed. That, I am sure, would -never save her. Tom Webbe is a sufficient answer to his mother's -argument, if she could only see it. If anything is to rescue Thomasine -from the disastrous consequences of an unhappy heritage, it must be just -pure love and friendliness. - -"Mrs. Webbe," I said, as firmly as I could, "I think I know how you -feel; but in any case I could not give up baby until I had seen Tom." - -A deeper flush came over the thin face, and a look which made me turn my -eyes away, because I knew she would not wish me to see the pain and -humiliation which it meant. - -"Tom," she began, "Tom! He"--She broke off abruptly, and, rising, began -to gather her shawl about her. "Then you refuse to let me have her?" she -ended. - -"The baby's father should have something to say in the matter, it seems -to me," I told her. - -"He has already decided," she replied sternly, "and decided against the -child's good. He wants her to stay with you. I suppose," she added, and -I must say that her tone took a suggestion of spite, "he thinks you'll -get so interested in the baby as sometime"-- - -She did not finish, perhaps because I gave her a look, which, if it -expressed half I felt, might well silence her. She moved quickly toward -the door, and tightened her shawl with an air of virtuous determination. - -"Well," she observed, "I have done my duty by the child. What the Lord -let it live for is a mystery to me." - -She said not another word, not even of leave-taking, but strode away -with something of the air of a brisk little prophetess who has -pronounced the doom of heaven on the unrighteous. It is a pity such -people will make of religion an excuse for taking themselves so -seriously. All the teachings of theology Mrs. Webbe turns into -justifications of her prejudices and her hardness. The very thought of -Thomasine under her rigorous rule makes me shiver. I wonder how her -husband has endured it all these years. Saintship used to be won by -making life as disagreeable as possible for one's self; but nowadays -life is made sufficiently hard by others. If living with his wife -peacefully, forbearingly, decorously, does not entitle Deacon Webbe to -be considered a saint, it is time that new principles of canonization -were adopted. - -Heavens! What uncharitableness I am running into myself! - - -May 4. I told Aunt Naomi of Mrs. Webbe's visit, and her comments were -pungent enough. It is wicked, perhaps, to set them down, but I have a -vicious joy in doing it. - -"Of course she'd hate to have the baby," Aunt Naomi declared, "but she'd -more than get even by the amount of satisfaction she'd get nagging at -it. She's worn Deacon Daniel till he's callous, so there can't be much -fun rasping him, and Tom won't listen to her. She wants somebody to -bully, and that baby'd just suit her. She could make it miserable and -get in side digs at its father at the same time." - -"You are pretty severe, Aunt Naomi," I said; "but I know you don't mean -it. As for troubling Tom, he says he doesn't care for baby." - -"Pooh! He's soft-hearted like his father; and even if he didn't care for -his own child, which is nonsense anyway, he'd be miserable to see any -child go through what he's been through himself with that woman." - -It is useless to attempt to stay Aunt Naomi when once she begins to talk -about Mrs. Webbe, and she has so much truth in her favor I am never able -successfully to urge the other side of the case so as to get for Mrs. -Webbe any just measure of fair play. To-night I almost thought that Aunt -Naomi would devour her green veil in the energy with which she freed her -mind. The thing which she cannot see is that Mrs. Webbe is entirely -blind to her own faults. Mrs. Webbe would doubtless be amazed if she -could really appreciate that she is unkind to Deacon Daniel and to Tom. -She acts her nature, and simply does not think. I dare say most of us -might be as bad if we had her disposition.--Which tags on at the end of -the nasty things I have been writing like a piece of pure cant! - - -May 6. It certainly would seem on the face of it that a woman alone in -the world as I am, of an age when I ought to have the power of managing -my own affairs, and with the means of getting on without asking -financial aid, might take into her house a poor, helpless, little baby -if she wished. Apparently there is a conspiracy to prevent my doing -anything of the sort. Cousin Mehitable has now entered her protest, and -declares that if I do not give up what she calls my mad scheme she shall -feel it her duty to have me taken in charge as a lunatic. She wants to -know whether I have no decency about having a bachelor's baby in the -house, although she is perfectly well aware that Tom was married. She -reminds me that she expects me to go to Europe with her in about a -month, and asks whether I propose to leave Thomasine in a foundling -hospital or a day nursery while I am gone. Her letter is one breathless -rush of indignation from beginning to end, so funnily like her that with -all my indignation I could hardly read it for laughing. - -I confess it is hard to give up the trip abroad. I was only half aware -how I have been counting on it until now I am brought face to face with -the impossibility of carrying out the plan. I have almost unconsciously -been piecing together in my mind memories of the old days in Europe, -with delight in thinking of seeing again places which enchanted me. Any -one, I suppose, who has been abroad enough to taste the charm of travel, -but who has not worn off the pleasure by traveling too much, must have -moments of longing to get back. I have had the oddest, sudden pangs of -homesickness when I have picked up a photograph or opened a magazine to -a picture of some beautiful place across the ocean. The smallest things -can bring up the feeling,--the sound of the wind in the trees as I heard -it once when driving through the Black Forest, the sun on a stone wall -as it lay in Capri, the sky as it looked at one place, or the grass as I -saw it at another. I remember how once a white feather lying on the turf -of the lawn brought up the courtyard of Warwick Castle as if a curtain -had lifted suddenly; and always these flashing reminders of the other -side of the world have made me feel as if I must at once hurry across -the ocean again. Now I have let myself believe I was really going, and -to give it up is very hard. - -It is perhaps making too much of it to be so disappointed. Certainly -baby must be taken care of, and I have promised to take care of her. I -fear that it will be a good while before I see Europe again. I am sorry -for Cousin Mehitable, but she has never any difficulty in finding -friends to travel with. It is evident enough that my duty is here. - - -May 10. Rosa has not yet come to the end of her matrimonial -perplexities. The divorced wife of Ran Gargan is now reported as near -death, and Rosa is debating whether to give up Dennis Maloney and wait -for Ran. - -"Of course Dennis is gone on me," she explained last night in the most -cold-bloodedly matter-of-fact fashion, "and I'd make him a main good -wife. But Ran was always the boy for me, barring Father O'Rafferty -wouldn't let me marry him." - -"Rosa," I said, with all the severity I could command, "you must not -talk like that. It sounds as if you hadn't any feeling at all. You don't -mean it." - -Rosa tossed her saucy head with emphatic scorn. - -"What for don't I mean it?" she demanded. "Any woman wants to marry the -man she likes best, and, barring him, she'd take up with the man who -likes her best." - -I laughed, and told her she was getting to be a good deal of a -philosopher. - -"Humph!" was her not very respectful reply; "it's the only choice a -woman has, and she don't always have that. She's better off if she'll -take the man that's sweet on her; but it's the way we girls are made, to -hanker after the one we're sweet on ourselves." - -Her earnestness so much interfered with the supper which she was giving -to Thomasine that I took baby into my arms, and left Rosa free to speak -out her mind without hindrance. - -"I'm not going to take either of 'em in a hurry," she went on. "I'd not -be leaving you in the lurch with the baby, Miss Ruth. I'd like to have -Ran, but I don't know what he's got. He'd make me stand round awful, -they say, and Dennis'd be under my thumb like a crumb of butter. I -mistrust I'd be more contented with Ranny. It'd be more stirred up like; -but I'd have some natural fear of him, and that's pleasant for a woman." - -I had never seen Rosa in this astonishing mood before, and so much -worldly wisdom was bewildering. Such generalizations on the relation of -the sexes took away my breath. I was forced to be silent, for there was -evidently no chance of my holding my own in a conversation of this sort. -It is strange how boldly and bluntly this uneducated girl has thought -out her relations with her lovers. She recognizes entirely that Dennis, -who is her slave, will treat her better than Ran, who will be her -master; yet she "mistrusts she will be more contented with Ranny." The -moral seems to be that a woman is happier to be abused by the man she -loves than to be served by the man who loves her. That can only be crude -instinct, the relics of savagery. In civilized woman, I am sure, when -respect goes love must go also. - -No; that isn't true! Women keep on loving men when they know them to be -unworthy. Perhaps this applies especially to good wives. A good woman is -bound to love her husband just as long as she can in any way compass it, -and to deceive herself about him to the latest possible instant. I -wonder what I should do? I wonder--Well, George has shown that he is not -what I thought him, and do I care for him less? He only showed, however, -that he did not care for me as much as I thought, and of course that -does not necessarily prove him unworthy. And yet-- - -What is the use of all this? What do I know about it anyway? I will go -to bed. - - -May 12. It is amusing to see how jealous Hannah and Rosa are of baby's -attention. Thomasine can as yet hardly be supposed to distinguish one -human being from another, and very likely has not drawn very accurate -comparisons between any of us and the furniture; but Rosa insists that -baby knows her, and is far more fond of her than of Hannah, while of -course Hannah indignantly sniffs at an idea so preposterous. - -"She really laughed at me this morning when I was giving her her bath," -Rosa assured me to-day. "She knows me the minute I come into the -nursery." - -It is beautiful to see how the sweetness and helplessness of the little -thing have so appealed to the girls that prejudices are forgotten. When -I brought Thomasine home I feared that I might have trouble. They -scorned the child of that Brownrig girl, and they both showed the fierce -contempt which good girls of their class feel for one who disgraces -herself. All this is utterly forgotten. The charm of baby has so -enslaved them that if an outsider ventured to show the feelings they -themselves had at first, they would be full of wrath and indignation. -The maternal instinct is after all the strongest thing in most women. -Rosa considers her matrimonial chances in a bargain-and-sale fashion -which takes my breath, but she will be perfectly fierce in her fondness -for her children. Hannah is a born old maid, but she cannot help -mothering every baby who comes within her reach, and for Thomasine she -brings out all the sweetness of her nature. - - -May 15. I have been through a whirlwind, but now I am calm, and can -think of things quietly. It is late, but the fire has not burned down, -and I could not sleep, so Peter and I may as well stay where we are a -while longer. - -I was reading this afternoon, when suddenly Kathie rushed into the room -out of breath with running, her face smooched and wet with tears, and -her hair in confusion. - -"Why, Kathie," I asked, "what is the matter?" - -Her answer was to fly across the room, throw herself on her knees beside -me, and burst into sobs. The more I tried to soothe her, the more she -cried, and it was a long time before she was quiet enough to be at all -reasonable. - -"My dear," I said, "tell me what has happened. What is the matter?" - -She looked up at me with wild eyes. - -"It isn't true!" she broke out fiercely. "I know it isn't true! I didn't -say a word to him, because I knew you wouldn't want me to; but it's a -lie! It's a lie, if my father did say it." - -"Why, Kathie," I said, amazed at her excitement, "what in the world are -you saying? Your father wouldn't tell a lie to save his life." - -"He believes it," she answered, dropping her voice. A sullen, stubborn -look came into her face that it was pitiful to see. "He does believe it, -but it's a lie." - -I spoke to her as sternly as I could, and told her she had no right to -judge of what her father believed, and that I would not have her talk so -of him. - -"But I asked him about your mother, and he said she would be punished -forever and ever for not being a church member!" she exclaimed before I -could stop her. "And I know it's a lie." - -She burst into another tempest of sobs, and cried until she was -exhausted. Her words were so cruel that for a moment I had not even the -power to try to comfort her; but she would soon have been in hysterics, -and for a time I had to think only of her. Fortunately baby woke. Rosa -was not at home, and by the time Hannah and I had fed Thomasine, and -once more she was asleep in her cradle, I had my wits about me. Kathie -had, with a child's quick change of mood, become almost gay. - -"Kathie," I said, "do you mind staying here with baby while I take a -little walk? Rosa is out, and I have been in the house all day. I want a -breath of fresh air." - -"Oh, I should love to," she answered, her face brightening at the -thought of being trusted with a responsibility so great. - -I was out of doors, and walking rapidly toward Mr. Thurston's house, -before I really came to my senses. I was so wounded by what Kathie had -thoughtlessly repeated, so indignant at this outrage to my dead, that I -had had strength only to hide my feelings from her. Now I came to a -realization of my anger, and asked myself what I meant to do. I had -instinctively started out to denounce Mr. Thurston for bigotry and -cruelty; to protest against this sacrilege. A little, I feel sure,--at -least I hope I am right,--I felt the harm he was doing Kathie; but most -I was outraged and angry that he had dared to speak so of Mother. I was -ashamed of my rage when I grew more composed; and I realized all at once -how Mother herself would have smiled at me. So clear was my sense of her -that it was almost as if she really repeated what she once said to me: -"My dear Ruth, do you suppose that what Mr. Thurston thinks alters the -way the universe is made? Why should he know more about it than you do? -He's not nearly so clever or so well educated." I smiled to recall how -she had smiled when she said it; then I was blinded by tears to remember -that I should never see her smile again; and so I walked into a tree in -the sidewalk, and nearly broke my nose. That was the end of my dashing -madly at Mr. Thurston. The wound Kathie's words had made throbbed, but -with the memory of Mother in my mind I could not break out into anger. - -I turned down the Cove Road to walk off my ill-temper. After all Mr. -Thurston was right from his point of view. He could not believe without -feeling that he had to warn Kathie against the awful risk of running -into eternal damnation. It must hurt him to think or to say such a -thing; but he believes in the cruelty of the deity, and he has beaten -his natural tenderness into subjection to his idea of a Moloch. It is so -strange that the ghastly absurdity of connecting God's anger with a -sweet and blameless life like Mother's does not strike him. Indeed, I -suppose down here in the country we are half a century or so behind the -thought of the real world, and that Mr. Thurston's creed would be -impossible in the city, or among thinkers even of his own denomination. -At least I hope so, though I do not see what they have left in the -orthodox creed if they take eternal punishment out of it. - -The fresh air and the memory of Mother, with a little common sense, -brought me right again. I walked until I had myself properly in hand, -and till I hoped that the trace of tears on my face might pass for the -effect of the wind. It was growing dusk by this time, and the lamps -began to appear in the houses as I came to Mr. Thurston's at last. I -slipped in at the front door as quietly as I could, and knocked at the -study. - -Mr. Thurston himself opened the door. He looked surprised, but asked me -in, and offered me a chair. He had been writing, and still held his pen -in his hand; the study smelled of kerosene lamp and air-tight stove. -Poor man! Theology which has to live by an air-tight stove must be -dreary. If he had an open fire on his hearth, he might have less in his -religion. - -"I have come to confess a fault, Mr. Thurston," I said, "and to ask a -favor." - -He smiled a little watery smile, and put down his pen. - -"Is the favor to be a reward for the fault or for confessing it?" he -asked. - -I was so much surprised by this mild jest, coming from him, that I -almost forgot my errand. I smiled back at him, and forgot the bitterness -that had been in my heart. He looked so thin, so bloodless, that it was -impossible to have rancor. - -"I left Kathie with baby while I went for a walk," I said, "and I have -stayed away longer than I intended. I forgot to tell her she could call -Hannah if she wanted to come home, and she is too conscientious to -leave, so I am afraid that she has stayed all this time. I wanted you to -know it is my fault." - -"I am glad for her to be useful," her father said, "especially as you -have been so kind to her." - -"Then you will perhaps let her stay all night," I went on. "I can take -over her night-things. I promised to show her about making a new kind of -pincushion for the church fair; and I could do it this evening. Besides, -it is lonely for me in that great house." - -I felt like a hypocrite when I said this, though it is true enough. He -looked at me kindly, and even pityingly. - -"Yes," he returned, "I can understand that. If you think she won't -trouble you, and"-- - -I did not give him opportunity for a word more. I rose at once and held -out my hand. - -"Thank you so much," I said. "I'll find Mrs. Thurston, and get Kathie's -things. I beg your pardon for troubling you." - -I was out of the study before he could reconsider. Across the hall I -found his wife in the sitting-room with another air-tight stove, and -looking thinner and paler than he. She had a great pile of sewing beside -her, and her eyes looked as if months of tears were behind them, aching -to be shed. - -I told her Mr. Thurston had given leave for Kathie to pass the night -with me, and I had come for her night-things. She looked surprised, but -none the less pleased. While she was out of the room I looked cautiously -at the mending to see if the clothing was too worn for her to be willing -that I should see it. When she came in with her little bundle, I said, -as indifferently as I could, "I suppose if Kathie were at home she would -help you with the mending, so I'll take her share with me, and we'll do -it together." Of course she remonstrated, but I managed to bring away a -good part of the big pile, and now it is all done. Poor Mrs. Thurston, -she looked so tired, so beaten down by life, the veins were so blue on -her thin temples! If I dared, I'd go every week and do that awful -mending for her. I must get Kathie to smuggle some of it over now and -then. When we blame these people for the narrowness of their theology, -we forget their lives are so constrained and straitened that they cannot -take broad views of anything. The man or woman who could take a wide -outlook upon life from behind an air-tight stove in a half-starved home -would have to be almost a miracle. It is wonderful that so much -sweetness and humanity keep alive where circumstances are so -discouraging. When I think of patient, faithful, hard-working women like -Mrs. Thurston, uncomplaining and devoted, I am filled with admiration -and humility. If their theology is narrow, they endure it; and, after -all, men have made it for them. Father said once women had always been -the occasion of theology, but had never produced any. I asked him, I -remember, whether he said this to their praise or discredit, and he -answered that what was entirely the result of nature was neither to be -praised nor to be blamed; women were so made that they must have a -religion, and men so constituted as to take the greatest possible -satisfaction in inventing one. "It is simply a beautiful example," he -added, with his wonderful smile which just curled the corners of his -mouth, "of the law of supply and demand." - -I am running on and on, although it is so late at night. Aunt Naomi, I -presume, will in some occult way know about it, and ask me why I sat up -so long. I am tired, but the excitement of the afternoon is not all -gone. That any one in the world should believe it possible for Mother to -be unhappy in another life, to be punished, is amazing! Surely a man -whose theology makes such an idea conceivable is profoundly to be -pitied. - - -May 19. Hannah is perfectly delightful about Tomine. She hardly lets a -day go by without admonishing me not to spoil baby, and yet she is -herself an abject slave to the slightest caprice of the tyrannous small -person. We have to-night been having a sort of battle royal over baby's -going to sleep by herself in the dark. I made up my mind the time had -come when some semblance of discipline must be begun, and I supposed, of -course, that Hannah would approve and assist. To my surprise she failed -me at the very first ditch. - -"I am going to put Tomine into the crib," I announced, "and take away -the light. She must learn to go to sleep in the dark." - -"She'll be frightened," Rosa objected. - -"She's too little to know anything about being afraid," I retorted -loftily, although I had secretly a good deal of misgiving. - -"Too little!" sniffed Hannah. "She's too little not to be afraid." - -I saw at a glance that I had before me a struggle with them as well as -with baby. - -"Children are not afraid of the dark until they are told to be," I -declared as dogmatically as possible. - -"They are told not to be," objected Rosa. - -"But that puts the idea into their heads," was my answer. - -Hannah regarded me with evident disapprobation. - -"But supposing the baby cries?" she demanded. - -"Then she must be left to stop," I answered, with outward firmness and -inward quakings. - -"But suppose she cries herself sick?" insisted Rosa. - -"She won't. She'll just cry a little till she finds nobody comes, and -then she'll go to sleep." - -The two girls regarded me with looks that spoke disapproval in the -largest of capitals. It is so seldom they are entirely united that it -was disconcerting to have them thus make common cause against me, but I -had to keep up for the sake of dignity if for nothing else. Thomasine -was fed and arranged for the night; she was kissed and cuddled, and -tucked into her crib. Then I got Hannah and Rosa, both protesting they -didn't mind sitting up with the darling all night, out of the room, -darkened the windows, and shut baby in alone for the first time in her -whole life, a life still so pathetically little. - -I closed the nursery door with an air of great calmness and -determination, but outside I lingered like a complete coward. The girls -were glowering darkly from the end of the hall, and we needed only -candlelight to look like three bloodthirsty conspirators. For two or -three minutes there was a soothing and deceptive silence, so that I -turned to smile with an air of superior wisdom on the maids. Then -without warning baby uplifted her voice and wailed. - -There was something most disconcertingly explosive about the cry, as if -Thomasine had been holding her breath until she were black in the face, -and only let it escape one second short of actual suffocation. I jumped -as if a mouse had sprung into my face, and the two girls swooped down -upon me in a whirl of triumphant indignation. - -"There, Miss Ruth!" cried Hannah. - -"There, Miss Privet!" cried Rosa. - -"Well," I said defensively; "I expected her to cry some." - -"She wants to be walked with, poor little thing," Rosa said -incautiously. - -I was rejoiced to have a chance to turn the tables, and I sprang upon -her tacit admission at once. - -"Rosa," I said severely, "have you been walking Thomasine to sleep? I -told you never to do it." - -Rosa, self-convicted, could only murmur that she had just taken her up -and down two or three times to make her sleepy; she hadn't really walked -her to sleep. - -"What if she had?" Hannah demanded boldly, her place entirely forgotten -in the excitement of the moment. "If babies like to be walked to sleep, -it stands to reason that's nature." - -I began to feel as if all authority were fast slipping away from me, and -that I should at this rate soon become a very secondary person in my own -house. I tried to recover myself by assuming the most severe air of -which I was capable. - -"You must not talk outside the nursery door," I told them. "If Thomasine -hears voices, of course she'll keep on crying. Go downstairs, both of -you. I'll see to baby." - -They had not yet arrived at open mutiny, and so with manifest -unwillingness they departed, grumbling to each other as they went. Baby -seemed to have some superhuman intelligence that her firmest allies were -being routed, for she set up a series of nerve-splitting shrieks which -made every fibre of my body quiver. As soon as the girls were out of -sight I flopped down on my knees outside of the door, and put my hands -over my ears. I was afraid of myself, and only the need I felt of -holding out for Tomine's own sake gave me strength to keep from rushing -into the nursery in abject surrender. - -The absurdity of it makes me laugh now, but with the shrieks of baby -piercing me, I felt as if I were involved in a tragedy of the deepest -dye. I think I was never so near hysterics in my life; but I had even -then some faint and far-away sense of how ridiculous I was, and that -saved me. Thomasine yelled like a young tornado, and every cry went -through me like a knife. I was on my knees on the floor, pouring out -tears like a watering-pot, trying to shut out the sound. There is -something in a baby's cry that is too much even for a sense of humor; -and no woman could have heard it without being overcome. - -I had so stopped my ears that although I could not shut out baby's cries -entirely I did not hear Hannah and Rosa when they came skulking back. -The first I knew of their being behind me was when Hannah, in a -whispered bellow, shouted into my ear that baby would cry herself into -convulsions. Demoralized as I was already, I almost yielded; I started -to my feet, and faced them in a tragic manner, ready to give up -everything. I was ready to say that Rosa might walk up and down with -Tomine every night for the rest of her life. Fortunately some few gleams -of common sense asserted themselves in my half-addled pate, and instead -of opening the door, I spread out my arms, and without a word shooed the -girls out of the corridor as if they were hens. Then the ludicrousness -of it came over me, and although I still tingled with baby's wailing, I -could appreciate that the cries were more angry than pathetic, and that -we must fight the battle through now it had been begun. The drollest -thing about it all was that it seemed almost as if the willful little -lady inside there had some uncanny perception of my thought. I had no -sooner got the girls downstairs again, and made up my mind to hold out -than she stopped crying; and when we crept cautiously in ten minutes -after, she was asleep as soundly and as sweetly as ever. - -But I feel as if I had been through battles, murders, and sudden deaths. - - -May 20. Baby to-night cried two or three minutes, but her ladyship -evidently had the sense to see that crying is a painful and useless -exercise when she has to deal with such a hard-hearted tyrant as I am, -and she quickly gave it up. Rosa hoped pointedly that the poor little -thing's will isn't broken, and Hannah observed piously that she trusted -I realized we all of us had to be treated like babies by our Heavenly -Father. I was tempted to ask her if our Heavenly Father never left us to -cry in the dark. If we could be as firm with ourselves as we can be with -other people, what an improvement it would be. I wonder what Tom would -think of my first conflict with his baby. - - -May 25. I went to-day to call on Mrs. Weston. Although I am in mourning, -I thought it better to go. I feared lest she should think my old -relations to George might have something to do with my staying away. - -It was far less difficult than I thought it would be. I may be frank in -my diary, I suppose, and say I found her silly and rather vulgar, and I -wonder how George can help seeing it. She was inclined to boast a little -that all the best people in town had called. - -"Olivia Watson acted real queer about my wedding-calls," she said. "She -doesn't seem to know the rich folks very well." - -"Oh, we never make distinctions in Tuskamuck by money," I put in; but -she went on without heeding. - -"Olivia said Mrs. Andrews--she called her Lady Andrews, just as if she -was English." - -"It is a way we have," I returned. "I'm sure I don't know how it began. -Very likely it is only because it fits her so well." - -"Well, anyway, she called; and Olivia owned she'd never been to see -them. I could see she was real jealous, though she wouldn't own it." - -"Old lady Andrews is a delightful person," I remarked awkwardly, feeling -that I must say something. - -"I didn't think she was much till Olivia told me," returned Mrs. Weston, -with amazing frankness. "I thought she was a funny old thing." - -It is not kind to put this down, I know; but I really would like to see -if it sounds so unreal when it is written as it did when it was said. It -was so unlike anything I ever heard that it seemed almost as if Mrs. -Weston were playing a part, and trying to cheat me into thinking her -more vulgar and more simple than she is. I am afraid I shall not lessen -my unpleasant impression, however, by keeping her words. - -Mrs. Weston talked, too, about George and his devotion as if she -expected me to be hurt. Possibly I was a little; although if I were, it -was chiefly because my vanity suffered that he should find me inferior -in attraction to a woman like this. I believe I am sincerely glad that -he should prove his fondness for his wife. Indeed fondness could be the -only excuse for his leaving me, and I do wish happiness to them both. - -I fear what I have written gives the worst of Mrs. Weston. She perhaps -was a little embarrassed, but she showed me nothing better. She is not a -lady, and I see perfectly that she will drop out of our circle. We are a -little Cranfordish here, I suppose, but anywhere in the world people -come in the long run to associate with their own kind. Mrs. Weston is -not our kind; and even if this did not affect our attitude, she would -herself tire of us after the first novelty is worn off. - - -May 26. George came in this morning on business, and before he went he -thanked me for calling on his wife. - -"I shouldn't have made a wedding-call just now on anybody else," I told -him; "but your association with Father and the way in which we have -known you of course make a difference." - -He showed some embarrassment, but apparently--at least so I thought--he -was so anxious to know what I thought of Mrs. Weston that he could not -drop the subject. - -"Gertrude isn't bookish," he remarked rather confusedly. "I hope you -found things to talk about." - -"Meaning that I can talk of nothing but books?" I returned. "Poor -George, how I must have bored you in times past." - -He flushed and grew more confused still. - -"Of course you know I didn't mean anything like that," he protested. - -I laughed at his grave face, and then I was so glad to find I could talk -to him about his wife without feeling awkward that I laughed again. He -looked so puzzled I was ready to laugh in turn at him, but I restrained -myself. I could not understand my good spirits, and for that matter I do -not now. Somehow my call of yesterday seems to have made a difference in -my feeling toward George. Just how or just what I cannot fully make out. -I certainly have not ceased to care about him. I am still fond of the -George I have known for so many years; but somehow the husband of Mrs. -Weston does not seem to be the same man. The George Weston who can love -this woman and be in sympathy with her is so different from anything I -have known or imagined the old George to be that he affects me as a -stranger. - -The truth is I have for the past month been in the midst of things so -serious that my own affairs and feelings have ceased to appear of so -much importance. When death comes near enough for us to see it face to -face, we have a better appreciation of values, and find things strangely -altered. I have had, moreover, little time to think about myself, which -is always a good thing; and to my surprise I find now that I am not able -to pity myself nearly as much as I did. - -This seems perhaps a little disloyal to George. My feeling for him -cannot have evaporated like dew drying from the grass. At least I am -sure that I am still ready to serve him to the very best of my ability. - - - - -VI - -JUNE - - -June 1. Cousin Mehitable is capable of surprises. She has written to -Deacon Richards to have my baby taken away from me. - -The Deacon came in to-night, so amused that he was on the broad grin -when he presented himself, and chuckling even when he said good-evening. - -"What pleases you?" I asked. "You seem much amused about something." - -"I am," he answered. "I've been appointed your guardian." - -"By the town authorities?" I demanded. "I should have thought I was old -enough to look after myself." - -"It's your family," he chuckled. "Miss Privet has written to me from -Boston." - -"Cousin Mehitable?" I exclaimed. - -"Miss Mehitable Privet," he returned. - -"She has written to you about me?" asked I. - -He nodded, in evident delight over the situation. - -My astonishment got the better of my manners so that I forgot to ask him -to sit down, but stood staring at him like a booby. I remembered Cousin -Mehitable had met him once or twice on her infrequent visits to -Tuskamuck, and had been graciously pleased to approve of him,--largely, -I believe, on account of some accidental discovery of his very -satisfactory pedigree. That she should write to him, however, was most -surprising, and argued an amount of feeling on her part much greater -than I had appreciated. I knew she would be shocked and perhaps -scandalized by my having baby, and she had written to me with sufficient -emphasis, but I did not suppose she would invoke outside aid in her -attempts to dispossess me of Thomasine. - -"But why should she write to you?" I asked Deacon Daniel. - -"She said," was his answer, "she didn't know who else to write to." - -"But what did she expect you to do?" - -The Deacon chuckled and caressed his beardless chin with a -characteristic gesture. When he is greatly amused he seizes himself by -the chin as if he must keep his jaw stiff or an undeaconical laugh would -come out in spite of him. - -"I don't think she cared much what I did if I relieved you of that -baby," was his reply. "She said if I was any sort of a guardian of the -poor perhaps I could put it in a home." - -"But you are not," I said. - -"No," he assented. - -"And you shouldn't have her if you were," I added. - -"I don't want the child," Deacon Daniel returned. "I shouldn't know what -to do with it." - -Then we both laughed, and I got him seated in Father's chair, and we had -a long chat over the whole situation. I had not realized how much I -wanted to talk matters over with somebody. Aunt Naomi is out of the -question, because she is so fond of telling things; Miss Charlotte -would be better, but she is not very worldly wise; and if I may tell the -truth, I wanted to talk with a man. The advice of women is wise often, -and yet more often it is comforting; but it has somehow not the -conclusiveness of the decision of a sensible man. At least that is the -way I felt to-night, though in many matters I should never think of -trusting to a man's judgment. - -"I think I shall adopt baby legally," I said. "Then nobody could take -her away or bother me about her." - -He asked me if her father would agree, and I said that I was sure he -would. - -"It would make her your heir if you died without a will," he commented. - -I said that nothing was more easy than to make a will, and of course I -should mean to provide for her. - -"You are not afraid of wills, then?" Deacon Daniel observed, looking at -me curiously. "So many folks can't bear the idea of making one." - -"Very likely it's partly because I am a lawyer's daughter," I said; "but -in any case making a will wouldn't have any more terrors for me than -writing a check. But then I never had any fear of death anyway." - -Deacon Daniel regarded me yet more intently, clasping his great white -hands over his knee. - -"I never can quite make you out, Miss Ruth," he said after a little. -"You haven't any belief in a hereafter that I know of, but you seem to -have no trouble about it." - -I asked him why I should have, and he answered that most people do. - -"Perhaps that is because they feel a responsibility about the future -that I don't," I returned. "I don't think I can alter what is to come -after death, and I don't see what possible good I can do by fretting -about it. Father brought me up, you know, to feel that I had all I could -attend to in making the best I can of this life, without wasting my -strength in speculating about another. In any case I can't see why I -should be any more afraid of death than I am of sleep. I understand one -as well as I do the other." - -He looked at the rug thoughtfully a moment, and then, as if he declined -to be drawn into an argument, he came back to the original subject of -our talk. - -"Would Tom Webbe want to have anything to do with the child?" he asked. - -"I think he would rather forget she is in the world," I told him. "By -and by he may be fond of her, but now he tries not to think of her at -all. I want to make her so attractive and lovely he can't help caring -for her." - -"But then she will care for him," the Deacon commented. - -"Why, of course she will. That is what I hope. Then she might influence -him, and help him." - -"You are willing to share her with her father even if you do adopt her?" -he asked. - -I did not understand his manner, but I told him I did not think I had -any right to deprive her of her father's affection or him of hers if I -adopted her a dozen times over. - -The Deacon made no answer. His face was graver, and for some time we sat -without further word. - -"Tom Webbe isn't as bad as he seems, Miss Ruth," Deacon Daniel said at -length. "If you had to live with his mother, I guess you'd be ready to -excuse him for 'most anything. His father never had the spunk to say -boo to a goose, and Mrs. Webbe has bullied him from the time we were -boys. He's as good as a man can be, but it's a pity he don't carry out -Paul's idea of being ruler in his own house." - -"Paul was a bachelor like you, Deacon Daniel," I answered, rather -saucily; "and neither of you knows anything about it." - -He grinned, but only added that Tom had been nagged into most of his -wildness. - -"I'm not excusing him," he went on, apparently afraid that he should -seem to be condoning iniquity; "but there's a good deal to be said for -him. Aunt Naomi says he ought to be driven out of decent society, but -Tom Webbe never did a mean thing in his life." - -I was rather surprised to hear this defense from Deacon Richards, but I -certainly agreed with him. Tom's sin makes me cringe; but I realize that -I'm not capable of judging him, and he certainly has a good deal of -excuse for whatever evil he has fallen into. - - -June 2. One thing more which Deacon Richards said has made me think a -good deal. He asked me what Tom had meant to do about the child if its -mother lived. I told him Julia had been willing for me to have baby in -any case. He thought in silence a moment. - -"I don't believe," he said, "Tom ever meant to live with that woman. He -must have married her to clear his conscience." - -"He married her so the child should not be disgraced," I answered. - -Deacon Daniel looked at me with those great keen eyes glowing beneath -his shaggy white brows. - -"Then he went pretty far toward clearing his record," was his comment. -"There are not many men would have tied themselves to such a wife for -the sake of a child." - -This was not very orthodox, perhaps, but a good heart will get the -better of orthodoxy now and then. It has set me to thinking about Tom -and his wife in a way which had not occurred to me. I wonder if it is -true that he did not mean to live with her. I remember now that he said -he would never see Julia again, but at the time this meant nothing to -me. If he had thought of making a home, he would naturally expect to -have his child, but after all I doubt if at that time he considered -anything except the good of baby. He did not love her; he had not even -looked at her; but he tried to do her right as far as he could. He could -give her an honest name in the eyes of the world, but he must have known -that he could not make a home with Julia where the surroundings would be -good for a child. This must have been what he considered for the moment. -Yet Tom is one who thinks out things, and he may have thought out the -future of the mother too. - -When I look back I wonder how it was I consented so quickly to take -Tomine. I wanted to help Tom, and I wanted him to be able to decide -without being forced by any consideration of baby. I do not know whether -he ought to have married Julia for her own sake. If she had lived, I am -afraid I should have been tempted to think he had better not have bound -himself to her; and yet I realize that I should have been disappointed -in him if he had decided not to do it. I doubt if I could have got rid -entirely of the feeling that somehow he would have been cowardly. I -wonder if he had any notion of my feeling? He came out of the trial -nobly, at least, and I honor him with all my heart for that. - - -June 5. Aunt Naomi has now a theme exactly to her taste in the growing -extravagance of George's wife. Mrs. Weston has certainly elaborated her -style of dress a good deal, a thing which is the more noticeable from -the fact that in Tuskamuck we are on the whole so little given to -gorgeous raiment. I remember that when I called I thought her rather -overdressed. To-day Aunt Naomi talked for half an hour with the greatest -apparent enjoyment about the fine gowns and expensive jewelry with which -the bride is astonishing the town. I am afraid it does not take much to -set us talking. I tried half a dozen times to-day to change the subject, -but my efforts were wasted. Aunt Naomi was not to be diverted from a -theme so congenial. I reminded her that any bride was expected to -display her finery--this is part of the established formality with which -marriage is attended. - -"That's all very well," she retorted with a sniff; "folks want to see -the wedding outfit. This is finery George Weston has had to pay for -himself." - -"I don't see how anybody can know that," I told her; and I added that it -did not seem to me to be the town's business if it were true. - -"She tells everybody he gave her the jewelry," Aunt Naomi responded; -"and the dresses she's had made since she was married. She hadn't -anything herself. The Watsons say she was real poor." - -"The marriage was so sudden," I said, "that very likely she hadn't time -to get her wedding outfit. At any rate, Aunt Naomi, I don't see what -you and I have to do with her clothes." - -The dear old gossip went on wagging her foot and smiling with evident -delight. - -"It's the business of the neighbors that she's sure to ruin her husband -if she keeps on with her extravagance, isn't it? Besides, she wears her -clothes to have them talked about. She talks about them herself." - -"A few dresses won't ruin her husband," I protested. - -"She has one hired girl now, and she's talking of a second," Aunt Naomi -went on, unshaken. "Did you ever hear of such foolishness?" - -I reminded her that I had two maids myself. - -"Oh, you," she returned; "that's different. I hope you don't put her on -a level with real folks, do you?" - -I tried to treat the whole matter as if it were of no consequence, and I -did stop the talk here; but secretly I am troubled. George has very -little aside from what he earns in his profession, and he might easily -run behind if his wife is really extravagant. He needs a woman to help -him save. - - -June 6. Tomine delighted the family to-day by her wonderful precocity in -following with her eyes the flight of a blue-bottle fly that buzzed -about the nursery. Such intelligence in one so young is held by us women -to betoken the most extraordinary promise. I communicated the important -event to Mr. Saychase, who came to call, and he could neither take it -gravely nor laugh at the absurdity of our noticing so slight a thing. He -seemed to be trying to find out how I wished him to look at it; and as -I was divided between laughter and secret pride in baby he could not get -a sure clue. How dull the man is; but no doubt he is good. When piety -and stupidity are united, it is unfortunate that they should be made -prominent by being set high in spiritual places. - - -June 9. I have a good deal of sympathy with Cain's question when he -asked the Lord if he were his brother's keeper. Of course his crime -turned the question in his case into a mere pitiful excuse, but Cain was -at least clever enough to take advantage of a principle which must -appeal to everybody. We cannot be responsible for others when we have -neither authority nor control over them. It is one of the hardest forms -of duty, it seems to me, when we feel that we ought to do our best, yet -are practically sure that in the end we can effect little or nothing. -What can I do to influence George's wife? Somehow we seem to have no -common ground to meet on. Father used to say that people who do not -speak the same ethical language cannot communicate moral ideas to each -other. This is rather a high-sounding way of saying that Mrs. Weston and -I cannot understand each other when anything of real importance comes -up. It is of course as much my fault as hers, but I really do not know -how to help or change it. I suppose there is a certain arrogance and -self-righteousness in my feeling that I could direct her, but I am -certainly older and I believe I am wiser. Yet I am not her keeper, and -if to feel that I am not involves me in the cowardice of Cain, I cannot -help it. I am ready to do anything I can do, but what is there? - - -June 11. Still it is George's wife. I dare say a good deal of talk has -been circulating, and I have not heard it. I have been so occupied with -graver matters ever since George was married that I have seen few -people, and have paid little heed to the village talk. To-day old lady -Andrews said her say. She began by reminding me of the conversation we -had had in regard to calling on the bride. - -"I am glad we did it, Ruth," she went on. "It puts us in the right -whatever happens; but she will not do. I shall never ask her to my -house." - -I could say nothing. I knew she was right, but I was so sorry for -George. - -"She is vulgar, Ruth," the sweet old voice went on. "She called a second -time on me yesterday, and I've been only once to see her. She said a -good deal about it's being the duty of us--she said 'us,' my dear,--to -wake up this sleepy old place. I told her that, personally, since she -was good enough to include me with herself, I preferred the town as it -had been." - -I fairly laughed out at the idea of old lady Andrews' delivering this -with well-bred sweetness, and I wondered how far Mrs. Weston perceived -the sarcasm. - -"Did she understand?" I asked. - -"About half, I think, my dear. She saw she had made a mistake, but I -doubt if she quite knew what it was. She was uneasy, and said she -thought those who had a chance ought to make things more lively." - -I asked if Mrs. Weston gave any definite idea how this liveliness was to -be secured. - -"Not very clearly," was the answer. "She said something about hoping -soon to have a larger house so she could entertain properly. Her dress -was dreadfully showy, according to my old-fashioned notions. I am afraid -we are too slow for her, my dear. She will have to make a more modern -society for herself." - -And so the social doom of George's wife is written, as far as I can see. -I can if I choose ask people to meet her, but that will do her little -good when they have looked her over and given her up. They will come to -my house to meet anybody I select, but they will not invite her in their -turn. It is a pity social distinctions should count for so much; but in -Tuskamuck they certainly do. - - -June 12. Mr. Saychase called again this afternoon. He is so thin and so -pale that it is always my inclination to have Hannah bring him something -to eat at once. To-day he had an especially nervous air, and I tried in -vain to set him at his ease. I fear he may have taken it into his head -to try to bring me into the church. He did not, it is true, say anything -directly about religion, but he had an air of having something very -important in reserve which he was not yet ready to speak of. He talked -about the church work as if he expected me to be interested. He would -not have come so soon again if he did not have some particular object. - -It is a pity anything so noble as religion should so often have weak men -to represent it. What is good in religion they do not fairly stand for, -and what is undesirable they somehow make more evident. If superstition -is to be a help, it must appeal to the best feelings, and a weak priest -touches only the weaker side of character. One is not able to receive -him on his merits as a man, but has to excuse him in the name of his -devotion to religion. - -Still, Mr. Saychase is a good man, and he means well with whatever -strength of mind nature endowed him. - - -June 13. Tom came to-day to see baby,--not that he paid much attention -to her when he saw her. It amuses me to find how jealous I am getting -for Tomine, and anxious she shall be treated with deference. I see -myself rapidly growing into a hen-with-one-chicken attitude of mind, but -I do not know how it is to be helped. I exhibited baby this afternoon -with as much pride and as much desire that she should be admired as if -she had been my veriest own, so it was no wonder that Tom laughed at me. - -He was very grave when he came, but little by little the fun-loving -sparkle came into his eyes and a smile grew on his face. - -"You'd make a first rate saleswoman, Ruth," he said, "if you could show -off goods as well as you do babies." - -I suppose I can never meet Tom again with the easy freedom we used to -feel, especially with baby to remind us; but we have been good friends -so long that it is a great comfort to feel something of the old -comradeship to be still possible. - -Tom was so awkward about baby, so unwilling to touch her, that I offered -to put her into his arms. Then he suddenly grew brave. - -"Don't, Ruth," he said. "It hurts you that I can't care for the baby, -but I can't. Perhaps I shall sometime." - -I took Thomasine away without a word, and gave her to Rosa in the -nursery. When I came back to the parlor Tom was in his favorite position -before the window. He wheeled round suddenly when he heard me. - -"You are not angry, Ruth?" he asked. - -"No, Tom," I answered; "only sorry." - -I sat down and took up my sewing, while he walked about the room. He -stopped in front of me after a moment. - -"I wanted to tell you, Ruth," he said, "that I am not going back to New -York." - -I looked at him questioningly, and waited. - -"I had really a good opening there," he went on; "but I thought I ought -not to take it." - -I asked him why. - -"I'll be hanged if I quite know," he responded explosively. "I suppose -it's part obstinacy that makes me too stubborn to run away from -disgrace, and partly it's father. This thing has broken him terribly. -I'm going to stay and help him out." - -I know how Tom hates farming, and I held out my hand to him and said so. - -"I hate everything," he returned desperately; "but it wouldn't be square -to leave him now when he's so cut up on my account." - -We were both of us, I am sure, too moved to have much talk, and Tom did -not stay long. He went off rather abruptly, with hardly a good-by; but I -think I understood. I am glad he has the pluck to stand by poor old -Deacon Daniel; but he must learn to be fond of baby. That will be a -comfort to him. - - -June 15. George seems to me to be almost beside himself. I cannot -comprehend what his wife is doing to him. She has apparently already -come to realize that she is not succeeding in Tuskamuck, and is -determined to conquer by display and showy ways of living. She cannot -know us very well if she supposes that such means will do here. - -Her latest move I find it hard to forgive her. I do not understand how -George can have done it, no matter how much she urged him; but I am of -course profoundly ignorant how such a woman controls a man. I am afraid -one thing which made him attractive to me was that he was so willing to -be influenced, but we see a man in a light entirely different when it is -another woman who shapes his life. What once seemed a fine compliance -takes on a strange appearance of weakness when we are no longer the -moving force; but I think I do myself no more than justice when I feel -that at least I tried always to influence George for his own good. - -Poor Miss Charlotte came over directly after breakfast this morning to -tell me. She had been brooding over it half the night, poor soul, and -her eyes looked actually withered with crying and lack of sleep. - -"I know I exaggerate it," she kept saying, "and of course he didn't mean -to insult me; but to think anybody dared to ask me to sell the house, -the Kendall house that our family has lived in for four generations! It -would have killed my father if he had known I should live to come to -this!" - -I tried to soothe her, and to make her believe that in offering to buy -her house George had thought only of how much he admired it, and not at -all of her feelings, which he could not understand. - -"Of course he could not understand my feelings," Miss Charlotte said, -with a bitterness which I am sure was unconscious. "He never had a -family, and I ought to remember that." - -She grew somewhat more calm as she unburdened her heart. She told me -George had praised the place, and said how much he had always liked it. -He confessed that it was his wife who first suggested the purchase: she -wanted a house where she could entertain and which would be of more -importance than the one in which she lived. - -"He said," Miss Charlotte went on with a strange mingling of pride and -sorrow, "his wife felt that the house in itself would give any family -social standing. I don't know how pleased his wife would be if she knew -he told me, but he said it. He told me she meant to have repairs and -improvements. She must feel as if she owned it already. He said she had -an iron dog stored somewhere that she meant to put on the lawn. Think of -it, Ruth, an iron dog on our old lawn!" - -Then suddenly all the sorrow of her lot seemed to overwhelm her at once, -and she broke down completely. She sobbed so unrestrainedly and with so -complete an abandonment of herself to her grief that I cried with her, -even while I was trying to stop her tears. - -"It isn't just George Weston's coming to ask me to sell the place," she -said; "it is all of it: it's my being so poor I can't keep up the name, -and the family's ending with me, and none of my kin even to bury me. -It's all of the hurts I've got from life, Ruth; and it's growing so old -I've no strength any longer to bear them. Oh, it's having to keep on -living when I want to be dead!" - -I threw my arms about her, and kissed the tears from her wrinkled -cheeks, though there were about as many on my own. - -"Don't," I begged her, "don't, dear Miss Charlotte. You break my heart! -We are all of us your kin, and you know we love you dearly." - -She returned my embrace convulsively, and tried to check her sobbing. - -"I know it's cowardly," she got out brokenly. "It's cowardly and wicked. -I never broke down so before. I won't, Ruth dear. Just give me a little -time." - -Dear Miss Charlotte! I made her stay with me all day; and indeed she was -in no condition to do anything else. I got her to take a nap in the -afternoon, and when she went home she was once more her own brave self. -She said good-night with one of her clumsy joking speeches. - -"Good-by, my dear," she said; "the next time I come I'll try not to be -so much like the waterworks girl that had a creek in her back and a -cataract in each eye." - -She is always facetious when she does not quite trust herself to be -serious. And I, who do not dare to trust myself to think about George -and his wife, had better stop writing. - - -June 17. Deacon Richards presented himself at twilight, and found me -sitting alone out on the doorsteps. I watched his tall figure coming up -the driveway, bent with age a little, but still massive and vigorous; -and somehow by the time he was near enough to speak, I felt that I had -caught his mood. He smiled broadly as he greeted me. - -"Where's the baby?" he demanded. "I supposed I should find you giving it -its supper." - -"There isn't any 'it' in this house," was my retort; "and as for baby's -supper, you are just as ignorant as a man always is. Any woman would -know that babies are put to bed long before this." - -He grinned down upon me from his height. - -"How should I know what time it went to bed?" he asked, with a laugh in -his voice. "I never raised a baby. I've come to talk about it, though." - -"Look here, Deacon Daniel," I cried out, with affected indignation, "I -will not have my baby called 'it,' as if she were a stick or a stock!" - -He laughed outright at this; then at my invitation sat down beside me. -We were silent for a time, looking at the color fading in the west, and -the single star swimming out of the purple as the sky changed into gray. -The frogs were working at their music with all the persistence of a -child strumming five-finger exercises, but their noise only made the -evening more peaceful. - -"How restful it is," I said to him at last; "it almost makes one feel -there can never be any fretting again about anything." - -Deacon Daniel did not answer for a moment, then he said with the -solemnity of one who seldom puts sentiment into words,-- - -"It is like the Twenty-third Psalm." - -I simply assented, and then we were silent again, until at last he moved -as if he were waking himself, and sighed. I always wonder whether -somewhere in the past Deacon Richards has had his romance, and if so -what it may have been. If he has, a night like this might well bring it -up to his memory. I am glad if it comes to him with the peace of a -psalm. - -"Have you thought, Miss Ruth," the Deacon asked at length in the -growing dark, "what a responsibility you are taking upon yourself in -having that baby?" - -It was like the dear old man to have considered me and to look at the -moral side of the question. He wanted to help me, I could see; and of -course he cannot understand how entirely religious one may be without -theology. I told him I had thought of it very seriously; and it seemed -to me sometimes that it was more than I was equal to. But I added that I -could not help thinking I could do better by baby than Mrs. Webbe. - -"Mrs. Webbe is no sort of a woman to bring up a child," he agreed. Then -he added, with a shrewdness that surprised me a little: "Babies have got -to be given baby-treatment as well as baby-food." - -"Of course they have," was my reply. "Babies have a right to love as -well as to milk, and poor little Thomasine would get very little from -her grandmother." - -Deacon Daniel gave a contemptuous snort. - -"That woman couldn't really love anything," he declared; "or if she did -she'd show it by being hateful." - -I said she certainly loved Tom. - -"Yes," he retorted; "and she's nagged him to death. For my part I can't -more than half blame Tom Webbe as I ought to, when I think of his having -had his mother to thorn him everlastingly." - -"Then you do think it's better for baby to be with me than with her -grandmother?" I asked him. - -"It's a hundred times better, of course; but I wondered if you'd thought -of the responsibility of its--of her religious instruction." - -We had come to the true kernel of the Deacon's errand. I really believe -that in his mind was more concern for me than for baby. He is always -unhappy that I am not in the fold of the church; and I fancy that more -or less consciously he was making of Thomasine an excuse for an attempt -to reach me. It is not difficult to understand his feeling. Mother used -to affirm that believers are anxious to proselyte because they cannot -bear to have anybody refuse to acknowledge that they are right. This is -not, I am sure, the whole of it. Of course no human being likes to be -thought wrong, especially on a thing which, like religion, cannot be -proved; but there is a good deal of genuine love in the attempt of a man -like Deacon Daniel to convert an unbeliever. He is really grieved for -me, and I would do anything short of actual dishonesty to make him -suppose that I believed as he would have me. I should so like him to be -happy about my eternal welfare. When the future does not in the least -trouble me, it seems such a pity that he should be disturbed. - -I told him to-night I should not give baby what he would call religious -instruction, but I should never interfere if others should teach her, if -they made what is good attractive. - -"But you would tell her that religion isn't true," he objected. - -"Oh, no;" I answered. "I should have to be honest, and tell her if she -asked that I don't believe we know anything about another life; but of -course as far as living in this one goes I shouldn't disagree with -religion." - -He tried to argue with me, but I entirely refused to be led on. - -"Deacon Daniel," I told him, "I know it is all in your kindness for me -that you would talk, but I refuse to have this beautiful summer evening -wasted on theology. You couldn't convince me, and I don't in the least -care about convincing you. I am entirely content that you should believe -your way, and I am entirely satisfied with mine. Now I want to talk with -you about our having a reading-room next winter." - -So I got him to another subject, and what is better I think I really -interested him in my scheme of opening a free library. If we can once -get that to working it will be a great help to the young men and boys. -"The time seems to have come in human development," I remember Father's -saying not long before he died, "when men must be controlled by the -broadening instead of by the narrowing of their minds." - - -June 18. I have been considering why it is that I have had so much said -to me this spring about religion. People have not been in the habit of -talking to me about it much. They have come to let me go my own way. I -suppose the fact of Mother's death has brought home to them that I do -not think in their way. How a consistent and narrow man can look at the -situation I have had a painful illustration in Mr. Thurston. If Kathie -had not pushed him into a corner by asking him about Mother, I doubt if -he could have gone to the length he did; but after all any really -consistent believer must take the view that I am doomed to eternal -perdition. I am convinced that few really do believe anything of the -sort, but they think that they do, and so baby and I have been a centre -of religious interest. - -Another phase of this interest has shown itself in Mr. Saychase's -desire to baptize Thomasine. I wonder if I had better put my preferences -in my pocket, and let the thing be done. It offends my sense of right -that a human being should have solemn vows made for her before she can -have any notions of what all this means; but if one looks at the whole -as simply promises on the part of adults that they will try to have the -child believe certain things and follow certain good ways of living, -there is no great harm in it. I suppose Deacon Webbe and his wife would -be pleased. I will let Tom decide the matter. - - -June 21. I met Tom in the street to-day, and he absolutely refuses to -have baby christened. - -"I'll have no mummeries over any child of mine," he declared. "I've had -enough of that humbug to last me a lifetime." - -I could not help saying I wished he were not so bitter. - -"I can't help it, Ruth," was his retort. "I am bitter. I've been banged -over the head with religion ever since I was born, and told that I was -'a child of the covenant' till I hate the very thought of the whole -business. Whatever you do, don't give anybody the right to twit -Thomasine with being 'a child of the covenant.' She has enough to bear -in being the child of her parents." - -"Don't, Tom," I begged him. "You hurt me." - -Without thinking what I did I put my hand on his arm. He brushed it -lightly with his fingers, looking at it in a way that almost brought -tears to my eyes. I took it off quickly, but I could not face him, and I -got away at once. Poor Tom! He is so lonely and so faithful. I am so -sorry that he will keep on caring for me like that. No woman is really -good enough not to tremble at the thought of absorbing the devotion of a -strong man; and it seems wicked that I should not love Tom. - - -June 25. The rose I transplanted to Mother's grave is really, I believe, -going to bloom this very summer. I am glad the blossoms on Father's -should have an echo on hers. - - -June 29. Babies and diaries do not seem to go very well together. There -is no tangible reason why I should not write after the small person is -asleep, for that is the time I have generally taken; but the fact is I -sit working upon some of Tomine's tiny belongings, or now and then sit -in the dark and think about her. My journal has been a good friend, but -I am afraid its nose is out of joint. Baby has taken its place. I begin -to see I made this book a sort of safety-valve for poor spirits and -general restlessness. Now I have this sweet human interest in my life I -do not need to resort to pen and ink for companionship. The dear little -rosy image of Thomasine is with me all the time I seem to be sitting -alone. - - -June 30. Last night I felt as if I was done with relieving my mind by -writing in an unresponsive journal; to-night I feel as if I must have -just this outlet to my feelings. Last night I thought of baby; to-night -I am troubled about her father. - -I saw Tom this afternoon at work in the hayfield, looking so brown and -so handsome that it was a pleasure to see him. He had the look of a man -who finds work just the remedy for heart-soreness, and I was happy in -thinking he was getting into tune with wholesome life. I was so pleased -that I took the footpath across the field as a mere excuse to speak to -him, and I thought he would have been glad to see me. I came almost up -to him before he would notice me, although I think he must have seen me -long before. He took off his hat as I came close to him, and wiped his -forehead. - -"Tom," I said at once, "I came this way just to say how glad I am to see -you look as if you were getting contented with your work. You were -working with such a will." - -I do not know that it was a tactful speech, but I was entirely -unprepared for the shadow which came over his face. - -"I was trying to get so completely tired out that I should sleep like a -log to-night," he answered. - -Before anything else could be said Deacon Daniel came up, and the talk -for the rest was of the weather, and the hay, and nothings. I came away -as sad as I had before been pleased. I can understand that Tom is sore -in his heart. He is dominant, and his life is made up of things which he -hates; he is ambitious, and he is fond of pleasure. He has no pleasure, -and he can see nothing before him but staying on with his father. It is -true enough that it is his own fault. He has never been willing to stick -to work, and the keenest of his regrets must be about his own ill-doing. -He is so generous, however, and so manly and kind that I cannot bear to -see him grow hard and sad and bitter. Yet what can I do to help it? -Certainly this is another case for asking if I am my brother's keeper. I -am afraid that I was resigned not to be the keeper of Mrs. Weston, but -with Tom it is different. Poor Tom! - - - - -VII - -JULY - - -July 2. Thomasine is legally my daughter. It gives me an odd feeling to -find myself really a parent. George and Tom met here this forenoon with -the papers, and all necessary formalities were gone through with. It was -not a comfortable time for any of us, I fancy; and I must own that -George acted strangely. He was out of spirits, and was but barely civil -to Tom. He has never liked the idea of my having Thomasine, and has -tried two or three times to persuade me to give her up. I have refused -to discuss the question with him, because it was really settled already. -To-day he came before Tom, and made one more protest. - -"You can keep the child if you are so determined," he said, "though why -you should want to I can't conceive; but why need you adopt it? It -hasn't any claim on you." - -I told him that she had the claim that I loved her dearly. He looked at -me with an expression more unkind than I had ever seen in his face. - -"How much is it for her father's sake?" he burst out. - -The words, offensive as they were, were less so than the manner. - -"A good deal," I answered him soberly. "I have been his friend from the -time we were both children." - -He moved in his chair uneasily. - -"Look here, Ruth," he said; "you've no occasion to be offended because I -hint at what everybody else will say." - -I asked what that was. - -"You are angry," was his response. "When you put on your grand air it is -no use to argue with you; but I've made up my mind to be plain. -Everybody says you took the baby because you are fond of him." - -I could feel myself stiffening in manner with every word, but I could -not help it. I had certainly a right to be offended; but I tried to -speak as naturally as I could. - -"I don't know, George," was my reply, "what business it is of -everybody's; and if it were, why should I not be fond of Tom?" - -He flushed and scowled, and got up from his seat. - -"Oh, if you take it that way," he answered, "of course there's nothing -more for me to say." - -I was hurt and angry, but before anything more could be said Rosa showed -Tom in. He said good-morning to George stiffly, but Tom is always -instinctively polite, I think. George had toward him an air plainly -unfriendly. I do not understand why George should feel as he does about -my adopting Thomasine, but in any case he has no right to behave as he -did. I felt between the two men as if I were hardly able to keep the -peace, and as if on the slightest provocation, George would fly out. It -was absurd, of course, but the air seemed to be full of unfriendliness. - -"I suppose we need not be very long over business," I said, trying with -desperation to speak brightly. "I've been over the papers, Tom, and I -can assure you they are all right. I'm something of a lawyer, you -know." - -George interposed, as stiffly as possible, that he must urge me to have -the instrument read aloud, in order that I might realize what I was -doing. I assured him I knew perfectly what the paper was, even if it -were called an instrument. - -"Ruth is entirely right," Tom put in emphatically. "There is not the -slightest need of dragging things out." - -"I can understand that you naturally would not want any delay," George -retorted sharply. - -Tom turned and looked at him with an expression which made George change -color, but before anything worse could be said, I hurried to ask Tom to -ring for Rosa to act as a witness. I looked in my turn at George, and I -think he understood how indignant I was. - -"It's outrageous for you to burden yourself with his brat," George -muttered under his breath as Tom went across the room to the bell-rope. - -"You forget that you are speaking of my daughter," I answered him, with -the most lofty air I could manage to assume. - -He turned on his heel with an angry exclamation, and no more objections -were made. George never showed me this unpleasant side of his character -before in all the years I have known him. For the moment he behaved like -a cad, like nothing else than a cad. Something very serious must have -been troubling him. He must have been completely unstrung before he -could be so disagreeable. - -Rosa came in, and the signing was done. After the business was finished -George lingered as if he wished to speak with me. Very likely he wished -to apologize, but my nerves were not in tune for more talk with him, -and in any case it was better to ignore all that had been unpleasant. - -"You have no more business, have you, George?" I asked him directly. -"Tom of course will want to see the daughter he has given away. I didn't -let him see her first for fear he'd refuse to part with her." - -George had no excuse for staying after that, and he was just leaving the -room when Rosa reappeared with Tomine. The darling looked like a cherub, -and was in a mood truly angelic. George scowled at her as if the dear -little thing had done him some wrong, and hurried away. I do not -understand how he could resist my darling, or why he should feel so -about her. It is, I suppose, friendship for me; but he should realize a -little what a blessing baby is to my lonely life. - -Tom stood silent when Rosa took Thomasine up to him. He did not offer to -touch the tiny pink face, and I could fancy how many thoughts must go -through his mind as he looked. While he might not regret the dead woman, -indeed, while he could hardly be other than glad that Julia was not -alive, he must have some feeling about her which goes very deep. I -should think any man who was not wholly hard must have some tenderness -toward the mother of his child, no matter who or what she was. It moves -even me, to think of such a feeling; and I could not look at Tom as he -stood there with the living child to remind him of the dead mother. - -It seemed a long time that he looked at baby, and we were all as quiet -as if we had been at prayer. Then Tom of his own accord kissed Tomine. -He has never done it before except as I have asked him. He came over to -me and held out his hand. - -"I must go back to haying," he said. Then he held my hand a minute, and -looked into my eyes. "Make her as much like yourself as you can, Ruth," -he added; "and God bless you." - -The tears came into my eyes at his tone, and blinded me. Before I could -see clearly, he was gone. I hope he understood that I appreciated the -generosity of his words. - - -July 3. I am troubled by the thought of yesterday. George went away so -evidently out of sympathy with what I had done, and very likely thinking -I was unfriendly, that it seems almost as if I had really been unkind. I -must do something to show him that I am the same as ever. Perhaps the -best thing will be to have his wife to tea. My mourning has prevented my -doing anything for them, and secretly, I am ashamed to say, this has -been a relief. I can ask them quietly, however, without other guests. - - -July 8. I feel a little as if I had been shaken up by an earthquake, but -I am apparently all here and unhurt. Day before yesterday Cousin -Mehitable descended upon me in the wake of her usual telegram, -determined to bear me away to Europe, despite, as she said, all the -babies that ever were born. She had arranged my passage, fixed the date, -engaged state-rooms, and cabled for a courier-maid to meet us at -Southampton; and now I had, she insisted, broken up all her -arrangements. - -"It's completely ungrateful, Ruth," she declared. "Here I have been -slaving to have everything ready so the trip would go smoothly for you. -I've done absolutely every earthly thing that I could think of, and now -you won't go. You've no right to back out. It's treating me in a way I -never was treated in my whole life. It's simply outrageous." - -I attempted to remind her that she had been told of my decision to stay -at home long before she had made any of her arrangements; but she -refused to listen. - -"I could bear it better," she went on, "if you had any decent excuse; -but it's nothing but that baby. I must say I think it's a pretty severe -reflection on me when you throw me over for any stray baby that happens -to turn up." - -I tried again to put in a protest, but the tide of Cousin Mehitable's -indignation is not easily stemmed. - -"To think of your turning Cousin Horace's house into a foundling -hospital!" she exclaimed. "Why don't you put up a sign? Twenty babies -wouldn't be any worse than one, and you'd be able to make a martyr of -yourself to some purpose. Oh, I've no patience with you!" - -I laughed, and assured her that there was no sort of doubt of the truth -of her last statement; so then she changed her tone and begged me not to -be so obstinate. - -Of course I could not yield, for I cannot desert baby; and in the end -Cousin Mehitable was forced to give me up as incorrigible. Then she -declared I should not triumph over her, and she would have me know that -there were two people ready and just dying to take my place. I knew she -could easily find somebody. - -The awkward thing about this visit was that Cousin Mehitable should be -here just when I had asked the Westons to tea. I always have a late -dinner for Cousin Mehitable, although Hannah regards such a perversion -of the usual order of meals as little less than immoral; and so George -and his wife found a more ceremonious repast than I had intended. I -should have liked better to have things in their usual order, for I -feared lest Mrs. Weston might not be entirely at her ease. I confess I -had not supposed she might think I was endeavoring to impress her with -my style of living until she let it out so plainly that I could not by -any possibility mistake her meaning. She evidently wished me to know -that she saw through my device; and of course I made no explanations. - -It was an uncomfortable meal. Cousin Mehitable refused to be -conciliating. She examined the bride through her lorgnette, and I could -see that Mrs. Weston was angered while she was apparently fascinated. -George was taciturn, and I could not make things go smoothly, though I -tried with all my might. By the time the guests went, I felt that my -nerves were fiddlestrings. - -"Well," Cousin Mehitable pronounced, as soon as the door had closed -behind them, "of all the dowdy frumps I ever saw, she is the worst. I -never saw anybody so overdressed." - -"She was overdressed," I assented; "but you behaved horribly. You -frightened her into complete shyness." - -"Shyness! Humph!" was her response. "She has no more shyness than a -brass monkey. That's vulgar, of course, Ruth. I meant it to be to match -the subject." - -I put in a weak defense of Mrs. Weston, although I honestly do find her -a most unsatisfactory person. She is self-conscious, and somehow she -does not seem to me to be very frank. Very likely, moreover, she had -been disconcerted by the too evident snubs of my unmanageable cousin. - -"If I snubbed her," was the uncompromising rejoinder with which a -suggestion of this sort was met, "I'm sure I am not ashamed of it. To -think of her saying that you evidently wanted to show Tuskamuck how to -do things in style! Does she think any person with style would let her -into the house?" - -I thanked her for the compliment to me. - -"Oh, bother!" she retorted. "You are only a goose, with no sense at all. -To think you once thought of marrying that country booby yourself!" - -I was too much hurt to reply, and probably my face showed my feeling, -for Cousin Mehitable burst into a laugh. - -"You needn't look so grumpy about it," she cried. "All's well that ends -well. You're safely out of that, thank heaven!" - -I felt that loyalty to George required that I should protest, but she -interrupted me. - -"Don't be a humbug, Ruth," she said; "and for pity's sake don't be such -a fool as to try to humbug yourself. You're not a sentimental schoolgirl -to moon after a man, especially when he's shown what his taste is by -taking up with such a horror as Mrs. Weston." - -"I am fond of him," I asserted, stubbornly enough. - -She seized me by the shoulders, and looked with her quick black eyes -into mine so that I felt as if she could see down to my very toes. - -"Can you look me in the face, Ruth Privet, and tell me you really care -for a man who could marry that ignorant, vulgar, dowdy woman just for -her pretty face? Can you fool yourself into thinking that you haven't -had a lucky escape from a man that's in every way your inferior? You -know you have! Why, can you honestly think now for a moment of marrying -him without feeling your backbone all gooseflesh?" - -Fortunately she did not insist upon my answering her, but shook me and -let me go. I doubt if I could have borne to have her press her -questions. I was suddenly conscious that George has changed or that my -idea of him has altered; and that if he were still single, I could not -marry him under any circumstances. - -Cousin Mehitable went home this morning, but her talk has been in my -mind all day. - -It comes over me that I have lost more than George. His loving another -did not deprive me of the power or the right to love him, and his -marriage simply set him away from my life. In some other life, if there -be one, I might have always been sure he would come back to me. I cannot -help knowing I fed his higher nature, and I helped him to grow, while -his wife appeals to something lower, even if it is more natural and -human. I felt that in some other possible existence he would see more -clearly, and she would no longer satisfy him. Now I begin to feel that I -have lost more than I knew. I have lost not only him, but I have -lost--no, I cannot have lost my love for him. It is only that to-night I -am foolish. It is rainy, dreary, hopeless; and seeing Mrs. Weston -through Cousin Mehitable's eyes has put things all askew. - -Yet why not put it down fearlessly, since I have begun? If I am to write -at all it should be the truth. I am beginning to see that the man I -loved was not George Weston so much as a creature I conjured up in his -image. I see him now in a colder, a more sane light, and I find that I -am not looking at the man who filled my heart and thought. He has -somehow changed. This would be a comfort to some, I suppose. I see now -how Mother felt about him. She never thought him what he seemed to me, -and she always believed that sooner or later I should be disappointed in -him. I should not have been disappointed if I had married him--I think! -Yet now I see how he is under the influence of his wife--But no, it is -not her influence only; I see him now, I fear, as he is when he is free -to act his true self, unmoved by the desire to be what I would have had -him. He was influenced by me. I knew it from the very first, and I see -with shame how proud of it I was. Yet it gave me a chance to help him, -to grow with him, to feel that we were together developing and -advancing. Oh, dear, how cold and superior, and conceited it sounds now -it is on paper! It truly was not that I thought I was above him; but it -is surely the part of a woman to inspire her lover and to grow into -something better with him. Now it seems as if whatever George did he did -for me, and not because of any inner love for growth. He appears now -less worthy by just so much as what he was seems to me higher than what -he is. I have lost what he was. It is cruel that I cannot find the -George I cared for. It is hard to believe he existed only in my mind. - - -July 9. I have been reading over what I wrote last night. It troubles -me, and it has a most self-righteous flavor; but I cannot see that it is -not true. It troubles me because it is true. I remember that I wondered -when George tired of me if the same would have come about if we had -married. Am I so changeable that if I had been his wife I should have -tried him by my severe standards, and then judged him unworthy? I begin -to think the Pharisees were modest and self-distrustful as compared to -self-righteous me. It is terribly puzzling. If I were his wife I should -surely feel that my highest duty was to help him, to bring out whatever -is best in him. I think I should have been too absorbed in this ever to -have discovered that I was idealizing him. Now I am far enough away from -him to see him clearly. The worse part of him has come out; and very -likely I am not above a weak feminine jealousy which makes me incapable -of doing him justice. I believe if I had been his wife I might have kept -him--Yet he was already tired of my influence! - -Such speculations are pretty unprofitable work. The only thing to keep -in mind now is that he is my friend, and that it is for me to do still -whatever I can for him. I confess that Cousin Mehitable is right. I am -no longer sorry I did not marry George, but I still care for him -sincerely, and mean to serve him in every way possible. - - -July 12. Miss Charlotte came in this morning while I was playing with -Tomine, and hailed me as a mother in Israel. She is a great admirer of -baby, but she declines to touch her. - -"I'm too big and too rough," she says. "I know I should drop her or -break her, or forget she isn't a plant, and go to snipping her with my -pruning-shears. You'd better keep her. You've the motherly way with -you." - -It must please any woman to be told that she has the motherly way, and -just now I certainly need it. Miss Charlotte came to talk with me about -Kathie. The poor child has been growing more and more morbid all summer, -and I do not see what is to be done for her. I have tried to comfort and -help her, but as her troubles are religious I am all but helpless. - -Miss Charlotte went over the Cove yesterday on one of her roving tramps -in the woods,--"bushwhacking," as she calls it,--and found Kathie -roaming about in Elder's Cut-down, wringing her hands and crying aloud -like a mad thing. - -"You can't tell what a start it gave me, Ruth," she said. "I heard her, -and I thought of wild beasts and wild Indians, and all sorts of horrors. -Then when I saw her, I didn't know her at first. Her hair was all -tousled up, and she wrung her hands in the craziest way." - -"Did you speak to her?" I asked. - -"I couldn't. She ran away as soon as I called to her. She'll end in a -lunatic asylum if you don't get hold of her." - -I could only shake my head. - -"What can I do, Miss Charlotte?" I asked her. "The trouble is she is -half crazy about sin and judgment, and things of that sort that I don't -even believe in at all. What can I say? You don't want me to tell her -her father's religion is a mistake, I suppose." - -Miss Charlotte smiled serenely, and regarded me with a look of much -sweet kindliness. - -"You're a fearful heathen, Ruth," was her response, "but you have a fine -wheedling way with you. Couldn't you persuade her she's too young to -think about such things?" - -"I've tried something of the kind, but she says she is not too young to -die. She is like a child out of an old memoir. She isn't of our time at -all. We read of that sort of a girl, but I supposed they all died a -hundred years ago." - -"I doubt if there ever were such girls," Miss Charlotte returned with -candor; "except once in a very great while. I think the girls of the -memoirs were very much like the rest of us most of the time. They -probably had spells of being like Kathie. The difference is that she is -at boiling point all the time." - -"Of course it's her father," I said thoughtfully. - -"Yes," she assented. "He's such a rampant Methodist." - -I could not help the shadow of a smile, and when she saw it Miss -Charlotte could no more help smiling in her turn. - -"Of course you think it's a case of the pot's calling the kettle black," -she said, "but the Methodists do make such a business of frightening -folks out of their wits. We don't do that." - -I let this pass, and asked if she couldn't make some practical -suggestion for the treatment of Kathie. - -"I can't tell you how to dilute her Methodism," she returned with a -shrewd twinkle in her eye. "You must know the way better than I do." - -I am troubled and perplexed. I have so many times wondered what I ought -to do about talking to Kathie. I have always felt that the fact her -father trusted her with me put me on my honor not to say things to her -of which he would not approve. It seemed unwise, too, for the child to -have any more turmoil in her brain than is there already; and I know -that to make her doubt would be to drive her half distracted. The -question is whether she has not really begun to doubt already, and needs -to be helped to think fearlessly. She is a strange survival from another -century. Our grandmothers used to agonize over sin, it is claimed, -although I think Miss Charlotte is probably right when she says they -were after all a good deal like us. At any rate they were brought up to -dread eternal punishment, but it is astonishing to find anybody now who -receives this as anything but a theory. Belief in the old creeds would -seem impossible in these days except in a conventional and remote -fashion; and yet Kathie takes it all with the desperation of two hundred -years ago. If she were to listen to a suggestion of using her creed less -like a hair-shirt, she would feel she had committed an appalling -transgression. She is only a baby after all, and heaven knows what -business she has with creeds anyway. I would as soon think of giving -Tomine dynamite bombs to play with. - -I said something of this sort to Miss Charlotte, and she agreed with me -that Kathie ought not to brood over theologic questions, but she thought -even a child ought, as she put it, instinctively falling into the -conventional phraseology of the church, to make her peace with God. I am -so glad that nobody ever put it into my childish head that I could ever -be at war with God. - -Peter has made a leap to the table, and set his foot on my wet writing. -Evidently he thinks it foolish to waste time in this sort of scribbling; -but I do wish I knew what I can do and what I ought to do. - - -July 15. Deacon Daniel Webbe came this afternoon to see his -granddaughter. Mrs. Webbe--had forbidden him, I was about to write, but -perhaps that is not fair. He only said she thought he had better not -come, and he tried clumsily to hint that he hoped I would not betray -him. It was touching to see him, he was so much moved by the beauty and -the daintiness of baby, and by all the thoughts he must have had about -Tom. He said little, only that he spoke with a good deal of feeling of -how good it is in Tom to stay at home and take charge of the farm; but -tears were in his patient eyes, and he looked at Tomine with a glance so -pathetic that I had to go away to wipe my own. - -I find that having baby here naturally keeps my thoughts a good deal on -Tom and his possible future. I can't help the feeling that I owe him -some sort of reparation for the devotion he has given me all these -years. Surely a woman owes a man something for his caring for her so, -even if she cannot feel in the same way toward him. Tom has always been -a part of my life. We were boy and girl together long before I knew -George. When the Westons moved here, I must have been ten or twelve -years old; and I never knew George until Father took him into the -office. It was the winter Father had first been ill, and he had to have -an assistant at once. I remember perfectly the excellent reports Father -got from some office in Boston where George had been, and these decided -him. He had been inclined not to like George at the beginning. I think I -first became interested in George through defending him. - -George always seemed rather to prefer that I should not know his people, -and this struck me as strange. The less admirable they were the more Tom -would have insisted upon my knowing them. Dear old Tom! How many times -he has told me of his own faults, and never of his good deeds. He is -certainly one of the most stubbornly honest creatures alive. - -Tom and George are about as different as two mortals could be. George -has very little of Tom's frankness, and he has not much of Tom's -independence. Father used to declare that George would always be led by -a woman, but would never own it to himself. I wonder if this is true. He -is being led now by his wife. I fancy, though, he has no idea of such a -thing. Tom would lead wherever he was. - -I have rambled far enough away from Deacon Daniel and the baby. I do -hope Tomine will have her father's honesty. If she have that, other -things may be got over. Deacon Daniel spoke of her having her father's -eyes, and she could hardly have Tom's eyes and not be straightforward. - - -July 20. Mr. Saychase has taken to frequent pastoral visitations of -late. He probably feels now that the moral welfare of baby is involved -he must be especially active. I wish he did not bore me so, for he comes -often, and I do wish to be friendly. - -To-night he seemed rather oddly interested in my plans for the future. - -"I hope that you mean to remain in Tuskamuck," he said. "Some folks -think you are likely to move to Boston." - -I told him that I had no such intention, and reminded him that baby made -a new bond between me and the place. - -"Oh, the baby," he responded, it seemed to me rather blankly. "You mean, -I presume, that you contemplate keeping the infant." - -"Keeping her?" I responded. "Why, I have adopted her." - -"I heard so," Mr. Saychase admitted; "but I did not credit the report. I -suppose you will place her in some sort of a home." - -"Yes," I answered; "in my home." - -He flushed a little, and as he was my guest I set myself to put him at -his ease. But I should like to understand why everybody is so determined -that Tomine shall be sent to a "Home." - - -July 21. I went to see old lady Andrews to-day. She was as sweet and -dear as ever, and as immaculate as if she had just been taken out of -rose-leaves and lavender. She never has a hair of her white curls out of -place, and her cheeks are at seventy-five pinker than mine. I like to -see her in her own house, for she seems to belong to the time of the -antique furniture, so entirely is she in harmony with it. I get a fresh -sense of virtue every time I look at her beautiful old laces. I wonder -if the old masters ever painted angels in thread laces; if not it was a -great oversight. Dear old lady Andrews, she has had enough sorrow in her -life to embitter any common mortal; her husband, her two sons, and her -near kin are all dead before her; but she is too sweet and fine to -degenerate. When sorrow does not sour, how it softens and ennobles. - -Old lady Andrews was greatly interested about baby, and we gossiped of -her in a delightful way for half an hour. - -"It pleases me very much, Ruth," she said at last, "to see how motherly -you are. I never had any doubt about you at all except that I wondered -whether you could really mother a baby. I knew you would love it, and -be kind, of course; but babies ought to have motherliness if they are -really to thrive." - -I flushed with pleasure, and asked if she meant that she had thought me -cut out for an old maid. - -"If I did," she answered, with that smile of hers which always makes me -want to kiss her on the spot, "I shall never think so again. You've the -genuine mother-instinct." - -She looked at me a moment as if questioning with herself. - -"The truth is," she went on, as if she had made up her mind to say the -whole, "you have been for years making an intellectual interest do -instead of real love, and of course your manner showed it." - -I could not ask her what she meant, though I only half understood, and I -wished to hear more. She grew suddenly more serious, and spoke in a -lower tone. - -"Ruth," she asked, "I am an old woman, and I am fond of you. May I say -something that may sound impertinent?" - -Of course I told her she might say anything, and that I knew she could -not be impertinent. I could not think what was coming. She leaned -forward, and put her thin hand on mine, the little Tennant hand with its -old-fashioned rings. - -"It is just this, Ruth. Be careful whom you marry. I'm so afraid you'll -marry somebody out of charity. At least don't think of being a parson's -wife." - -"A parson's wife?" I echoed stupidly, not in the least seeing what she -meant. - -"That would be worse than to take up with the prodigal son," she added, -not heeding my interrogation; "though it does seem to me, my dear, that -you are too good to be just served up like a fatted calf in honor of his -return." - -I stared at her with bewilderment so complete that she burst into a soft -laugh, as mellow as her old laces. - -"I am speaking parables, of course, and it's no matter now about the -prodigal. I only wanted to suggest that you are not just the wife for -Mr. Saychase, and"-- - -"Mr. Saychase!" I burst out, interrupting her, I think, for the first -time in my life. "Why, who ever thought of anything so preposterous?" - -"Oh, you innocent!" she laughed. "I knew you'd be the last one to see -it, and I wanted to warn you so that he need not take you entirely by -surprise. He is my pastor, and a very good man in his way; but he isn't -our kind, my dear." - -I sat staring at her in a sort of daze, while I suddenly remembered how -much Mr. Saychase has been to see me lately, and how self-conscious he -has seemed sometimes. I had not a word to say, even in protest, and old -lady Andrews having, I suppose, accomplished all she wished in warning -me, dropped the subject entirely, and turned back to Thomasine's doings -and welfare. - -The idea that Mr. Saychase has been thinking of me as a possible -helpmate is certainly ludicrous. I believe thoroughly any girl should -"thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love," but in this case I do -not see how love comes into the question at all. I cannot help feeling -that he would intellectually be the sort of a husband to put into a -quart-pot, there to bid him drum, and at least he will lose no sleep -from a blighted passion for me. Certainly I should be intellectually -starved if I had to live with him. He is not naturally a man of much -power of thinking, I suppose, and he has never cultivated the habit. One -cannot help seeing that whatever his original capabilities they have -been spoiled by his profession. A minister, Father said to me once, must -either be so spiritual that his creed has no power to restrain him, or a -poor crippled thing, pathetic because the desire of rising has made him -hamper himself with vows. I think I understand what he meant, and I am -afraid Mr. Saychase is of the latter sort: a man who meant well, and so -pledged himself always to cling to the belief the church had made for -him, no matter what higher light might come into his life. He is to be -pitied,--though he would not understand why. He could hardly care for -anybody so far from his way of thinking as I am, so old lady Andrews -cannot be right there. - - -July 25. George is having his house enlarged. Mrs. Weston is certainly -energetic, with what is perhaps a Western energy. She has been married -only about four months. George told me the other day that he meant to -make the house larger. - -"Gertrude wants a bigger parlor," he explained, rather ill at ease, I -thought. "The house is big enough for me, but when a man has a wife -things are different." - -There was a labored playfulness in his manner which troubled me. He has -bought a phaeton and pony for her. I hope that he is not going beyond -his means. As for a larger parlor, I am afraid that Mrs. Weston will -have to fill it with rather odd people. - - -July 27. Kathie has shown a new side to her character which troubles me. -It is all, I suppose, part of her morbid, unhinged condition, but it is -unpleasant. She has conceived a violent jealousy of baby. She refuses to -stay in the house if I have Thomasine with me. This afternoon I had sent -for her to come over and stay to tea. She came in about five, with a -wild look in her eyes which she has almost all the time now. She sat -down without saying anything, and began to pull the roses in a bowl on -the table to pieces, scattering the petals on the floor. - -I laughingly told her that she evidently thought she was in the woods -where roses grew wild and there were no rugs. Instead of answering me, -or apologizing, she looked at me strangely, and for a moment said -nothing. - -"Are you going to have baby brought down here this afternoon?" she -demanded at last. - -I said Tomine was out with Rosa, but that I expected them in soon, as it -was almost time for baby's supper. - -"Will she come in here?" Kathie asked. - -"Oh, yes," was my reply. "You will see her. Never fear." - -"Then I may as well go home now," observed this astounding child, -rising, and going deliberately toward the door. - -"What in the world do you mean?" I cried out, completely taken by -astonishment. - -"I never will stay in the room with her again," Kathie responded -emphatically. "I just hate her!" - -I could only stare at her. - -"You're all taken up with her now," Kathie continued. "You used to like -me, but now it's all that baby. I'm much obliged to you for inviting me -to supper, but I can't stay any longer if she's coming." - -If anybody could make me understand whether Kathie is sane or not I -should have more confidence in attempting to deal with her. To-day I -felt as if I were dealing with a mad creature, and that it was idle to -try to do anything. It seemed to me it would be a pity to treat the -matter too seriously, and I tried to act as if I thought she was merely -joking. I laughingly told her that the idea was one of the funniest I -ever heard, and that we must tell baby when she came in, to see if we -could make the small person laugh. Kathie received my remarks with -unmoved seriousness. - -"It isn't a joke at all, Miss Ruth," she said, with an uncanny air which -was most uncomfortable, but which in some indefinable way gave me for -the first time in all my dealings with the girl a sort of hint that she -was partly acting. "It is just my wicked heart. I hate"-- - -I interrupted her briskly. - -"Your wicked fiddlesticks, Kathie!" I said. "Don't talk nonsense. What -time has been settled on for the church fair?" - -She was so taken aback that she had no defense ready, and after a sort -of gasp of amazement she answered my question, and said no more about -her wickedness. Baby came in with Rosa, and Kathie behaved as usual, -only I remember now that she did not offer to touch Tomine. I went -upstairs for a moment with Rosa and baby to see if everything was right, -and when I went back to the parlor my guest had taken herself off. She -had gone without her supper as she had said she should. I confess my -first feeling was that she needed to be soundly shaken; but after all -when a child is morbidly wrong in her feelings the particular way in -which she shows it is not of much consequence. Perhaps she had better be -expending her distempered mood on jealousy of baby than on religion. The -question is what I had better do; and I confess I do not know how to -answer it. - - -July 28. Mr. Saychase has made his purpose and his ideas entirely clear, -and I wish I could think of them with less inclination to laugh. If he -could for a single minute know how funny he was, it would do him more -good than anything I can think of as likely to happen to him. - -He came to call to-night, and so evident was his air of excitement that -even Rosa must have noticed it; she was all significant smiles when she -ushered him in. I tried to talk about commonplace things, but could get -practically no response. For half an hour by the clock we went stumbling -on with intervals of silence when I could think of nothing except that I -must say something. At last he cleared his throat with a manner so -desperate and determined that I knew something dreadful was coming. - -"Miss Privet," he said, "I thought I would mention to you that I came -to-night for a particular purpose." - -It came over me with a sickening sense that old lady Andrews was right, -and that it was too late to stop him. I did make a desperate effort to -interpose, but he had at last got started, and would not be stayed. - -"You must have noticed," he went on, as if he were repeating a lesson, -"that I entertain a great respect for your character." - -"Indeed, Mr. Saychase," I responded, with a laugh which was principally -nerves, "you evidently mean to make me unbearably vain." - -"That you could never be," he returned with an air of gallantry I should -not have thought him capable of. "Your modesty is one of your greatest -charms." - -The girl who can hear her modesty praised and not be amused must be -lacking in a sense of humor. I laughed aloud before I realized what I -was doing. Then, as he looked hurt, I apologized humbly. - -"It's no matter," he said graciously; "of course you wouldn't be modest -if you knew how modest you are." - -This sounded so ambiguous and so like comic opera that in spite of -myself I laughed again. - -"Come, Mr. Saychase," I begged him, "don't say any more about my -modesty, please. We'll take it for granted. Have you seen Aunt Naomi -this week? She has had a little return of her bad cold." - -"I came over to-night," he broke out explosively, not in the least -diverted by my question, "to ask you to marry me." - -All I could do was to blurt out his name like an awkward schoolgirl. - -"I dare say you are surprised, Miss Ruth," he went on, evidently -relieved to have got the first plunge over with, "but that, as we were -saying, may be laid to modesty." - -I respect Mr. Saychase,--at least I think he means well, and I hated to -be the means of making him uncomfortable; but this return to my modesty -was too funny, and nearly sent me off into laughter again. My sense of -the fun of the situation brought back, however, my self-control. - -"Mr. Saychase," I said, as gravely as I could, "I am not so dull as not -to feel the honor you have done me, but such a thing is entirely -impossible. We had better talk of something else." - -"But I am in earnest, Miss Privet," he urged. - -I assured him that I was not less so. - -"I hope you will not decide hastily," was his response. "I have long -recognized your excellent qualities; our ages are suitable; and I think -I am right in saying that we both find our highest satisfaction in doing -good. Be sure my esteem for you is too great for me to easily take a -refusal." - -"But, Mr. Saychase," I argued, catching at any excuse to end his -importunity, "you forget that I am not a sharer in your beliefs. A -clergyman ought not to marry a woman that half his parish would think an -atheist." - -"I have thought of that," he responded readily, "and knew you must -recognize that a clergyman's wife should be a helpmeet in his religious -work; but I hoped that for the sake of the work, if not for mine, you -might be willing to give up your unhappy views." - -There was a sort of simplicity about this which was so complete as to be -almost noble. It might be considered an amazing egotism, and it might be -objected that Mr. Saychase had a singular idea of the sincerity of my -"unhappy views;" but the entire conviction with which he spoke almost -made me for the moment doubt myself. Unfortunately for him, a most -wickedly absurd remembrance came into my mind of a sentimental story in -an old red and gold annual that was grandmother's. A noble Christian -chieftain has falled in love with a Moorish damsel, and says to her: -"Beautiful Zorahida, only become a Christian, and thou shalt be my -bride." Beautiful Zorahida took at once to the proposition, but I am -made of more obstinate stuff. I hid the smile the story brought up, but -I determined to end this talk at once. - -"Mr. Saychase," I said as firmly as I could, "you are kind, but it is -utterly impossible that I should change my views or that I should marry -you. We will, if you please, consider the subject closed entirely. How -soon do you go to Franklin to the annual conference?" - -He evidently saw I was in earnest, and to my great relief said no more -in this line. He could not help showing that he was uncomfortable, -although I was more gracious to him than I had ever been in my life. He -did not stay long. As he was going I said I was sure he would not let -anything I had said wound him, for I had not meant to hurt him. He said -"Oh, no," rather vaguely, and left me. I wonder how many girls ever get -an offer of marriage without a hint of love from beginning to end! - - -July 30. Tomine is more adorable every day. I wish Tom could see her -oftener. It would soften him, and take out of his face the hard look -which is getting fixed there. He surely could not resist her when she -wakes up from her nap, all rosy and fresh, and with a wonder-look in her -eyes as if she had been off in dreamland so really that she could not -understand how she happens not to be there still. I think the clasp of -her soft little fingers on his would somehow take the ache out of his -heart. Poor Tom! I wonder how far being sorry for a thing makes one -better. Repentance is more than half discomfort, Mother used to say. I -always told her that to me it seemed like a sort of moral indigestion -which warned us not to eat any more of the forbidden fruit that caused -it. Tom is unhappy. He is proud, and he feels the disgrace more than he -would own. Any country town is so extremely pronounced in its -disapproval of sins of a certain kind that a man would have to be -covered with a rhinoceros hide not to feel it; and to stand up against -it means to a man of Tom's disposition a constant attitude of defiance. - -Sometimes I find myself feeling so strongly on Tom's side that I seem to -have lost all moral sense. It is my instinct, the cruelly illogical -injustice of my sex perhaps, to lay the blame on poor dead Julia. -Only--but I cannot think of it, and how I come to be writing about it is -more than I can tell. I do think a good deal about Tom, however, and -wonder what the effect on his character will be. He is of a pretty -stubborn fibre when once he has taken a determination; and now that he -has made up his mind to fight down public opinion here he will do it. -The question is what it will cost him. Sometimes it seems a pity that he -could not have gone away from home, into a broader atmosphere, and one -where he could have expended his strength in developing instead of -resisting. Here he will be like a tree growing on a windy sea-cliff; he -will be toughened, but I am afraid he will be twisted and gnarled. - -I wonder if little Tomine will ever ask me, when she is grown, about her -mother. If she does I can only say that I never saw Julia until she was -on her deathbed; and that will have to do. Dear little soft baby! The -idea of her being grown up is too preposterous. She is always to be my -baby Thomasine, and then I can love her without the penalty of having to -answer troublesome questions. - - - - -VIII - -AUGUST - - -August 1. I said a thing to Tom to-day which was the most natural thing -in the world, yet which teases me. He came to pay one of his rare visits -to baby, and we were bending over her so that our heads were almost -together. I was not thinking of him, but just of Tomine, and without -considering how he might take it I declared that I felt exactly as if -she were my very own. - -"What do you mean?" Tom asked. "She is yours." - -"Oh, but I mean as if I were really her mother," I explained, stupidly -making my mistake worse. - -"Would to God you were!" he burst out. "Would to God you cared enough -for me to be now!" - -I was of course startled, though I had brought it on myself. I got out -of it by jumping up and calling to Rosa to take Tomine and give her her -supper. Now recalling it, and remembering how Tom looked, his eyes and -his voice, I wonder what I ought to do. I do not know how to make him -understand that because George has left me I am no more likely to marry -somebody else. I may not feel the same toward George, but nothing -follows from that. I own to myself frankly that I respect Tom more than -I do George; I can even say that I find more and more as time goes on -that I had rather see Tom coming up the walk. The old boy and girl -friendship has largely come back between Tom and me; and I am a little, -just a little on the defensive on his account against the talk of the -village. I think now all is over, and Julia in her grave, that might be -allowed to rest. Only one thing I do not understand. I am no more moved -by the touch of George's hand now than by that of any acquaintance; I -cannot touch Tom's fingers without remembering Julia. - - -August 2. It is curious to see how Rosa's heart and her religion keep up -the struggle. Ran's wife has obstinately refused to die, but has instead -got well enough to send Rosa an insulting message; so the hope of -finding a solution of all difficulties in Ran's becoming a widower is -for the present at least abandoned. Rosa is evidently fond of Ran, and -while the priest and her conscience--or rather her religious fear of -consequences--keep her from marrying him, they cannot make her give him -up entirely. She still clings to some sort of an engagement with Dennis; -and she still talks in her amazingly cold-blooded way about her lovers, -speculating on the practical side of the question in a fashion so -dispassionate that Ran's chance would seem to be gone forever; but in -the end she comes back to him. What the result will be I cannot even -guess, but I feel it my duty not to encourage Rosa to incline toward -Ran, who is really drunken and disreputable. I remind her how he beat -his wife; but then she either says any man with spunk must beat his wife -now and then when he isn't sober, or she declares that anybody might and -indeed should beat that sort of a woman. I can only fall back upon the -fact that she cannot marry him without incurring the displeasure of her -church, and although she never fails to retort that I do not believe in -her religion, I can see that the argument moves her. In dealing with -Rosa it is very easy to see how necessary a religion is for the -management of the ignorant and unreasonable. In this case the obstinacy -of Rosa's attachment may prove too strong for the church, but the church -is the only thing which in her undisciplined mind could combat her -inclination for a moment. - -Sometimes when Rosa appeals to me for sympathy I wonder whether genuine -love is not entirely independent of reason; and I wonder, too, whether -it is or is not a feeling which must last a whole life long. I seem to -myself to be sure that if I had married George I should always have -loved him,--or I should have loved the image of him I kept in my mind. I -would have defied proof and reason, and whatever he did I should have -persuaded myself that no matter what circumstances led him to do he was -really noble in his nature. I know I should have stultified myself to -the very end, rather than to give up caring for him; and it seems to me -that I should have done it with my mental eyes shut. I should have been -hardly less illogical about it than Rosa is. What puzzles me most is -that while I can analyze myself in this lofty way, I believe I have in -me possibilities of self-deception so complete. Whether it is a virtue -in women to be able to cheat themselves into constancy I can't tell, and -indeed I think all these speculations decidedly sentimental and -unprofitable. - - -August 5. Aunt Naomi came to-day, like an east wind bearing depression. -She has somehow got hold of a rumor that George is speculating. Where -she obtained her information I could not discover. She likes to be a -little mysterious, and she pieces together so many small bits of -information that I dare say it would often be hard for her to say -exactly what the source of her information really was. She is sometimes -mistaken, but for anybody who tells so many things she is surprisingly -seldom entirely wrong. Besides I half think that in a village like ours -thoughts escape and disseminate themselves. I am sometimes almost afraid -as I write things down in this indiscreet diary of mine, lest they shall -somehow get from the page into the air, and Aunt Naomi will know them -the next time she appears. This is to me the worst thing about living in -a small place. It is impossible not to have the feeling of being under a -sort of foolish slavery to public opinion, a slavish regard to feelings -we neither share nor respect; and greater still is the danger of coming -to be interested in trifles, of growing to be gossips just as we are -rustics, simply from living where it is so difficult not to know all -about our neighbors. - -Speculation was the word which to-day Aunt Naomi rolled as a sweet -morsel under her tongue. Any sort of financial dealing is so strangely -far away from our ordinary village ways that any sort of dealing in -stocks would, I suppose, be regarded as dangerously rash, if not -altogether unlawful; but I do hope that there is nothing in George's -business which will lead him into trouble. I know that I am bothering -about something which is none of my affair, and which is probably all -right, if it has any existence. - -"I don't know much about speculation myself," Aunt Naomi observed; "and -I doubt if George Weston does. He's got a wife who seems bound to spend -every cent she can get hold of, and it looks as if he found he'd got to -take extra pains to get it." - -"But how should anybody know anything about his affairs?" I asked in -perplexed vexation. - -She regarded me shrewdly. - -"Everybody knows everything in a place like this," she responded -waggishly. "I'm sure I don't see how everything gets to be known, but it -does. You can't deny that." - -I told her that I was afraid we were dreadfully given to gossiping about -our neighbors, and to talking about things which really didn't concern -us. - -"Some do, I suppose," she answered coolly, but with a twinkle from -behind the green veil which is always aslant across her face. "It's a -pity, of course; but you wouldn't have us so little interested in each -other as not to notice the things we hear, would you?" - -I laughed, of course, but did not give up my point entirely. - -"But so much that is said is nonsense," I persisted. "Here Mrs. Weston -has been in Tuskamuck for four or five months, and she is already -credited with running into extravagance, and bringing her husband into -all sorts of things. We might at least give her time to get settled -before we talk about her so much." - -"She hadn't been here four or five weeks before she made it plain enough -what she is," was the uncompromising retort. "She set out to astonish us -as soon as she came. That's her Western spirit, I suppose." - -I did not go on with the talk, but secretly the thing troubles me. -Speculation is a large word, and it is nonsense to suppose George to be -speculating in any way which could come to much, or that Aunt Naomi -would know it if he were. I do wish people would either stop talking -about George, or talk to somebody besides me. - - -August 6. Mrs. Tracy came in to call to-day. She makes a round of calls -about once in two years, and I have not seen her for a long time. She -had her usual string of questions, and asked about me and baby and Tom -and the girls and the summer preserving until I felt as if I had been -through the longest kind of a cross-examination. Just before she left -she inquired if Mrs. Weston had told me that her husband was going to -make a lot of money in stocks. I said at once that I seldom saw Mrs. -Weston, and that I knew nothing about her husband's business affairs; -but this shows where Aunt Naomi got her information. Mrs. Weston must -have been talking indiscreetly. I wonder--But it seems to me I am always -wondering! - - -August 7. Kathie has not been near me since she left the house the other -evening. It seemed better to let her work out things in her own way than -to go after her. I hoped that if I took no notice she might forget her -foolishness, and behave in a more natural way. I met her in the street -this afternoon, and stopped to speak with her. I said nothing of her -having run away, but talked as usual. At last I asked her if she would -not come home with me, and she turned and came to the gate. Then I asked -her to come in, but she stopped short. - -"Is the baby gone?" she demanded. - -"No," I answered. - -"You know I shall never come into your house again while that baby is -there," she declared in an odd, quiet sort of way. "I hate that baby, -and he that hates is just like a murderer." - -She said it with a certain relish, as if she were proud of it. I begin -to suspect that there may be a good deal of the theatrical mixed with -her abnormal feeling. - -"Kathie," I said, "you may be as silly as you like, but you can't make -me believe anything so absurd as that you hate Thomasine. As for being a -murderer in your heart, you wouldn't hurt a fly." - -She looked at me queerly. I half thought there was a little -disappointment in her first glance; then a strange expression as if she -unconsciously took herself for audience, since I would not serve, and -went on with her play of abnormal wickedness. - -"You don't know how wicked I am," she responded. "I am a murderer in my -heart." - -A strangely intense look came into her eyes, as if a realization of what -she was saying took hold of her, and as if she became really frightened -by her own assumption. She clutched my arm with a grasp which must have -been at least half genuine. - -"Oh, Miss Ruth," she said. "I don't know what I shall do. I know I am -lost!" - -I wanted to shake the child, so completely for the moment did I feel -that a lot of her emotion was make-believe, even if unconscious; but on -the other hand she was actually beginning to turn pale and tremble with -the nervous excitement she had raised by her fear or her theatricals. - -"Kathie," I said, almost severely, "you know you are talking nonsense. -Come into the house, and have a glass of milk and a slice of cake. -You'll feel better after you've had something to eat." - -She looked at me with eyes really wild, and without a word turned -quickly and ran down the street at full speed, leaving me utterly -confounded. I am sure she acts to herself, and that her religious mania -is partly theatrical; but then I suppose religious mania always is. Yet -it has a basis in what she believes, and with her imaginative, -hysterical temperament she has the power of taking up her ideas so -completely that she gets to be almost beside herself. When she is so -much in earnest she must be treated, I suppose, as if all her -self-accusations and agony of mind were entirely real. - - -August 8. I have been to lay a bunch of sweet-peas on Mother's grave. I -wonder and wonder again if she knows when I am so near the place where -we left her, the place where it always seems to me some life must yet -linger. I have all my life been familiar with the doubt whether any -consciousness, any personality survives death; and yet it is as natural -to assume that life goes on as it is to suppose the sun will rise -to-morrow. I know that my feeling proves nothing; but still -instinctively I cling to it. - -In any case there is the chance the dead are alive and alert somewhere -in the shadows, and if they are they must be glad not to be forgotten. I -should not be willing to take the chance, and neglect the grave of one -who had been fond of me. Mother loved me as I loved her; and this -decides I shall run no risk of her being unhappy after death in the -thought that I have forgotten. - -I suppose I cling to a feeling that there must be some sort of -immortality largely from the loneliness I feel. The idea of never seeing -Father or Mother again is more than I could endure. Father used to say -that after all each of us is always really alone in this world, and even -our best friends can no more come close to us than if they did not -exist; but this always seemed to me a sort of cold, forlorn theory. The -warmth of human companionship somehow makes it impossible for me to feel -anything like this. When I said so to Father, I remember he smiled, and -said he was glad I did find it impossible. - -One thing I am sure of to the very bottom of my heart: that things are -somehow completely right, so that whatever death means it must be part -of a whole which is as it should be. - - -August 10. To-day Tom brought me a bunch of cardinal-flowers. He had -been up to the Lake Meadows, he said, and thought I might like them. The -whole parlor is alive with the wonderful crimson--no, scarlet, of the -great flaming armful of blossoms. Tom used to get them for me when I was -a girl, but since those days I have had only a stray spike now and then. -They bring back the past, and the life-long friendship I have had with -Tom. I wonder sometimes why I have never been in love with Tom. Life -never seemed complete without him. In the years he kept away on account -of George I missed him sorely, and more than once I have thought of all -sorts of ways to bring things back to the former footing; only I knew -all the time it was of no use. It is the greatest comfort to have the -old friendship back, and now Tom must understand that I have no more -than friendship to give him. It would be vexing if he should -misunderstand, but I must take care he does not. - - -August 11. I have been at the Town Hall helping to make ready for a -raspberry festival, to raise money for the church. Miss Charlotte came -after me, and of course I had to go. She said all that was wanted was my -taste to direct about decorating the hall, but I have been told so -before, and I knew from experience that taste is expected to work out -its own salvation. To be really fair I suppose I should say I cannot -stand by and give directions, but have to take hold with my own hands, -so it is nobody's fault but my own if I do things. Besides, it is really -good fun among the neighbors, with the air full of the smell of cedar, -with all the pretty young girls making wreaths and laughing while they -work, and with your feet tangled in evergreens and laurel whenever you -cross the floor. Miss Charlotte is in her element at such a time. Her -great-throated laugh, as strong as a man's, rings out, and she seems for -the time quite happy and jolly with excitement. - -It came over me to-day almost with a sense of dismay how old I seem to -the young girls. They treated me with a sort of respect which couldn't -be put into words exactly, I suppose, but which I felt. Somehow I -believe the breaking of my engagement has made me seem older to them. -Perhaps it is my foolish fancy, but I seem to see that while I was -engaged I had still for them a hold on youth which I have now lost. I -suppose they never thought it out, but I know they feel now that I am -very much their senior. - -At a time like this, too, I realize how true it is that I am somehow a -little outside of the life of the village. I have lived here almost all -my life. Except for the years I was at school, and a winter or two in -Boston or abroad I have been generally at home. I know almost everybody -in town, by sight at least. Yet I always find when I am among Tuskamuck -people in this way that I am looking at them as if I were a spectator. I -wonder if this means that I am egotistical or queer, or only that my -life has been so much more among books and intellectual things than the -life of most of them. I am sure I love the town and my neighbors. - -The thing I wish to put down, however, has nothing to do with my -feelings toward the town. It is that I am ashamed of the way I wrote the -other day about Mr. Saychase. He entered the hall this afternoon just as -old Mrs. Oliver came limping in to see the decorations; and the lovely -way in which he helped the poor old lame creature made me blush for -myself. I almost wanted to go to him and apologize then and there. It -would have been awkward, however, first to explain that I had made fun -of him in my diary, and then apologize! But he is a good soul, even if -he did think I was a sort of nineteenth century Zorahida, to give up -Mohammedanism for the sake of wedding a Christian chief.--And here I go -again! - - -August 15. I have been reading to-night a book about the East, and it -has stirred me a good deal. The speculations of strange peoples on the -great mystery of life and death bring them so close to us. They show how -alike all mankind is, and how we all grope about after some clue to -existence. On the whole it is better, I think, not to give much thought -to what may come after death,--no more thought, that is, than we cannot -help. We can never know, and we must either raise vague hopes to make us -less alive to the importance of life, the reality of life--I do not know -how to say it. Of course all religion insists on the importance of life, -but rather as a preparation for another existence. I think we need to -have it always before us that what is important is not what will happen -after we are dead and gone, but what is happening now because we are -alive and have a hand in things. I see this is not very clear, but I am -sure the great thing is to live as if life were of value in itself. To -live rightly, to make the most out of the life we can see and feel, is -all that humanity is equal to, and it is certainly worth doing for its -own sake. - -The idea which has struck me most in what I have been reading to-night -is the theory that each individual is made up of the fragments of other -lives; that just as the body is composed of material once part of other -bodies, so is the spirit built up of feelings, and passions, and -tendencies, and traits of temperament formerly in other individuals dead -and gone. At first thought it does not seem to me a comfortable theory. -I should not seem to belong to myself any more, if I believed it. To -have the temper of some bygone woman, and the affections of another, and -the tastes of a third,--it is too much like wearing false hair! It does -not seem to me possible, but it may be true. At least it is a theory -which may easily be made to seem plausible by the use of facts we all -know. If it is the true solution of our characters here, it is pleasant -to think that perhaps we may modify what for the present is our very own -self so it shall be better stuff for the fashioning of another -generation. I should like to feel that when this bunch of ideas and -emotions goes to pieces, the bits would make sweet spots in the -individuals they go to make part of. I suppose this is what George Eliot -meant in the "Choir Invisible," or something like this. As one thinks of -the doctrine it is not so cold and unattractive as it struck me in the -reading. One could bear to lose a conscious future if the alternative -was happiness to lives not yet in being. I should like, though, to know -it. But if there weren't any me to know, I should not be troubled, as -the old philosophers were fond of saying, and the important thing would -be not for me to know but for the world to be better. I begin to see how -the doctrine might be a fine incentive to do the best with life that is -in any way possible; and what more could be asked of any doctrine? - - -August 17. Baby was ill night before last, and we three women were -smitten to the heart. Hannah went for Dr. Wentworth, and when he came he -laughed at our panic, and assured me nothing serious was the matter. It -was only a little indigestion caused by the excessive heat. I do not -know how I should have behaved if it had not been that Rosa was in such -a panic I had to give all my spare attention to keeping her in order. It -came to me then what an advantage an officer must have in a battle; he -cannot break down because he has to look to his men. Last night I wished -greatly Tom were in reach; it would have been dreadful if anything -really serious had happened to baby, and he not to know it until it was -too late. Yet he could have done nothing if the worst had been true and -he had been here. It would have been no comfort to poor little sick -Tomine to have one person by her more than another, so long as her -nurses were not strangers. A father is nothing to her yet. I wonder when -he will be. - -Yesterday Tomine was better, and to-night she seems as well as ever; but -it will take time for me to be rid entirely of fear. I wonder if she had -gone whether her little bunch of vitality would have been scattered -through new lives. She can hardly have much personality or individuality -yet. Sometimes the universe, the power that keeps going on and on, and -which is so unmoved by human pain, strikes me as too terrible for -thought; but I cling desperately to Father's idea that nature is too -great to be unkind, and that what looks to us like cruelty is only the -size of things too big for us to grasp. It is a riddle, and the way I -put it is neither so clear nor wise, I suppose, as the theories of -countless religious teachers, they and I alike guessing at things human -insight is not equal to. I doubt much if it is profitable to speculate -in this vein. "Think all you can about life as a good and glorious -thing," Father wrote to me once when I had expressed in a school-letter -some trouble or other about what comes after death, "but keep in mind -that of what came before we were born or will happen after we are dead -we shall never in this life know anything, no matter how much we -speculate, so dreaming about it or fretting about it is simply building -air-castles." I have said over to myself ever since I began to be -perplexed that to speculate about another life is to build air-castles. - -Baby is well again and I will not fret or dream of what it would mean if -she had slipped away from us. - - -August 20. I must settle myself a little by writing, or I shall be like -old Mrs. Tuell, who said that for years she never slept a wink because -her nerves wiggled like angleworms all over her inside. I have certainly -been through an experience which might make anybody's nerves wiggle. - -About half past two o'clock Rosa brought me a note, and said:-- - -"That Thurston girl left it, and told me not to give it to you till -three o'clock; but if I don't give it to you now, I know I'd forget it." - -I opened the note without thinking anything about the time. It was -written in Kathie's uneven hand, and blotched as if it had been cried -over. This is what it said:-- - - Dear Miss Ruth,--This letter is to bid you good-by. You are the - only one in the world I love, and nobody loves me. I cant stand you - to love that baby better than me, and God is so angry it dont make - any difference what I do now. When you read this I shall be in - torment forever, because I am going down to Davis Cove to drownd - myself because I am so wicked and nobody loves me. Dont tell on me, - because it would make you feel bad and father wouldnt like it to - get round a child of his had drownd herself and mother would cry. - Yours truly and with a sad and loving good-by forever, - - Kathie Thurston. - - P. S. If they get me to bury will you please put some flowers on - my coffin. No more from yours truly - - K. T. - -My first impulse was to laugh at this absurd note, but it came over me -suddenly that there was no knowing what that child will do. Even now I -am bewildered. I cannot get it out of my mind that there is a good deal -of the theatrical in Kathie, but I may be all wrong. At any rate I -reflected how she has a way of acting so that apparently she can herself -take it for real. - -I thought it over a while; then I got my hat and started down the -street, with the notion that at least it would do no harm to go down to -Davis Cove, and see if Kathie were there. As I walked on, recalling her -incomprehensible actions, a dreadful feeling grew in my mind that she -might have meant what she said, and she would be more likely to try to -drown herself because she had told me. A sort of panic seized me; and -just then the town clock struck three. - -I had got down just opposite the Foot-bridge, and when I remembered that -three was the time when I was to have the note, I feared I should be too -late, and I began to run. Fortunately, there was nobody in sight, and as -I came to the bend in the street I saw George coming, leading Kathie by -the arm. She was dripping wet, and half staggering, although she kept -her feet. I hurried up to them, too much out of breath with haste and -excitement to be able to speak. - -"Hullo!" George called out, as I came up to them, "see what a fish I've -caught." - -"Why, Kathie," gasped I, with a stupidity that was lucky, for it kept -George from suspecting, "you've been in the water." - -She gave me a queer look, but she said nothing. - -"A little more and she'd have stayed there," George put in. - -"You are wet too," I said, looking at him for the first time. - -"Yes," he returned; "luckily I got off my coat and vest as I ran, so I -saved my watch, but everything else is wet fast enough." - -"How did it happen?" I asked. - -"She was trying to get sugar-pears from those trees by the water," -George answered; "and I suppose she lost her balance. I was going along -the road and heard her scream." - -"Along the road?" I echoed; for I knew Davis Cove is too far from the -road for him to have heard a cry. - -"She fell in just by the old shipyard on the point," he said. - -"The boys were in swimming in the cove," Kathie explained, in a way -which was of course unintelligible to George. - -"Well," George commented, after a moment in which he seemed to clear up -her meaning, "the next time you want sugar-pears you'd better get them -when the boys are out of the way, so you needn't go in swimming -yourself." - -We had been walking along the road as we talked, and by this time had -reached the Foot-bridge. I told George he must go home and get on dry -clothing, and I would see to Kathie. He demurred at first, but I -insisted, so he left us to cross the bridge alone. We walked in silence -almost across the bridge, and then I asked her what kept bumping against -me as I held her up. - -"It's rocks in my pocket," she answered, quite in a matter-of-fact way. -"I put 'em there to sink me." - -I could have shaken her on the spot, so uncharitable was my mood, but I -managed to answer her in a perfectly cool tone. - -"Then you had better take them out," I said. - -She got her hand into her pocket and fished out three or four pebbles, -which all together wouldn't have sunk a three-days-old-kitten; and when -these had been thrown over the bridge we proceeded on our drabbled way. -My doubts of the genuineness of the whole performance grew in spite of -me. I do not know exactly why I am coming so strongly to feel that -Kathie is not wholly ingenuous, but I cannot get rid of the idea. - -"Kathie," I asked, "did you see Mr. Weston coming when you jumped in?" - -She looked up at me with eyes so honest I was ashamed of myself, but -when she answered unhesitatingly that she had seen him, I went on -ruthlessly to ask if she did not know he would save her. - -"I thought if he was coming I'd got to hurry," she returned, as simply -as possible. - -I was more puzzled than ever, and I am puzzled still. Whether she really -meant to take her life, or whether she only thought she meant it, does -not, I suppose, make any great difference; but I confess I have been -trying to make out ever since I left her. I would like to discover -whether she is consciously trying to fool me or endeavoring as much to -cheat herself, or is honest in it all; but I see no way in which I am -ever likely to be satisfied. - -I asked her to say nothing at home about how her ducking happened, and I -satisfied her mother by repeating what George had said. To-morrow I must -have it out with Mr. Thurston somehow or other; although I am still -completely in the dark what I shall say to him. I hope the old -fairy-tales are right when they say "the morning is wiser than the -evening." - - -August 21. The morning is wiser than the evening, for I got up to-day -with a clear idea in my mind what I had better do about Kathie. It is -always a great comfort to have a definite plan of action mapped out, and -I ate my breakfast in a cheerful frame of mind, intending to go directly -to see Mr. Thurston while I should be fairly sure of finding him. I -reckoned without Kathie, however, who presented herself at the -dining-room window before I had finished my coffee, and begged me to -come out. - -"I can't come in without breaking my word," she said. - -I could not argue with the absurd chit in that situation, so I went out -into the garden with her and sat down on the bench by the sun-dial. The -big red roses Father was so fond of are all in blossom, and in the -morning air were wonderfully sweet. It was an enchanting day, and the -dew was not entirely dried, so the garden had not lost the freshness it -has when it first wakes up. I was exhilarated by the smell of the roses -and the beauty of everything, and the clearness of the air. Rosa held -baby up to us at the nursery window above, and I waved my hand to her, -smiling from pure delight in everything. Kathie watched me with her -great eyes, and when I sat down on the bench she threw herself at full -length on the grass, and burst out sobbing. - -"You do love her better than me!" she wailed. "I came to say how sorry I -was, but I'm sorry now that I didn't stay in the water." - -I took her by the shoulder, and spoke to her so sternly that I startled -her. - -"You are not to talk in that way anymore, Kathie," I said. "I am fond of -you and I am fond of baby; but if baby were big enough and talked this -silly way about you, do you suppose I would allow it? Sit up and stop -crying." - -I have always been careful not to hurt her feelings; perhaps I have been -too careful. She sat up now, and then rose to her feet in a dazed sort -of way. I determined to see if anything was to be made out of her mood. - -"Kathie," said I, "how much of that performance yesterday was real, and -how much was humbug? Tell me the truth." - -She grew a little paler and her eyes dilated. I looked her straight in -the face, half minded to force her if need be to give me some guidance -in what I should do. - -"I really meant to drown myself," she answered solemnly, "only when I -saw the water and thought of hell I was afraid." - -She stopped, and I encouraged her to go on. - -"I saw Mr. Weston, and I was scared of him and--and everything, and so I -jumped in." - -I reflected that very likely the child was more of a puzzle to herself -than she was to me, and in any case I had more important ends to gain -than the satisfying of my curiosity, so I asked her as gently as I could -if she really believed she would be eternally lost if she killed -herself. - -"Oh, yes, Miss Ruth!" she cried with feverish eagerness. - -"Then why do you do it?" I went on. "How do you dare to do it?" - -She looked at me with a growing wildness in her face that was certainly -genuine. - -"I'm lost, anyway," she burst out. "I know I have been too wicked for -God to forgive me. I have committed murder in my heart, and I know I was -never meant to be saved." - -"Stop!" I commanded her. "You are a little, foolish girl, too young even -to know what you are talking about. How dare you decide what God will -do?" - -She regarded me with a look of stupefaction as if I were a stranger whom -she had never seen; and indeed I can well believe I seemed one. Then the -perversity of her mind came back to the constant idea. - -"That's just it," she declared. "That's just my wickedness." - -After this I refused to go into the subject any further. I got up and -asked her if I should find her father at home. She begged me not to go -to see him, and then said with an air of relief that he had gone out to -Connecticut Mills to visit a sick woman. I did not stay with her longer. -I said I must go into the house, and as she refused to come, I left her, -a forlorn little figure, there among the roses, and went in. It seemed -hard to do it, but I had made up my mind she had better not indulge in -any more talk this morning. - - -August 22. Cousin Mehitable, in a letter which came this morning, pities -me because of my colorless existence; but I begin to feel that life is -becoming too lurid. I have to-day bearded--no, Mr. Thurston hasn't any -beard; but I have had my interview with him, and I feel as if I had been -leading a cavalry charge up a hill in the face of a battery of whatever -kind of guns are most disconcertingly destructive. - -I am somewhat confused about the beginning of our talk. I got so excited -later that the tame beginnings have slipped away; but I know I said I -had come to make a proposition about Kathie, and somehow I led up to the -child's mad performance the other day. I showed him the note and told -him the story, but not until I had made him promise not to mention the -matter to the child. When he had finished he was as pale as my -handkerchief, his thin, bloodless face positively withered with pain. - -"I cannot keep silence about this," he said when I had finished. "I must -withdraw my promise, Miss Privet. My Kathie's soul is in danger." - -I am sure that I am not ill-tempered, but over Kathie and her father I -find myself in a state of exasperation which threatens to destroy all my -claims to be considered a sane and temperate body. I had to struggle -mightily to keep myself in hand this morning, but at first, at least, I -succeeded. - -"Mr. Thurston," I said, "I cannot release you. I should never have told -you except on your promise, and you cannot honestly break it. Now listen -to me. I have no right to dictate, but I cannot stand by and see dear -little Kathie going to ruin. I am sure I know what is good for her just -now better than you do. She is a good child, only she has gone nearly -wild brooding over theologic questions she should never have heard of -until she was old enough to judge them more reasonably." - -He tried to interrupt me, but I put up my hand to stop him, and went on. - -"You know how nervous and high-strung she is, and you cannot think her -capable of looking fairly at the awful mysteries with which a creed -deals." - -"But I have only instructed her in those things on which her eternal -salvation depends," he broke in. - -"Her eternal salvation does not depend on her being driven into a -madhouse or made to drown herself," I retorted, feeling as if I were -brutal, but that it couldn't be helped. "The truth is, Mr. Thurston, you -have been offering up Kathie as a sacrifice to your creed just as the -fathers and mothers of old made their children pass through the fires to -Moloch." He gasped, and some thin blood rushed to his face, but I did -not stop. "I have no doubt they were conscientious, just as you are; but -that didn't make it any better for the children. You have been entirely -conscientious in torturing Kathie, but you have been torturing her." - -His face was positively gray, and there was a look of anguish in his -eyes which made me weak. It would have been so much easier to go on if -he had been angry. - -"You don't understand," he said brokenly. "You think all religion is a -delusion, so of course you can't see. You think I don't love my child, -and that I am so wrapped up in my creed I can't see she suffers. You -won't believe it hurts me more than it does her." - -"Do you think then," I asked him, doing my best to keep back the tears, -"that it can give any pleasure to a kind Heavenly Father? I do -understand. You have been so afraid of not doing your duty to Kathie you -have brought her almost to madness, almost"-- - -"Don't! Don't!" he interrupted, putting out his hand as if I had struck -him. "Oh, Miss Privet, if she had"-- - -I saw the real affection and feeling of the man as I have never realized -them. I had been hard, and perhaps cruel, but it was necessary to save -Kathie. I spoke now as gently as I could. - -"No matter for the things that didn't happen, Mr. Thurston. She is safe -and sound." - -"But she meant to do it," he returned in a tone so low I could hardly -catch the words. - -"Meant?" I repeated. "She isn't in a condition to mean anything. She was -distraught by brooding over things that at her age she should never even -have heard of. I beg your pardon, Mr. Thurston, but doesn't what has -happened prove she is too high-strung to be troubled with theology yet? -I am not of your creed, but I respect your feeling about it. Only you -must see that to thrust these things on Kathie means madness and -despair"-- - -"But she might die," he broke in. "She might die without having made her -peace with her Maker, and be lost forever." - -There was anguish in his face, and I know he meant it from the bottom of -his heart; but in his voice was the trace of conventional repetition of -phrases which made it possible for me to be overcome by exasperation. I -looked at him in that mingled fury of impatience and passionate -conviction of my ground which must have been the state of the prophets -of old when the spirit of prophecy descended upon them. I realize now -that to have the spirit of prophecy it is necessary to lose the temper -to a degree not altogether commendable in ordinary circumstances. I -blazed out on that poor, thin-blooded, dejected, weak-minded, loving -Methodist minister, and told him he insulted the God he worshiped; I -said he had better consider the text "I will have mercy and not -sacrifice;" I flung two or three other texts at him while he stood -dazed with astonishment; I flamed at him like a burning-bush become -feminine flesh; and fortunately he did not remember that even the Old -Nick is credited with being able to cite Scripture for his purposes. I -think the texts subdued him, so that it is well Father brought me up to -know the Bible. At least I reduced Mr. Thurston to a state where he was -as clay in the hands of the potter. - -Then I presented to his consideration my scheme to send Kathie away to -boarding-school for a year. I told him he was at liberty to select the -school, if only it was one where she would not be too much troubled -about theology. Of course I knew it would be hopeless to think of her -going to a school entirely unsectarian, but I have already begun to make -inquiries about the relative reasonableness of Methodist schools, and I -think we may find something that will do. To put the child into -surroundings entirely new, where her mind will be taken away from -herself, and where a consciousness of the keenly discerning eyes of -girls of her own age will keep her theatrical tendencies in check, -should work wonders. I made Mr. Thurston give his consent, and before I -left the house I saw Mrs. Thurston. I told her not to trouble about -Kathie's outfit, and so I hope that bother is pretty well straightened -out for the present. - - -August 24. George has taken a violent cold from his ducking, and is -confined to the house. I hope that it is nothing serious. It is -especially awkward now, for Mr. Longworthy is coming over from Franklin -in a day or two to go over his accounts as trustee. - -Kathie came over this morning while I was at breakfast, and tapped on -the dining-room window. She was positively shining with happiness. I -never saw a child so transformed. - -"Oh, Miss Ruth," she cried out, as soon as I turned, "oh, won't you come -out here? I do so want to kiss you!" - -I asked her to come inside, but she said she had promised not to, and -rather than to get into a discussion I went out to her. She ran dancing -up to me, fairly quivering with excitement. - -"Oh, Miss Ruth," she said, "it is too good to be true! You are the most -loveliest lady that ever lived! Oh, I am so happy!" - -I had to laugh at her demonstrativeness, but it was touching to see her. -She was no more like the morbid, hollow-eyed girl she had been than if -she had never had a trouble. It is wonderful that out of the family of a -Methodist parson should come a nature so exotic, but after all, the -spiritual raptures and excesses which have worn Mr. Thurston as thin as -a leaf in December must have their root in a temperament of keenly -emotional extremes. - -"I always wanted to go to boarding-school," Kathie went on, possessing -herself of my hand, and covering it with kisses; "but Mother always said -we couldn't afford it. Now I am going. Oh, I shall have such a beautiful -time!" - -I laughed at her enthusiasm, but I tried to moderate her extravagance a -little by telling her that at boarding-school she would have to work, -and to live by rule, so that she must give up her wild ways. - -"Oh, I'll work," she responded, her ardor undampened. "I'll be the best -girl you ever heard of. I beg your pardon for everything I've done, and -I'll never do anything bad again." - -This penitence seemed to me rather too general to amount to much, but -that she was so much pleased was after all the chief thing, so I made no -allusion to particular shortcomings, I did not even urge her to come -into the house, for I felt this was a point for her to work out in her -own mind. We walked in the dewy garden, discussing the preparations for -her leaving home, and it was droll and pathetic to find how poverty had -bred in her fantastic little pate a certain sort of shrewdness. She said -in the most matter-of-fact way that it would be nice for her father to -have one less mouth to fill, and that she supposed her smaller sisters -could have her old clothes. I confess she did not in talking exhibit any -great generosity of mind, but perhaps it was not to be expected of a -child dazzled by the prospect of having a dream come true, and of -actually being blessed with more than one new frock at a time. I am not -clear what the result of sending her among strangers will be, and I see -that a good deal of care will be necessary in choosing the school. I do -believe good must come of it, however; and at least we are doing the -best we can. - - -August 25. I went over to George's this morning to find out whether he -is able to see Mr. Longworthy. He was in bed, but insisted upon seeing -me. I have had a terrible day. I left him completely broken down with -his confession. O Mother! Mother! - - -August 26. Childishly I cried myself to sleep last night. It is so -terrible to feel that a friend has done wrong and proved himself -unworthy. I could not help shivering to think of George, and of how he -has had night after night to go to sleep with the knowledge of his -dishonesty. I settled in my own mind what I could do to cover his -defalcation, which fortunately is small enough for me to provide for by -going to Boston and selling some of the bonds Aunt Leah left me, and -which Mr. Longworthy has nothing to do with. Then I lay there in the -dark and sopped my pillow, until somehow, I found myself in the middle -of a comforting dream. - -I dreamed that I was a little girl, and that I was broken-hearted about -some indefinite thing that had happened. I had in my dream, so far as I -can recall, no idea what the trouble was, but the grief was keen, and my -tears most copious. I was in the very thickest of my childish woe when -Father came behind me, picked me up like a feather, and set me down in -his lap. I had that ineffable sense of companionship which can be named -but never described, and I clung to him with a frantic clasp. He kissed -me, and wiped away my tears with soothing words, and then at last he -whispered in my ear as a precious secret something so infinitely -comforting that my sorrow vanished utterly. I broke into smiles, and -kissed him again and again, crying out that it was too good to be true, -and he had made me happy for my whole life. So keen was my joy that I -awoke, and lay in bed half dreaming still, saying over and over to -myself his enchanting words as if they would forever be a safeguard -against any pain which life might bring. Gradually I became sufficiently -wide awake to realize what this wonderful message of joy was, and found -myself ecstatically repeating: "Pigs have four feet and one tail!" Of -course I laughed at the absurdity, but the comfort stayed with me all -the same, and all day I have gone about with a peaceful mind, cheered by -the effect of this supernaturally precious fact of natural history. - -I went to Boston and came back without seeing anybody but business men. -I saw George a moment on my way from the station, and now everything is -ready for Mr. Longworthy to-morrow. Both George and I may sleep to-night -in peace. - -All the way to and from Boston I found myself going over my whole -acquaintance with George, questioning myself about what he has been and -what he is. To-night I have been reading over what I have written of him -in my diary, and the picture I find of him this year has gone to my -heart. I am afraid I have not been kind, perhaps have not been just; for -if what I have been writing is true George is--he is not a gentleman. It -does not startle me now to write this as it would have done two days -ago. I am afraid it will be years before I am able to get out of my -remembrance how he looked when he confessed. It seems almost as if I -should never be able to think of him again except as I saw him then, his -face almost as colorless as his pillow, and then red with shame. He -looked shrunken, morally as well as physically. I do not know whether I -blamed him more or less because he was so eager to throw the whole blame -on his wife's extravagance; I only know that it can hardly have been -more cruel for him to tell me of his dishonor than it was for me to -hear. - -If he had asked me I would have lent him money, or given it to him, for -that matter, and done it gladly rather than to have him troubled. To -think how he must have been teased and bothered for this pitiful sum, -just two or three hundred dollars, before he could have made up his mind -to borrow it on my securities! He might have got it honestly, it was so -little; but he did not wish anybody to know he needed it. Pride, and -folly, and vanity,--I am so hurt that I begin to rail. I will put the -whole thing out of my mind, and never think of it again if I can help -it. - - - - -IX - -SEPTEMBER - - -September 15. At last Kathie is gone. What with having dressmakers and -seeing to her, and doing the shopping, and corresponding with the -principal of the school, and all the rest of it, I have had my hands -full for the last three weeks. I have enjoyed it, though; I suppose it -is always a pleasure partaking of the moral for a woman when she can -conscientiously give her whole mind up to the making of clothes. I do -not doubt the delight of sewing fig-leaves together went for the moment -far toward comforting Eve for leaving Paradise. I cannot now help -smiling to see how entirely Kathie's fine scruples about breaking her -vow not to come into the house were forgotten when I had a dressmaker -here waiting to fit her frocks. - -I feel a little as if I were trying to be Providence and to interfere in -her life unwarrantably now she is gone and there is nothing more to do -about it but to await the result. I have done what I thought best, -though, and that is the whole of it. As Father used to say, it is not -our duty to do the wisest thing, for we cannot always tell what it is, -but only to be honest in doing what seems to us wisest. I hope she will -do well, and I believe she will. - - -September 17. Cousin Mehitable writes me from Rome that she is sure I -am tired of baby, and had better come over for a couple of months. I -cannot tell whether she means what she says, or is only trying to carry -her point. She has never had a child near her, and can hardly know how -completely a baby takes possession of one. There are many things in the -world that I should enjoy, and I should certainly delight in going -abroad again, but baby has so taken the first place in my heart and life -that everything else is secondary. I wonder sometimes whether after a -woman has a child of her own she can any longer give her husband her -very warmest love. Perhaps the law of compensation comes in, and if men -grow less absorbed in their wives the wives have an equal likelihood of -coming to feel that the husband is less a part of their lives than the -child. Only if a woman really loved a man-- - - -September 18. It is a childish habit to break off in the middle of a -sentence because one does not know how to finish it. I have been turning -over the leaves of this book to see if I had done it often, and I have -been amused and humiliated to find so many places where I have ended -with a dash, like an hysterical schoolgirl. Yet I do not see just what -one is to do when suddenly one finds a subject hopelessly too deep. Last -night when I got to a place where I was balancing the love of a mother -for her husband and for her child, I naturally realized suddenly that I -had never had a child, and very likely never really loved a man. The -love I had for George seems now so unreal that I feel completely fickle; -although I believe I am generally pretty constant. I could not bear to -think I am not loyal in my feelings. I have come to be so sure the -George I was fond of never existed, though, that I can hardly have the -same feelings I had before. - -This is the sort of subject, however, which is sure to end in a dash if -I go on with it, so it seems wiser to stop before such a catastrophe is -reached. - - -September 19. To-day is Father's birthday. It is always a day which -moves me a good deal. I can never be reminded of an anniversary like -this without finding my head full of a swarm of thoughts. I cannot think -of the beginning or the ending of Father's life without looking at it as -a whole, and reckoning up somehow the effect of his having lived. This -is the real question, I suppose, in regard to any life. He was to me so -wonderful, he was so great a man, that I have almost to reason with -myself to appreciate why the world in general does not better remember -him. His life was and is so much to me that I find it hard to realize -how narrow is the circle which ever even knew of him at all. His books -and his decisions keep his name still in the memory of lawyers somewhat, -and those who knew him will not easily forget; but after all this is so -little in comparison to the fame he might have had. - -How persistent is an old thought! I should have supposed this idea might -have died long ago. Father himself answered it when he told Cousin -Mehitable he was entirely satisfied if his part in the progress of -humanity was conducted decently and in order; he was not concerned -whether anybody knew he lived or did not know. "The thing is that I live -as well as I can," he said, "and not that it should be known about. I -shan't mind, Cousin Mehitable, whether anybody takes the trouble to -praise me after I am dead, but I do think it may make some tiny -difference to the race that I did my level best while I was alive." - -I can see him now as he stood by the library fire saying this, with his -little half whimsical smile, and I remember thinking as he spoke how -perfectly he lived up to his theories. Certainly the best thing a man -can leave to his children is a memory like that which I have of Father: -a memory half love and half respect. - -Father's feeling about the part of the individual in the general scheme -of things was like certain oriental doctrines I have read since his -death; and I suppose he may have been influenced by the writings of the -East. He seemed to feel that he was part of a process, and that the -lives of those who sometime would come after him might be made easier -and happier if he lived well and wisely. I am sure he was right. I do -not know how or where or when the accounts of life are settled, or -whether it makes any difference to the individual as an individual or -not; but I am sure what we do is of consequence, and I wish my life -might be as fine, as strong, as noble as was Father's. - - -September 20. Aunt Naomi came in this forenoon with her catlike step, -and seated herself by the south window in the sunshine. The only eye -which could be seen clearly was bright with intention, and it was -evident at a glance that she had things to say. She was rather -deliberate in coming at it. Aunt Naomi is an artist in gossip, and never -spoils the effect of what she has to tell by failing to arouse -expectation and interest. She leads one on and stirs up curiosity -before she tells her news, and with so much cleverness does she manage, -that a very tiny bit of gossip will seem a good deal when she has set it -forth. It is a pleasure to see anything well done, even gossip; so Aunt -Naomi is an unfailing source of amusement to me,--which is perhaps not -to my credit. - -She made the usual remarks about the weather and asked after baby; she -observed that from the way Miss Charlotte breathed when she was asleep -in prayer-meeting last night she was afraid she had taken cold; she told -me Ranny Gargan's divorced wife was at death's door again, and tried to -get from me some sort of information of Rosa's feelings toward the -possible widower; then she gradually and skillfully approached her real -subject. - -"It's strange how folks get over being in love when once they are -married," she said, hitching her chair into the sunlight, which had -moved a little from her while she talked. - -I knew by her careless tone, too careless not to be intentional, that -something was coming, but I would not help her. I simply smiled vaguely, -and asked where the sewing-circle was to be next week. She was not -disconcerted by the question, but neatly turned it to her uses. - -"At Mrs. Tobey's," she answered. "I hope we shan't see anything -unpleasant across the road." - -"What do you mean?" I asked, rather startled at this plain allusion to -George's house. - -"They say George Weston and his wife do rather queer things sometimes." - -I asked her at once to say exactly what she meant, and not to play with -it. I added that I did not see why George and his wife should be so -much discussed. - -"They are talked about because they deserve it," Aunt Naomi returned, -evidently delighted by the effect she had produced. "If they will -quarrel so all the neighborhood can hear and see, of course people will -talk about it. Why shouldn't they? We ought to take some interest in -folks, I should think." - -I was silent a minute. I wanted to know why she said this, and what -George and his wife had been doing to make the village comment, but I -would not go on gossiping about them, and I dropped the subject -altogether. I made a remark about the Willeyville Fair. Aunt Naomi -chuckled audibly, but she did not persist in talking about the Westons. - - -September 22. Rosa is once more in a state of excitement, and the -household is correspondingly stirred. Hannah goes about with her head in -the air and an expression of the most lofty scorn on her face; Rosa -naturally resents this attitude, both of mind and of body; so I have to -act as a sort of buffer between the two. - -The fuss is about Ranny again. I begin to feel that I should be -justified in having him kidnapped and carried off to some far country, -but I hardly see my way clear to measures so extreme. I am astonished to -find that Aunt Naomi did not know all the facts about the illness of -Ranny's wife; or perhaps she was too much occupied with the affairs of -the Westons to tell the whole. Ranny seems this time to have got into -real difficulty, and apparently as the result of his latest escapade is -likely to pay a visit to the county jail. It seems that while he was -pretty far gone in liquor ex-Mrs. Ranny came to plead with him to take -her back and marry her over again. She having had the greatest -difficulty in getting divorced from him in the first place, one would -think she might be content to let well enough alone; but she is -evidently madly fond of Gargan, who must be a good deal of an Adonis in -his own world, so completely does he sway the hearts of the women, even -though they know him to be brutal, drunken, disreputable, and generally -worthless. On this occasion Ranny behaved worse than usual, and met his -former wife's petition by giving her a severe beating with the first -thing which came to hand, the thing unluckily being an axe-handle. The -poor woman is helpless in her bed, and Ranny has been taken possession -of by the constable. - -Rosa refuses to see anything in the incident which is in the least to -the discredit of Ranny. I was in the garden this morning, and overheard -her defending her lover against Hannah's severe censures upon him and -upon Rosa for siding with him. - -"Why shouldn't he beat his own wife when she deserved it," Rosa -demanded, "and she nothing but a hateful, sharp-nosed pig?" - -"She isn't his wife," Hannah retorted, apparently not prepared to -protest against a doctrine so well established as that a man might beat -his spouse. - -"Well, she was, anyhow," persisted Rosa; "and that's the same thing. You -can't put a man and his wife apart just by going to law. Father -O'Rafferty said so." - -"Oh, you can't, can't you?" Hannah said with scornful deliberation. -"Then you're a nice girl to be talking about marrying Ranny Gargan, if -he's got one wife alive already." - -This blow struck too near home, I fear, for Rosa's voice was pretty -shrill when she retorted. - -"What do you know about marrying anyhow, Hannah Elsmore? Nobody wants to -marry you, I'll be bound." - -It seemed to be time to interfere, so I went nearer to the window and -called to Rosa to come out to baby and me. - -"Rosa," I said, when she appeared, flushed and angry, "I wish you -wouldn't quarrel with Hannah." - -"Then what for's she all the time twitting me about Ranny Gargan?" -demanded the girl with angry tears in her eyes. "She don't know what it -is to care for a man anyhow, and what for does she be taking me up short -when I'm that bad in my mind a'ready I can't stand it? Ranny Gargan's -old beast of a wife's got him into a scrape, but that don't make any -difference to me. I ain't going back on him." - -I established myself on the grass beside the sun-dial, and took baby, -sweet and lovely, into my arms. - -"I am sorry, Rosa," I said when we were settled comfortably. "I hoped -you'd got over thinking about Ranny Gargan. He is certainly not the sort -of man to make you happy, even if he were free. He'd never think of -sparing you or letting you have your own way." - -"Who's wanting to have their own way, Miss Privet?" demanded my -astonishing handmaid; and then went on in her usual fashion of striking -me breathless when she comes to discourse of love and marriage. "That -ain't what women marry for, Miss Privet. They're just made so they marry -to be beat and broke and abused if that's what pleases the men; and -that's the way they're best off." - -"But, Rosa," I put in, "you always talk as if you'd be meekness itself -if a husband wanted to abuse you, but I confess I never thought you -would be at all backward about defending yourself." - -A droll look came into her rosy Irish face, and a funny little touch of -brogue into her voice. - -"I'd think if he loved me the way he ought to, Miss Privet, he'd be -willing to take a whack himself now and then, just in the way of love. -Besides," she added, "I'd come it round Ranny when it was anything I -really wanted. Any man's soft enough if a woman knows how to treat him -right." - -I abandoned the discussion, as I am always forced to abandon a talk of -this sort with Rosa. I suppose in her class the crude doctrine that it -is the right of the man to take and the duty of the woman to give still -exists with a good deal of simplicity and force, but it almost stops my -breath to hear Rosa state it. It is like a bit of primeval savagery -suddenly thrust into my face in the midst of nineteenth-century -civilization. The worst of it all is, moreover, to feel the habits of -old generations buzzing dizzily in my ears until I have a confused -sensation as if in principle the absurd vagaries of Rosa might be right. -I am tinglingly aware that fibres which belonged to some remote -progenitress, some barbaric woman captured by force, perhaps, after the -marriage customs of primitive peoples, retain the instinct of submission -to man and respond to Rosa's uncivilized theories. I have a sort of -second sense that if a man I loved came and asserted a brutal -sovereignty over me, it would appeal to these inherited instincts as -right and proper, according to the order appointed by nature. I know -what nonsense this is. The sense of justice has in the modern woman -displaced the old humiliating subjection,--although if one loved a man -the subjection would not be humiliating, but just the highest pleasure. -I can conceive of a woman's being so fond of a man that to be his abject -slave would be so much the happiest thing in the world that to serve him -to her very utmost would be so great a delight as almost to be -selfishness. - -How Father would have shouted over a page like this! I would not have -supposed even Rosa could have spurred me into such an attempt at -philosophy, and I hardly believed I knew so many long words. After all I -doubt if Rosa and I are so far apart in our instincts; only she has the -coolness to put them into words I only imitate, and cannot pretend to -rival. - - -September 24. It is delightful to see how really fond Tom is becoming of -baby. I came home from a walk this afternoon, and there in the parlor -was Tom down on the floor with Tomine, shaking his head at her like a -bear, and making her laugh. Rosa beamed from the background with the -most complete approval. He sprang up when I appeared, but I ignored all -the strangeness, and only said how glad I was to see him. I think he -liked my taking as a matter of course his being there, and very likely -this was what made him confess he had been in two or three times to play -with baby when he knew that I was not at home. - -"I saw you going down the other side of the river," he said, "so I came -to keep Thomasine from being lonesome." - -I returned that it was not very complimentary to tell me he had tried to -avoid me, but that I appreciated how much more fascinating baby was than -I, so he need not apologize; and the end of it was that after this -nonsense had broken the ice we sat on the floor together to entertain -her ladyship. She was pleased to be in the most sunny mood imaginable, -and responded to our fooling most graciously. With truly feminine -preference, however, she bestowed most of her attention upon the man. -She is a more entrancing creature every day; and she certainly has her -father's eyes. I compared them this afternoon. - - -September 26. The reading-room seems really at last to be coming into -being. I have found a place for it. It is a kind of square box over the -post-office, but with furniture and pictures it can be made rather -attractive. I have made out a list of periodicals, and sent to Boston -for framed photographs for the walls. To-day I went to talk over the -plan with Deacon Richards. - -The mill was fragrant with its sweet mealy smell, and Deacon Daniel was -as dusty as a moth-miller. As I stood in the doorway waiting for him to -come down from the wheel, where he was doing something or other about -the hopper, I fell to humming the old rhyme we sang as children when we -went by the mill:-- - - "'Miller, miller, musty-poll, - How many bags of wheat you stole?' - 'One of wheat and one of rye.' - 'You naughty miller, you must die!'" - -"That isn't very polite," Deacon Daniel said, coming up behind me before -I knew he had left his perch. - -I turned and greeted him smilingly, repeating the last line:-- - - "You naughty miller, you must die!" - -"I suppose I must," he assented; "but it won't be for stealing, Miss -Ruth." - -I love the old mill, with its great beams and its continual sound of -dashing water and the chirruping of the millstones grinding away at the -corn like an insatiate monster that can never have enough. The smell of -the meal, too, is so pleasant, and even the abundant dust is so clean -and fresh it seems to belong there. The mellow light through the dim -windows and the shadows hiding in every corner have always from -childhood appealed to my imagination. I find there always a soothing and -serene mood. - -"I want your advice, Deacon Richards," I said. - -"So as not to follow it?" he demanded. "That's what women generally want -of advice." - -I assured him I was ready to follow his advice if it were good, and so -we talked about the reading-room. I told him it seemed to me that if it -was to go on properly it should have a head; somebody to manage it and -be responsible for the way in which it was carried on. - -"But you will do that yourself," he said. - -I answered that it must be a man, for it was nonsense to think of a -woman's running a reading-room for men. He looked at me for a moment -with his droll grin, and then he was pleased to say that for a woman I -had a remarkable amount of common sense. I thanked him for the -compliment to my sex, and then asked if he would undertake the business, -and promise not to freeze the readers out the way he did the -prayer-meetings. - -"I'm not the sort of person you want," he answered, chuckling at my -allusion to the fire question. "I've sense enough to know that without -being a woman. Why don't you ask Tom Webbe?" - -I confessed that I had thought of Tom, but--And there I stuck, for I -could hardly tell the deacon how I thought gossip had already said -enough about Tom and myself without my giving folk any more to talk -about. - -"I don't know what that 'but' means," he remarked, grinning more than -ever, as if he did know perfectly. "Anyway, there's nobody in town who -could do it so well. All the men and boys like him, and he has a level -head. He's the only one of the young fellows that's been to college, and -he ought to know more about books than any of the rest of them. Besides, -he needs something to take up his mind." - -I felt the deacon was right, and I began to ask myself whether my -personal feelings should be allowed to count in such a matter. Still I -could hardly make up my mind to take the responsibility of putting Tom -at the head of a reading-room I had started. If nothing else were to be -considered I did not want my connection with the plan to be too -prominent, and gossip about Tom would be just the thing to keep my name -always to the front. - -"I hope you are sensible enough to do one thing," Deacon Daniel went on, -"and that is to have everybody who uses the room pay for it. It needn't -be much, but they'll respect it and themselves more if they pay -something, and it'll give them the right to grumble." - -"I don't want them to grumble," I returned. - -"Oh, nobody cares much for anything he can't grumble about," was his -reply, with a laugh; "but really they are twice as likely to grumble if -you pay for everything than if they help. That's the way we are made." - -I told him that he was an old cynic, but I saw in a moment he was right -about the value that would be put on a thing which was paid for. If the -men feel they are helping to support the reading-room they will take a -good deal more interest in it. - -"Tom Webbe will manage them all right," the deacon declared. "He'll let -them grumble just enough, and make them so contented they'll think -they're having their own way while he's going ahead just the way he -thinks best. He's the only man for the place." - -Perhaps he is; and indeed the more I think about it, the more I see the -deacon is right. It would certainly be good for Tom, and that is a good -deal. I wonder what I ought to do? - -What Deacon Daniel said about the way in which Tom would manage the men -has been running through my mind. I wonder that I, who have known Tom so -well, never thought before of how great his power is to control people. -It showed itself when he was a boy; and if he had carried out his plan -to study law it would have been--I do wonder if Tom is working by -himself, and if that is the reason he borrowed those law-books? - - -September 27. Old lady Andrews has solved the question for me. I am so -glad I thought to go to her for advice. She suggests that we have a -committee, and make Deacon Richards chairman. Then Tom can be put on, -and really do the work. - -"It wouldn't do at all for you to put Tom Webbe at the head alone, my -dear," she said. "It would make talk, and Aunt Naomi would have you -married to him a dozen times before the week was over; but this way it -will be all right." - -I asked her if committees did not usually have three on them, and she -answered that Deacon Richards would know. - -"I belong to an old-fashioned generation, my dear, and I never can feel -that it's quite respectable for a woman to know about committees and -that sort of thing. I'm sure in my day it wouldn't have been thought -well-bred. But Deacon Daniel will know. He's always on committees at -church conferences and councils." - -Once more I visited the mill, and told Deacon Daniel of old lady -Andrews' suggestion. He agreed at once, and declared the plan was better -than that of having one man at the head. - -"It'll be much the same thing as far as managing the reading-room goes," -he observed, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "but somehow folks like -committees, and they generally think they have a better show if three or -four men are running things than if there's only one. Of course one man -always does manage, but a committee's more popular." - -Deacon Daniel was very sure that the committee should have three on it, -and when I asked who should be the other man he said:-- - -"If it were anybody else but you, Miss Ruth, I shouldn't think it was -any use to say it, but you'll see what I mean. I think Cy Turner is the -man for the third place." - -"The blacksmith?" I asked, a good deal surprised. "I'm afraid I don't -see what you mean. I don't even know him." - -The deacon grinned down on me from his height, and made me a -characteristic retort. - -"He doesn't look as if he'd kept awake nights on that account." - -The blacksmith's jolly round face and twinkling eyes as I had seen him -on the street now and then came up before my mind, and I felt the full -force of the deacon's irony. I told him that he was impertinent, and -asked why he named Mr. Turner. - -"Because," he answered, seriously, "what you want is for the folks that -haven't any books at home and don't have a chance to read to get -interested in the reading-room. If Cy Turner takes hold of it, he'll do -more than anybody else in town could do to make it go among just those -folks. He's shrewd and good-natured, and everybody that knows him likes -him. He'll have all the boys in the reading-room if he has to take them -there by the collar, and if he does they'll think it's fine." - -I could see at once the wisdom of the deacon's idea. I asked how Tom and -the blacksmith would work together, and was assured that Mr. Turner has -a most unlimited admiration for Tom, so that the two would agree -perfectly. I made up my mind on the spot, and decided to go at once to -interview the blacksmith, from whose shop I could hear above the -whirring of the mill the blows on the anvil. I had no time on the little -way from the mill to the blacksmith shop to consider what I should say -to Mr. Turner, and I passed the time in hoping there would be no men -about. It made no difference; he was so straightforward and simple, so -kindly and human, that I felt at ease with him from the first. He was -luckily alone, so I walked in boldly as if I were in the habit of -visiting the forge every day of my life. He looked surprised to see me, -but not in the least disconcerted. The self-respecting coolness of a New -England workingman is something most admirable. Mr. Turner was smutty -and dressed in dirty clothes, leather apron and all, but his manners -were as good as those of the best gentleman in the land. There is -something noble in a country where a common workingman will meet you -with no servility and without any self-consciousness. I liked Mr. Turner -from the moment I saw his face and heard his voice, rich and cheery, and -I was won by his merry eyes, which had all the time a twinkling -suggestion of a smile ready to break out on the slightest occasion. I -went straight to my errand, and nothing could have been better than the -way in which he received my proposition. He had no false modesty, and no -over-assurance. He evidently knew that he could do what was required, he -was undisguisedly pleased to be asked, and he was troubled by no doubts -about social proprieties or improprieties. - -"I suppose Mr. Webbe will do most of what work there is to do," I said, -"but he will be an easy person to work with on a committee, I should -think." - -"Yes, marm, he will," the blacksmith responded heartily. "There ain't a -squarer fellow alive than Tom Webbe. Tom's been a bit wild, perhaps; but -he's an awful good fellow just the same, if you know him. I'm pleased to -be on the committee with him, Miss Privet; and I'll do my best. I think -the boys'll do about as I want 'em to." - -I had only to see Mr. Turner to understand why Deacon Daniel had chosen -him. I think the committee--but "oh, good gracious mercy me," as the old -woman in the story says, it just occurs to me that I have not said a -word to Tom about the whole business! - - -September 28. It is strange that my only difficulty in arranging about -the reading-room should come from Tom, on whom I had counted as a matter -of course; but it is fortunate that I had assumed he would serve, for -this is what made him consent. When I saw him to-day, and told him what -I had done, he at first said he could not possibly have anything to do -with the whole matter. - -"I thank you, Ruth," he said, "but don't you see I had better not give -folks any occasion to think of me at all just now? The gossips need only -to be reminded of my being alive, and they will begin all over again." - -"Tom," I asked him desperately, "are you never going to get over this -bitter feeling? I can't bear to have you go on thinking that everybody -is talking about you." - -"I don't blame them for talking," was his answer. - -I assured him he would have been pleased if he could have heard the way -in which Mr. Turner spoke of him yesterday. - -"Oh, Cy! he is too good-hearted to fling at anybody." - -"But Deacon Richards was just as friendly," I insisted. - -"Yes, he would be. It isn't the men, Ruth; they are ready to give a -fellow a chance; but the women"-- - -He did not seem to know how to finish his sentence, and I reminded him -that I too was a woman. - -"Oh, you," responded Tom, "you're an angel. You might almost be a man." - -I laughed at him for putting men above angels, and so by making him -smile, by coaxing him, and appealing to his friendliness to back me up -now I had committed myself, I prevailed upon him to serve. I am sure it -will be good for the reading-room, and I am equally sure it will be good -for Tom. Why in the world this victory should have left me a little -inclined to be blue, I do not understand. - - - - -X - -OCTOBER - - -October 5. I went this afternoon to walk on the Rim road. The day was -beyond words in its beauty,--crisp, and clear, and rich with all that -vitality which nature seems so full of in autumn, as if it were filling -itself with life to withstand the long strain of the winter. The leaves -were splendid in their color, and shone against the sky as if they were -full of happiness. Perhaps it was the day that made it possible for me -to see the red house without a pang, but I think it was the sense of -baby at home, well and happy, and learning, unconsciously of course, to -love me with every day that goes over her small head. A thin thread of -smoke trickled up from the chimney, and I thought I ought to go in to -see if the old grandmother was there. I wonder if it is right not to try -if the blessed granddaughter might not soften her old heart, battered -and begrimed if it be. Nobody answered my knock, however, and so I did -not see Mrs. Brownrig, for which I was selfishly glad. She has not been -very gracious when I have sent her things, so I was not, I confess, -especially anxious for an interview. I went away smiling to myself over -a saying of Father's: "There is nothing so pleasant as a disagreeable -duty conscientiously escaped." - - -October 6. I really know something which has escaped the acuteness of -Aunt Naomi, and I feel greatly puffed up in consequence. Deacon Richards -has been here this evening, and as it was rather cool I had a brisk, -cheery fire. - -"I do like to be warm," he said, stretching out his hand luxuriously to -the blaze. "I never could understand why I feel the cold so. I should -think it was age, if it hadn't always been so from the time I was a -boy." - -I thought of the cold vestry, and smiled to myself as I wondered if -Deacon Daniel had ascetic ideas of self-torture. - -"Then I should think you would be fond of big fires," I observed. - -"I am," he responded, "only they make me sleepy. I'm like a kitten; I go -to sleep when I get warmed through." - -I laughed outright, and when he asked me what I was laughing at I told -him it was partly at the idea of his being like a kitten, and partly -because I had found him out. - -"It is all very well for you to keep the vestry as cold as a barn so -that you can keep awake," I added; "but don't you think it is unfair to -the rest of the congregation to freeze them too?" - -He looked rather disconcerted a moment, and then grinned, though -sheepishly. - -"Heat makes other people sleepy too," he said defensively. - -I chaffed him a little, and told him I should send a couple of loads of -wood to the vestry, and that if it were necessary I would give him a -bottle of smelling-salts to keep him awake, but certainly the room must -be warmer. I declared I would not have dear old lady Andrews exposed to -the danger of pneumonia, even if he was like a kitten. It is really -quite as touching as it is absurd to think of his sitting in -prayer-meeting shivering and uncomfortable because he feels it his duty -to keep awake. In biblical times dancing before the Lord was a -legitimate form of worship; it is almost a pity that sleeping before the -Lord cannot be put among proper religious observances. Dear Miss -Charlotte always sleeps--devoutly, I am sure--at every prayer-meeting, -and then comes out declaring it has been a beautiful meeting. I have no -doubt she has been spiritually refreshed, even if she has nodded. Father -used to say that no religion could be permanent until men were able to -give their deity a sense of humor; and I do think a supreme being which -could not see the humorous side of Deacon Richards' pathetic -mortification of the flesh in his frosty vestry could hardly have the -qualifications necessary to manage the universe properly. - - -October 12. Ranny Gargan has settled the question of marriage for the -present at least. He has remarried his first wife to prevent her from -bringing suit against him. As Miss Charlotte rather boldly said, he has -legitimized the beating by marrying the woman. - -Rosa takes the matter coolly. She says she is glad to have things so she -can't think of Ranny, for now she can take Dennis, and not bother any -more about it. - -"It's a comfort to any woman not to have to decide what man she'll -marry," she remarked with her amazing philosophy. - -"Then you'd like to have somebody arrange a marriage for you, Rosa," I -said, rather for the sake of saying something. - -"Arrange, is it?" she cried, bristling up suddenly. "What for would I -have somebody making my marriage? I'd like to see anybody that would -dare!" - -The moral of which seems to be that if Rosa is so much of a philosopher -that she sometimes seems to me to be talking scraps out of old heathen -sages, she is yet only a woman. - - -October 20. Aunt Naomi had about her when she came stealthily in this -afternoon an air of excitement so evident as almost to be contagious. I -could see by the very hurry of her sliding step and the extra tightness -of her veil that something had stirred her greatly. - -"What is it, Aunt Naomi?" I asked at once. "You fairly bristle with -news. What's happened?" - -She smiled and gave a little cluck, but my salutation made her instantly -moderate her movements. She sat down with a composed and self-contained -air, and only by the unusually vigorous swinging of her foot showed that -she was not as serene as on ordinary occasions. - -"Who said anything had happened?" she demanded. - -I returned that she showed it by her looks. - -"Something is always happening, I suppose." - -I know Aunt Naomi well enough to understand that the quickest way of -coming at her tidings was to pretend indifference, so I asked no more -questions, but made a careless remark about the weather. - -"What made you think anything had happened?" persisted she. - -"It was simply an idea that came into my head," was my reply. "I hope -Deacon Daniel keeps the vestry warm in these days." - -Aunt Naomi was not proof against this parade of indifference, and in a -moment she broke out with her story. - -"Well," she declared, "Tom Webbe seems bound to be talked about." - -"Tom Webbe!" I echoed. "What is it now?" - -I confess my heart sank with the fear that he had become desperate with -the pressure of weary days, and had somehow defied all the narrow -conventionalities which hem him in here in this little town. - -"It's the Brownrig woman," Aunt Naomi announced. "If you get mixed up -with that sort of creatures there's no knowing what you'll come to." - -"But what about her?" I demanded so eagerly that I became suddenly -conscious of the keen curiosity which my manner brought into her glance. -"What has she been doing?" I went on, trying to be cool. - -It was only by much questioning that I got the story. Had it not been -for my real interest in Tom I would not have bothered so much, but as it -was she had me at her mercy, and knew it. What happened, so far as I can -make out, is this: The Brownrig woman has been worse than ever since -Julia's death. She has been drunk in the streets more than once, and I -am afraid the help she has had from Tom and others has only led her to -greater excesses. Once Deacon Richards came upon her lying in the ditch -beside the road, and she has made trouble more than once, besides -disturbing the prayer-meeting. - -Last evening Tom came upon a mob of men and boys down by the Flatiron -Wharf, and in the midst of them was Mrs. Brownrig, singing and howling. -They were baiting her, and saying things to provoke her to more -outrageous profanity. - -"They do say," observed Aunt Naomi with what seemed to me, I am ashamed -to say, an unholy relish, "her swearing was something awful. John Deland -told me he never heard anything like it. He said no man could begin to -come up to it." - -"John Deland, that owns the smoke-houses?" I put in. "What was he doing -there? I always thought he was a decent man." - -"So he is. He says," she returned with her drollest smile, "he was just -passing by and couldn't help hearing. I dare say you couldn't have -helped hearing if you'd been passing by." - -"I should have passed pretty quickly then; but what did Tom Webbe do?" - -She went on to say that Tom had come upon this disgraceful scene, and -found the crowd made up of all the lowest fellows in town. The men were -shouting with laughter, and the old woman was shrieking with rage and -intoxication. - -"John Deland says as soon as Tom saw what was going on and who the woman -was, he broke through the crowd, and took her by the arm, and told her -to come home. She cursed him, and said she wouldn't go; and then she -cried, and they had a dreadful time. Then somebody in the crowd--John -says he thinks it was one of the Bagley boys that burnt Micah Sprague's -barn. You remember about that, don't you? They live somewhere down -beyond the old shipyard"-- - -"I remember that the Spragues' barn was burned," answered I; "but what -did the Bagley boy do last night?" - -"He called out to Tom Webbe to get out of the way, and not spoil the -fun. Then Tom turned on the crowd, and I guess he gave it to them hot -and heavy." - -"I'm sure I hope he did!" I said fervently. - -"He said he thought they might be in better business than tormenting an -old drunken woman like that, and called them cowards to their faces. -They got mad, and wanted to know what business it was of his, anyway. -Then he blazed out again, and said"-- - -I do not know whether the pause Aunt Naomi made was intentionally -designed to rouse me still further, or whether she hesitated -unconsciously; but I was too excited to care. - -"What did he say?" I asked breathlessly. - -"He told them she was his mother-in-law." - -"Tom Webbe said that? To that crowd?" cried I, and I felt the tears -spring into my eyes. It was chiefly excitement, of course, but the pluck -of it and the hurt to Tom came over me in a flash. "What did they do?" - -"They just muttered, and got out of the way. John Deland said it wasn't -two minutes before Tom was left alone with the old woman, and then he -took her home. It's a pity she wouldn't drink herself to death." - -"I think it is, Aunt Naomi," was my answer; though I wished to add that -the sentiment was rather a queer one to come from anybody who believes -as she does. - -I do not know what else Aunt Naomi said. Indeed when she had told her -tale she seemed in something of a hurry to leave, and I suspect her of -going on to repeat it somewhere else. Tom's sin has left a trail of -consequences behind it which he could never have dreamed of. I cannot -tell whether I pity him more for this or honor him for the courage with -which he stood up. Poor Tom! - - -October 24. An odd thing has happened to the Westons. A man came in the -storm last night and dropped insensible on the doorstep. He might have -lain there all night, and very likely would have died before morning, -but George, when he started for bed, chanced to open the door to look at -the weather. He found the tramp wet and covered with sleet, and at first -thought that he was either dead or drunk. When he had got him in and -thawed out by the kitchen fire, the man proved to be ill. George sent -for Dr. Wentworth, and had a bed made up in the shed-chamber, but when -he told me this morning he said it seemed rather doubtful if the tramp -could live. - -"What did Mrs. Weston say?" I asked. - -I do not know how I came to ask such a question, and I meant nothing by -it. George, however, stiffened in a moment as if he suspected me of -something unkind. - -"Mrs. Weston didn't like my taking him into the house," he said. "She -thought I ought to have sent him off to the poor-farm." - -"You could hardly do that last night," I returned, wondering how I could -have offended him. "I am afraid the tramp's looks set her against him." - -"She hasn't seen him. She'd gone to bed before I found him last night, -and this morning he is pretty sick. Dr. Wentworth says he can't be moved -now. He's in a high fever, and keeps talking all the time." - -It is so very seldom we hear of tramps in Tuskamuck that it is strange -to have one appear like this, and it is odd he chose George's house to -tumble down at, as it is a little out of the road. Tramps have a law of -their own, however, and never do what one would expect of them. I hope -his illness will not be serious. I offered to do what I could, but -George said they could take care of the man for the present. Then he -hesitated, and flushed a little as if confused. - -"I am sorry," he said, "it should happen just now, for Gertrude ought -not to be troubled when--when she isn't well." - -It is a pity, and I hope no harm will come of it, but if Mrs. Weston has -not seen the tramp and has not been startled, I do not see why any -should. - - -October 26. If I could be superstitious, I think I should be now; but of -course the whole thing is nonsense. People are talking--in forty-eight -hours! How gossip does spring and spread!--as if there were something -peculiar about that tramp. There is nothing definite to say except that -he came to George's house, which is a little off from the main street, -and that in his delirium he keeps calling for some person he says he -knows is there, and he will surely find, no matter how she hides. The -idea of the sick in a delirium is always painful, and the talk about -this man makes it doubly so. I am afraid the fact that Mrs. Weston's -servants do not like her has something to do with the whispers in the -air. Dislike will create suspicion on the slightest excuse, and there -can be nothing to connect her with this dying tramp. What could there -be? I wish Aunt Naomi would not repeat such unpleasant things. - - -October 27. I have been with Tom hanging the pictures in the new -reading-room, and everything is ready for the opening when the magazines -and the books come. Next Wednesday is the first of the month, and then -we will have it opened. Tom has already a list of over twenty men and -boys who have joined, and lame Peter Tobey is to be janitor. It is -delightful to see how proud and pleased he is. He can help his mother -now, and the poor boy was pathetic in the way he spoke of that. He only -mentioned it, but his tone touched me to the quick. - -Tom and I had a delightful afternoon, hanging pictures, arranging the -furniture, and seeing that everything was right. Mr. Turner and Deacon -Richards came in just as we finished, and the three men were so simple -in their interest, and so hearty about it, that I feel as if everything -was going forward in just the right spirit. Mr. Turner saw where a -bracket was needed for one of the lamps, and said at once he would make -one to-morrow. It was charming to see how pleased he was to find there -was something he could furnish, and which nobody else at hand could have -supplied. We are always pleased to find we are not only needed, but we -are needed in some particular way which marks our personal fitness for -the thing to be done. Deacon Daniel brought a big braided rug that an -old woman at the Rim had made by his orders. He was in good spirits -because he had helped the old woman and the reading-room at the same -time. Tom was happy because he was at work, and in an atmosphere that -was friendly; and I was happy because I could not help it. And so when -we locked the room, and came home in the early twilight, I felt at peace -with all the world. - -Tom came in and had a frolic with Tomine, and when he went he held my -hand a moment, looking into my face as if to impress me with what he -said. - -"Thank you, Ruth," were the words; "I think you'll succeed in making me -human again. Good-night." - -If I am helping him to be reconciled with the world and himself I am -more glad than I can tell. - - -October 28. The earthquake always finds us unprepared, and to-night it -has come. I feel dazed and queer, as if life had been shaken to its -foundations, and as if it were trembling about me. - -George came in suddenly--My hand trembles so that I am writing like an -old woman. If the chief object of keeping a journal is to help myself to -be sane and rational, I must have better control over my nerves. - -About seven o'clock, as I sat sewing, I heard Hannah open the front door -to somebody. I half expected a deacon, as it generally is a deacon in -the evening, but the door opened, and George came rushing in. His hurry -and his excited manner made me see at once that something unusual had -happened. His face was pale, his eyes wild, and somehow his whole air -was terrifying. - -"What is the matter?" I cried, jumping up to meet him. - -He tried to speak, but only gave a sort of choking gasp. - -"Has anything happened?" I asked him. "Your wife"-- - -"I haven't any wife," he interrupted. - -The shock was terrible, for I thought at once she must be dead, and I -made some sort of a horrified exclamation. Then we stared at each other -a minute. I supposed something had happened to her, and that he had from -the force of old habit come to me in hope of comfort. - -"I never had a wife," he went on, almost angrily, and as if I had -disputed him. - -I do not know what we said then or how we said it. It was a long time -before I could understand, and even now it seems like a bad dream. -Somehow he made me understand that the tramp who was sick at their house -had kept calling out in his delirium for Gertrude and declaring he had -found her, that she need not hide, for he would surely find her wherever -she hid. The servants talked of it, and George knew it a day or two ago. -I do not know whether he suspected anything or not. Very likely he could -hardly tell himself. Finally one of the girls told Mrs. Weston, and she -acted very strangely. She wanted to have a description of the man, and -at last she insisted on going herself to peep at him, to see what he was -like. George happened to come home just at the time Mrs. Weston had -crept up to the door of the shed-chamber. Some exclamation of hers when -she saw her husband roused the sick man, who sat up in bed and screamed -that he knew his wife's voice, and he would see her. George caught her -by the arm, pushed the door wide open with his foot, and led her into -the chamber. She held back, and cried out, and the tramp, half wild with -delirium, sprang out of bed, shouting to George: "Take your hands off of -my wife!" - -George declares that even then he should not have believed the tramp was -really speaking the truth if Gertrude hadn't confirmed it. He thought -the man was out of his head, and the worst of his suspicion was that the -stranger had known Mrs. Weston somewhere. As soon as the tramp spoke, -however, she fell down on her knees and caught George's hand, crying -over and over: "I thought he was dead! I thought he was dead!" It must -have been a fearful thing for both of them; and then Gertrude fainted -dead away at George's feet. The girl who had been taking care of the -tramp was out of the room at the moment, but she heard George calling, -and came in time to take her mistress away; while George got the tramp -back to bed, and soothed him into some sort of quiet. Then he rushed -over here. I urged him to go back at once, telling him his wife would -want him, and that it might after all be a mistake. - -"I don't want ever to set eyes on her again," he declared doggedly. -"She's cheated me. She told me I was the first man she ever cared for, -and I never had a hint she'd been married. She made a fool of me, but -thank God I'm out of that mess." - -"What do you mean?" I asked him. "You are talking about your wife." - -"She isn't my wife, I tell you," persisted he. "I'll never live with her -again." - -He must have seen how he shocked me, and at last he was persuaded to go -home. I know I must see him to-morrow, and I have a cowardly desire to -run away. I have a hateful feeling of repulsion against him, but that is -something to be overcome. At any rate both he and his poor wife need a -friend if they ever did, and I must do the best I can. - -I cannot wonder George should be deeply hurt by finding that Mrs. Weston -had a husband before and did not tell him. She can hardly have loved -him or she must have been honest with him. It may have been through her -love and fear of losing him that she did not dare to tell; though from -what I have seen of her I haven't thought her much given to sentiment. -How dreadful it must be to live a life resting on concealment. I have -very likely been uncharitable in judging her, for she must always have -been uneasy and of course could not be her true self. - - -October 29. Some rumor of the truth has flown about the town, as I was -sure when I saw Aunt Naomi coming up the walk this forenoon. Sometimes I -think she sees written on walls and fences the things which have -happened or been said in the houses which they surround. She has almost -a second sight; and if I wished to do anything secret I would not -venture to be in the same county with her. - -She seated herself comfortably in a patch of sunshine, and looked with -the greatest interest at the mahonia in bloom on the flower-stand by the -south window. She spoke of the weather and of Peter's silliness, told me -where the sewing-circle was to be next week, and approached the real -object of her call with the deliberation of a cat who is creeping up -behind a mouse. When she did speak, she startled me. - -"I suppose you know that tramp over to the Westons' died this morning," -she remarked, so carelessly it might have seemed an accident if her eye -had not fairly gleamed with eagerness. - -"Died!" I echoed. - -"Yes, he's dead," she went on. "He had some sort of excitement -yesterday, they say, and it seems to have been the end of him." - -She watched me as if to see whether I would give any sign of knowing -more of the matter than she did, but for once I hope I baffled her -penetration. I made some ordinary comment, which could not have told her -much. - -"It's very queer a tramp should go to that particular house to die," -observed Aunt Naomi, as if she were stating an abstract truth in which -she had no especial interest. - -I asked what there was especially odd about it. - -"Well, for one thing," she answered, "he asked the way there -particularly." - -I inquired how she knew. - -"Al Demmons met him on the Rim road," she continued, not choosing, -apparently, to answer my question directly, "and this man wanted to know -where a man named Weston lived who'd married a woman from the West -called something Al Demmons couldn't remember. Al Demmons said that -George Weston was the only Weston in town, and that he had married a -girl named West. Then the man said something about 'that used to be her -name.' It's all pretty queer, I think." - -To this I did not respond. I would not get into a discussion which would -give Aunt Naomi more material for talk. After a moment of silence, she -said:-- - -"Well, the man's dead now, and I suppose that's the end of him. I don't -suppose Mrs. Weston's likely to tell much about him." - -"Aunt Naomi," I returned, feeling that even if all the traditions of -respect for my elders were broken I must speak, "doesn't it seem to you -harm might come of talking about this tramp as if he were some -mysterious person connected with Mrs. Weston's life before she came to -Tuskamuck? It isn't strange that somebody should have known her, and -when once a tramp has had help from a person he hangs on." - -She regarded me with a shrewd look. - -"You wouldn't take up cudgels for her that way if you didn't know -something," she observed. - -After that there was nothing for me to say. I simply dropped the -subject, and refused to talk about the affairs of the Westons at all. I -am so sorry, however, that gossip has got hold of a suspicion. It was to -be expected, I suppose, and indeed it has been in the air ever since the -man came. I am sorry for the Westons. - - -October 30. After the earthquake a fire,--I wonder whether after the -fire will come the still, small voice! It is curious that out of all -this excitement the feeling of which I am most conscious after my dismay -and my pity is one of irritation. I am ashamed to find in my thought so -much anger against George. He had perhaps a right to think as he did -about my affection for him, though it is inconceivable any gentleman -should say the things he said to me last night. Even if he were crazy -enough to suppose I could still love him, how could he forget his wife; -how could he be glad of an excuse to be freed from her; how could he -forget the little child that is coming? Oh, I am like Jonah when he was -so sure he did well to be angry! I am convinced I can have no just -perception of character at all, for this George Weston is showing -himself so weak, so ungenerous, so cruel, that he has either been -changed vitally or I did not really know him. I was utterly deceived in -him. No; I will not believe that. We have all of us possibilities in -different directions. I wish I could remember the passage where Browning -says a man has two sides, one for the world and one to show a woman when -he loves her. Perhaps one side is as true as the other; and what I knew -was a possible George, I am sure. - -He came in yesterday afternoon with a look of hard determination. He -greeted me almost curtly, and added in the same breath:-- - -"The man is dead. She's confessed it all. He was her husband, and she -was never my wife legally at all. She says she thought he was dead." - -"Then there's only one thing to do," I answered. "You can get Mr. -Saychase to marry you to-day. Of course it can be arranged if you tell -him how the mistake arose, and he won't speak of it." - -He laughed sneeringly. - -"I haven't any intention of marrying her," he said. - -"No intention of marrying her?" I repeated, not understanding him. "If -the first ceremony wasn't legal, another is necessary, of course." - -"She cheated me," he declared, his manner becoming more excited. "Do you -suppose after that I'd have her for my wife? Besides, you don't see. She -was another man's wife when she came to live with me, and"-- - -I stared at him without speaking, and he began to look confused. - -"No man wants to marry a woman that's been living with him," he blurted -out defiantly. "I suppose that isn't a nice thing to say to you, but any -man would understand." - -I was silent at first, in mere amazement and indignation. The thing -seemed so monstrous, so indelicate, so cruel to the woman. She had -deceived him and hidden the fact that she had been married, but there -was no justice in this horrible way of looking at it, as if her -ignorance had been a crime. I could hardly believe he realized what he -was saying. Before I could think what to say, he went on. - -"Very likely you think I'm hard, Ruth; and perhaps I shouldn't feel so -if it hadn't come about through her own fault. If she'd told me the -truth"-- - -"George!" I burst out. "You don't know what you are saying! You didn't -take her as your wife for a week or a month, but for all her life." - -"She never was my wife," he persisted stubbornly. - -I looked at him with a feeling of despair,--not unmixed, I must confess, -with anger. Most of all, however, I wanted to reach him; to make him see -things as they were; and I wanted to save the poor woman. I leaned -forward, and laid my fingers on his arm. My eyes were smarting, but I -would not cry. - -"But if there were no question of her at all," I pleaded, "you must do -what is right for your own sake. You have made her pledges, and you -can't in common honesty give them up." - -"She set me free from all that when she lied to me. I made pledges to a -girl, not to another man's wife." - -"But she didn't know. She thought she was free to marry you. She -believed she was honestly your wife." - -"She never was, she never was." - -He repeated it stubbornly as if the fact settled everything. - -"She was!" I broke out hotly. "She was your wife; and she is your wife! -When a man and a woman honestly love each other and marry without -knowing of any reason why they may not, I say they are man and wife, no -matter what the law is." - -"Suppose the husband had lived?" he demanded, with a hateful smile. "The -law really settles it." - -"Do you believe that?" I asked him. "Or do you only wish to believe it?" - -He looked at me half angrily, and the blood sprang into his cheeks. Then -he took a step forward. - -"She came between us!" he said, lowering his voice, but speaking with a -new fierceness. - -I felt as if he had struck me, and I shrank back. Then I straightened -up, and looked him in the eye. - -"You don't dare to say that aloud," I retorted. "You left me of your own -accord. You insult me to come here and say such a thing, and I will not -hear it. If you mean to talk in that strain, you may leave the house." - -He was naturally a good deal taken aback by this, and perhaps I should -not--Yes, I should; I am glad I did say it. He stammered something about -begging my pardon. - -"Let that go," interrupted I, feeling as if I had endured about all that -I could hear. "The question is whether you are not going to be just to -your wife." - -"You fight mighty well for her," responded George, "but if you knew how -she"-- - -"Never mind," I broke in. "Can't you see I am fighting for you? I am -trying to make you see you owe it to yourself to be right in this; and -moreover you owe it to me." - -"To you?" he asked, with a touch in his voice which should have warned -me, but did not, I was so wrapped up in my own view of the situation. - -"Yes, to me. I am your oldest friend, don't you see, and you owe it to -me not to fail now." - -He sprang forward impulsively, holding out both his hands. - -"Ruth," he cried out, "what's the use of all this talk? You know it's -you I love, and you I mean to marry." - -I know now how a man feels when he strikes another full in the face for -insulting him. I felt myself growing hot and then cold again; and I was -literally speechless from indignation. - -"I went crazy a while for a fool with a pretty face," he went rushing -on; "but all that"-- - -"She is your wife, George Weston!" I broke in. "How dare you talk so to -me!" - -He was evidently astonished, but he persisted. - -"We ought to be honest with each other now, Ruth," he said. "There's too -much at stake for us to beat about the bush. I know I've behaved like a -fool and a brute. I've hurt you and--and cheated you, and you've had -every reason to throw me over like a sick dog; but when you made up the -money I'd lost and didn't let Mr. Longworthy suspect, I knew you cared -for me just the same!" - -"Cared for you!" I blazed out. "Do you think I could have ruined any -man's life for that? I love you no more than I love any other man with a -wife of his own!" - -"That's just it," he broke in eagerly. "Of course I knew you couldn't -own you cared while she"-- - -The egotism of it, the vulgarity of it made me frantic. I was ashamed of -myself, I was ashamed of him, and I felt as if nothing would make him -see the truth. Never in my whole life have I spoken to any human being -as I did to him. I felt like a raging termagant, but he would not see. - -"Stop!" I cried out. "If you had never had a wife, I couldn't care for -you. I thought I loved you, and perhaps I did; but all that is over, and -over forever." - -"You've said you'd love me always," he retorted. - -Some outer layer of courtesy seemed to have cracked and fallen from him, -and to have left an ugly and vulgar nature bare. The pathos of it came -over me. The pity that a man should be capable of so exposing his baser -self struck me in the midst of all my indignation. I could not help a -feeling, moreover, that he had somehow a right to reproach me with -having changed. Thinking of it now in cooler blood I cannot see that -since he has left me to marry another woman he has any ground for -reproaching me; but somehow at the moment I felt guilty. - -"George," I answered, "I thought I was telling the truth; I didn't -understand myself." - -The change in his face showed me that this way of putting it had done -more to convince him than any direct denial. His whole manner altered. - -"You don't mean," he pleaded piteously, "you've stopped caring for me?" - -I could only tell him that certainly I had stopped caring for him in the -old way, and I begged him to go back to his wife. He said little more, -and I was at last released from this horrible scene. All night I thought -of it miserably or I dreamed of it more miserably still. That poor -woman! What can I do for her? I hope I have not lost the power of -influencing George, for I might use it to help her. - - - - -XI - -NOVEMBER - - -November 3. How odd are the turns that fate plays us. Sometimes it seems -as if an unseen power were amusing himself tangling the threads of human -lives just as Peter has been snarling up my worsted for pure fun. Only a -power mighty enough to be able to do this must be too great to be so -heartless. I suppose, too, that the pity of things is often more in the -way in which we look at them than it is in the turn which fate or -fortune has given to affairs. The point of view changes values so. - -All this is commonplace, of course; but it is certainly curious that -George's wife should be in my house, almost turned out of her husband's. -When I found her on the steps the other night, wet with the rain, afraid -to ring, afraid of me, and terrified at what had come upon her, I had no -time to think of the strange perversity of events which had brought this -about. She had left George's house, she said, because she was afraid of -him and because he had said she was to go as soon as she was able. He -had called her a horrible name, she added, and he had told her he was -done with her; that she must in the future take care of herself and not -expect to live with him. I know, after seeing the cruel self George -showed the other day, that he could be terrible, and he would have less -restraint with his wife than with me. In the evening, as soon as it was -really dark, in the midst of the storm, she came to me. She said she -knew how I must hate her, that she had said horrid things about me, but -she had nowhere else to go, and she implored I would take her in. She is -asleep now in the south chamber. She is ill, and I cannot tell what the -effects of her exposure will be. Dr. Wentworth looks grave, but he does -not say what he thinks. - -What I ought to do is the question. She has been here two days, and her -husband must have found out by this time what I suppose everybody in -town knows,--where she is. I cannot fold my hands and let things go. I -must send for George, much as I shrink from seeing him. How can I run -the risk of having another scene like the one on Friday? and yet I must -do something. She can do nothing for herself. It should be a man to talk -with George; but I cannot ask Tom. He and George do not like each other, -and he could not persuade George to do right to Gertrude. Perhaps Deacon -Richards might effect something. - - -November 5. After all my difficulty in persuading Deacon Richards to -interfere, his efforts have come to nothing. George was rude to him, and -told him to mind his own affairs. I suppose dear old Deacon Daniel had -not much tact. - -"I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself," the Deacon said -indignantly, "and that he was a disgrace to the town; but it didn't seem -to move him any." - -"I hope he treated you well," I answered dolefully. "I am sorry I -persuaded you to go." - -"He was plain enough," Deacon Daniel responded grimly. "He didn't mince -words any to speak of." - -I must see him myself. I wish I dared consult Tom, but it could not do -any good. I must work it out alone; but what can I say? - - -November 6. Fortunately, I did not have to send for George. He appeared -this afternoon on a singular errand. He wanted to pay me board for his -wife until she was well enough to go away. I assured him he need not be -troubled about board, because I was glad to do what I could for his -wife; and I could not help adding that I did not keep a lodging-house. - -"I'm willing to be as kind to her while she's here as I can," he assured -me awkwardly, "and of course I shall not let her go away empty-handed." - -"She is not likely to," I retorted, feeling my cheeks get hot. "Dr. -Wentworth says she cannot be moved until after the baby comes." - -He flushed in his turn, and looked out of the window. - -"I don't think, Ruth," was his reply, "we can discuss that. It isn't a -pleasant subject." - -There are women, I know, who can meet obstinacy with guile. I begin to -understand how it may be a woman will stoop to flatter and seem to -yield, simply through despair of carrying her end by any other means. -The hardness of this man almost bred in me a purpose to try and soften -him, to try to bewitch him, somehow to fool and ensnare him for his own -good; to hide how I raged inwardly at his injustice and cruelty, and to -pretend to be acquiescent until I had accomplished my end. I cannot lie, -however, even in acts, and all that sort of thing is beyond my power as -well as my will. I realized how hopeless it was for me to try to do -anything with him, and I rose. - -"Very likely you are right," I said. "It is evidently useless for us to -discuss anything. Now I can only say good-by; but I forbid you to come -into my house again until you bring Mr. Saychase with you to remarry you -to Gertrude." - -He had risen also, and we stood face to face. - -"Do you suppose," he asked doggedly, "now I am free I'd consent to marry -any woman but you? I'll make you marry me yet, Ruth Privet, for I know -perfectly well you love me. Think how long we were engaged." - -I remembered the question he asked me when he came back from Franklin -after he had seen her: "How long have we been engaged?" - -"I shall keep your wife," was all I said, "until she is well and chooses -to go. George, I beg of you not to let her baby be born fatherless." - -A hateful look came into his eyes. - -"I thought you were fond of fatherless babies," he sneered. - -"Go," I said, hardly controlling myself, "and don't come here again -without Mr. Saychase." - -"If I bring him it will be to marry you, Ruth." - -Something in me rose up and spoke without my volition. I did not know -what I was saying until the words were half said. I crossed the room and -rang the bell for Rosa, and as I did it I said:-- - -"I see I must have a husband to protect me from your insults, and I will -marry Tom Webbe." - -Before he could answer, Rosa appeared. - -"Rosa," I said, and all my calmness had come back, "will you show Mr. -Weston to the door. I am not at home to him again until he comes with -Mr. Saychase." - -She restrained her surprise and amusement better than I expected, but -before she had had time to do more than toss her head George had rushed -away without ceremony. By this time, I suppose, every man, woman, and -child in town knows that I have turned him out of my house. - - -November 7. "And after the fire a still, small voice!" I have been -saying this over and over to myself; and remembering, not irreverently, -that God was in the voice. - -I have had a talk with Tom which has moved me more than all the trouble -with George. The very fact that George so outraged all my feelings and -made me so angry kept me from being touched as I might have been -otherwise; but this explanation with Tom has left me shaken and tired -out. It is emotion and not physical work that wears humanity to shreds. - -Tom came to discuss the reading-room. He is delighted that it has -started so well and is going on so swimmingly; and he is full of plans -for increasing the interest. I was, I confess, so preoccupied with what -I had made up my mind to say to him I could hardly follow what he was -saying. I felt as if something were grasping me by the throat. He looked -at me strangely, but he went on talking as if he did not notice my -uneasiness. - -"Tom," I broke out at last, when I could endure it no longer, "did you -know that Mrs. Weston is here, very ill?" - -"Yes," was all he answered. - -"And, Tom," I hurried on, "George won't remarry her." - -"Won't remarry her?" he echoed. "The cur!" - -"He was here yesterday," I went on desperately, "and he said he is -determined to marry me." - -Tom started forward with hot face and clenched fist. - -"The blackguard! I wish I'd been here to kick him out of the house! What -did you say to him?" - -"I told him he had insulted me, and forbade him to come here again -without Mr. Saychase to remarry them," I said. Then before Tom's -searching look I became so confused he could not help seeing there was -more. - -"Well?" he demanded. - -He was almost peremptory, although he was courteous. Men have such a way -in a crisis of instinctively taking the lead that a woman yields to it -almost of necessity. - -"Tom," I answered, more and more confused, "I must tell you, but I hope -you'll understand. I had a frightful time with him. I was ashamed of him -and ashamed of myself, and very angry; and when he said he'd make me -marry him sometime, I told him"-- - -"Well?" demanded Tom, his voice much lower than before, but even more -compelling. - -"I told him," said I, the blood fairly throbbing in my cheeks, "that I -should marry you. You've asked me, you know!" - -He grew fairly white, but for a moment he did not move. His eyes had a -look in them I had never seen, and which made me tremble. It seemed to -me that he was fighting down what he wanted to say, and to get control -of himself. - -"Ruth," he asked me at last, with an odd hoarseness in his voice, "do -you want George Weston to marry that woman?" - -"Of course I do," I cried, so surprised and relieved that the question -was not more personal the tears started to my eyes. "I want it more than -anything else in the world." - -Again he was still for a moment, his eyes looking into mine as if he -meant to drag out my most secret thought. These silences were too much -for me to bear, and I broke this one. I asked him if he were vexed at -what I had said to George, and told him the words had seemed to say -themselves without any will of mine. - -"I could only be sorry at anything you said, Ruth," he returned, "never -vexed. I only think it a pity for you to link your name with mine." - -I tried to speak, but he went on. - -"I've loved you ever since I was old enough to love anything. I've told -you that often enough, and I don't think you doubt it. I had you as my -ambition all the time I was growing up. I came home from college, and -you were engaged, and all the good was taken out of life for me. I've -never cared much since what happened. But if I've asked you to love me, -Ruth, I never gave you the right to think I'd be base enough to be -willing you should marry me without loving me." - -Again I tried to speak, though I cannot tell what I wished to say. I -only choked and could not get out a word. - -"Don't talk about it. I can't stand it," he broke in, his voice husky. -"You needn't marry me to make George Weston come up to the mark. I'll -take care of that." - -I suppose I looked up with a dread of what might happen if he saw -George, and of course Tom could not understand that my concern was for -him and not for George. He smiled a bitter sort of smile. - -"You needn't be afraid," he said. "I'll treat him tenderly for your -sake." - -I was too confused to speak, and I could only sit there dazed and silent -while he went away. It was not what he was saying that filled me with a -tumult till my thoughts seemed beating in my head like wild birds in a -net. Suddenly while he was speaking, while his dear, honest eyes full of -pain were looking into mine, the still, small voice had spoken, and I -knew that I cared for Tom as he cared for me. - - -November 8. I realize now that from the morning when Tom and I first -stood with baby in my arms between us I have felt differently toward -him. It was at the moment almost as if I were his wife, and though I -never owned it to myself, even in my most secret thought, I have somehow -belonged to him ever since. I see now that something very deep within -has known and has from time to time tried to tell me; but I put my hands -to the ears of my mind. Miss Fleming used to try to teach us things at -school about the difference between the consciousness and the will, and -other dark mysteries which to me were, and are, and always will be -utterly incomprehensible, and I suppose some kind of a consciousness -knew what the will wouldn't recognize. That sounds like nonsense now it -is on paper, but it seemed extremely wise when I began to write it. No -matter; the facts I know well enough. It is wonderful how a woman will -hide a thing from herself, a thing she knows really, but keeps from -being conscious she knows by refusing to let her thoughts put it into -words. - -To myself I seem shamefully fickle,--and yet it seems also as if I had -never changed at all, but that it was always Tom I have been fond of, -even when I fully believed it was George. Of course this is only a weak -excuse; but at least I have been fond of Tom as a friend from my -childhood. He has always commanded me, too, in a way. He has done what I -wished and what I thought best; but I have always known he could be -influenced only so far, and that if I wanted what he did not believe in -he could be as stubborn as a rock. The hardness of his mother shows -itself in him as the stanch foundation for the gentleness he gets from -his father. - -Miss Charlotte came in for a moment to-day, and by instinct she knew -that something had made me happy. She was full of sympathy for a moment, -and then, I think, some suspicion came into her dear old head which she -would not have there. - -"Ruth, my dear," she said in her rough way, "you look too cheerful for -the head of a foundling asylum and a house of refuge. I hope you've made -George Weston promise to marry his own wife,--though if I made the laws -it wouldn't be necessary for a man to marry a woman more than once. I've -no idea of weddings that have to come round once in so often like -house-cleaning." - -She was watching me so keenly as she spoke that I smiled in spite of -myself. - -"No," I told her, "I haven't been able to make him; but Tom Webbe has -undertaken to bring him round, so I believe it will be all right." - -Whether she understood or not I cannot tell, but from the loving way in -which she leaned over and kissed me I suspect she had some inkling of -it. - - -November 9. They are married. Just after dusk to-night I heard the -doorbell, and Rosa came in with a queer look on her face to say that Mr. -Saychase and Mr. Weston were in the hall. I went out to them at once, -and tried to act as if everything had been arranged between us. George -was pale and stern. He would not look at me, and I did not exchange a -word directly with him while he was in the house, except to say -good-evening and good-by. I kept them waiting just a moment or two while -I prepared Gertrude, and then I called them upstairs. She behaved very -well, acting as if she were a little frightened, but accepting -everything without a word. I suspect she is too ill really to care for -anything very much. The ceremony was over quickly, and then George went -away without noticing his wife further except to say good-night. - -Tom came in for a moment, later, to see that everything was well, and of -course I asked him how he had brought George to consent. He smiled -rather grimly. - -"I did it simply enough," he said. "I tried easy words first, and -appealed to him as a gentleman,--though of course I knew it was no use. -If such a plea would have done any good, I shouldn't have been there. -Then I said he wouldn't be tolerated in Tuskamuck if he didn't make it -right for his wife. He said he guessed he could fix that, and if other -people would mind their own business he could attend to his. Then I -opened the door and called in Cy Turner. I had him waiting outside -because I knew Weston would understand he meant business. I asked him to -say what we'd agreed; and he told Weston that if he didn't marry the -woman before midnight we'd have him ridden out of town on a rail. He -weakened at that. He knew we'd do it." - -I could not say anything to this. It was a man's way of treating the -situation, and it accomplished its end; but it did affect me a good -deal. I shivered at the very idea of a mob, and of what might have -happened if George had not yielded. Tom saw how I felt, I suppose. - -"You think I'm a brute, Ruth," he said, "but I knew he'd give in. He -isn't very plucky. I always knew that." - -He hurried away to go to the reading-room, where he had to see to -something or other, and we said nothing about our personal relations. I -wonder if I fancied that he watched me very closely to see how I took -his account, or if he really thought I might resent his having -browbeaten George. He need not have feared. I was troubled by the idea -of the mob, but I was proud of Tom, and I could not help contrasting his -clear, straightforward look with the way George avoided my eyes. - - -November 12. Now there are two babies in the house, and Cousin Mehitable -might think her prediction that I would set up an orphan asylum was -coming true in earnest. In spite of Mrs. Weston's exposure everything is -going well, and we hope for the best. I sent George a note last night to -tell him, and he came over for a minute. He behaved very well. He had -none of the bravado which has made him so different and so dreadful, and -he was more like his old self. He was let into his wife's chamber just -long enough to kiss her, but that was all. I suppose to be the father of -a son must sober any man. - - -November 20. Tom never comes any more to see me or baby. When I -discovered I cared for him I felt that of course everything was at last -straightened out; and here is Tom, who only knows that he cares for me, -so the case is about as it was before except that now he will never -speak. I must do something; but what can I do? When I thought only of -getting out of the way of George's marriage it was bad enough to speak -to Tom, and now it seems impossible. I can't, I can't, I can't speak to -him again! - - -November 23. Cousin Mehitable and her telegram arrived this time -together, for the boy who drove her from the station brought the -message, and gave it to her to bring into the house. She was full of -indignation and amazement at what she found, and insisted upon going -back to Boston by the afternoon train. - -"I never know what you will do, Ruth," she said, "so of course I ought -not to be surprised; but of all the wild notions you could take into -your head, I must say to have Mrs. Weston come here to have her baby is -the most incredible." - -"You advised me to have more babies, as long as I had one," I -interposed. - -"I've a great mind to shake you," was her response. "This is a pretty -reception when I haven't seen you since I came home. To think I should -be cousin to a foundling hospital, and that all the family I have left!" - -I suggested that if I really did set up a foundling hospital, she would -soon have as large a family as anybody could want, and she briskly -retorted that she had more than she wanted now. She had come down to -persuade me to go to Boston for the winter, to make up, she said, for -my not going abroad with her, and she brought me a wonderful piece of -embroidered crêpe for a party dress. She was as breezy and emphatic as -ever, and she denounced me and my doings in good round terms. - -"I suppose if you did come to Boston," she said, "you'd be mixed up in -all the dreadful charities there, and I should never see you." - -"But you know, Cousin Mehitable," I protested, "you belong to two or -three charitable societies yourself." - -"But those are parish societies," was her reply. "That is quite -different. Of course I do my part in whatever the church is concerned -in; but you just do things on your own hook, and without even believing -anything. I think it's wicked myself." - -I could only laugh at her, and it was easy to see that her indignation -was not with any charitable work I did, but only with the fact I would -not promise to leave everything and go home with her. - -Before she went home I told her I had a confession to make. She -commented, not very encouragingly, that she supposed it was something -worse than anything had come yet, but that as she was prepared for -anything I might as well get it out. - -"If you've decided to be some sort of a Mormon wife to that horrid Mr. -Weston," she added, "I shouldn't be in the least surprised. Perhaps -you'll take him in with the rest of his family." - -I said I did indeed think of being married, but not to him. - -"Let me know the worst at once, Ruth," she broke out, rather fiercely. -"At my age I can't stand suspense as I could once. What tramp or beggar -or clodhopper have you picked out? I know you too well to suppose it's -anybody respectable." - -When I named Tom, she at first pretended not to know him, although she -has seen him a dozen times in her visits here, and once condescended to -say that for a countryman he was really almost handsome. - -"I know it's the same name as that baby's father's," she ended, her -voice getting icier and icier, "but of course no respectable woman would -think of marrying him." - -"Then I'm not a respectable woman," I retorted, feeling the blood rise -into my face, "for I'm thinking of it." - -We looked for a moment into each other's eyes, and I felt, however I -appeared, as if I were defying anything she could say. - -"So he has taken advantage of your mothering his baby, has he?" she -brought out at last. - -I responded that he did not even suspect I meant to marry him. She -stared, and demanded how he was to find out. I answered that I could -think of no way except for me to tell him. She threw up her hands in -pretended horror. - -"I dare say," she burst out, "he only got you to take the baby so that -you'd feel bound to him. I should think when he'd disgraced himself you -might have self-respect enough to let him alone. Oh, what would Cousin -Horace say!" - -Then she saw she was really hurting me, and her eyes softened somewhat. - -"I shan't congratulate you, Ruth, if that's what you expect; but since -you will be a fool in your own obstinate way, I hope it'll make you -happy." - -I took both her hands in mine. - -"Cousin Mehitable," I pleaded, "don't be hard on me. I know he's done -wrong, and it hurts me more than I can tell you. I am so sorry for him -and I really, really love him. I'm all alone now except for baby, and I -am sure if Father were alive he would see how I feel, and approve of -what I mean to do." - -The tears came into her eyes as I had never seen them. She drew her -hands away, but first she pressed mine. - -"Ruth," she said, "never mind my tongue. If you've only baby, I've -nobody but you, and you won't come near me. Besides, you are going to -have him. I can't pretend I like it, Ruth; but I do like you, and I do -dearly hope you'll be happy. You deserve to be, my dear; and I'm a -selfish, worldly old woman, with a train to catch. Now don't say another -word about it, or I'll disinherit you in my will." - -So we kissed each other, and she went away with my secret. - - -November 25. Kathie has come home for her Thanksgiving vacation, and I -never saw a creature so transformed. She is so interested in her school, -her studies, her companions, that she seems to have forgotten that -anybody ever frightened her about her soul; and she is just a merry, -happy girl, bright-eyed and rather high-strung, but not in the least -morbid. She hugged me, and kissed Tomine, and the nonsense of her -jealousy, as of her having committed the unpardonable sin, was forgotten -entirely. It is an unspeakable comfort to me that the experiment of -sending her away has turned out so well. - -Miss Charlotte came in while Kathie was here, and watched her with -shrewd, keen eyes as she rattled on about the things she is studying, -the games she plays, and the friends she has made. When she had gone, -Miss Charlotte looked at me with one of her friendly regards. - -"She's made over, like the boy's jackknife that had a new blade and a -new handle," was her comment. "I think, my dear, you've saved her soul -alive." - -I was delighted that she thought Kathie so much improved, though of -course I realized I had not done it. - - -November 26. I have invited George to Thanksgiving dinner. I do hope -Gertrude will be able to come downstairs; if she is not I shall have to -get through as best I can without her. Miss Charlotte will come, and -that will prevent the awkwardness of our being by ourselves. - -George comes every day to see his wife, and I think his real feelings, -his better side, have been called out by her illness. She is the mother -of his son, and she is so extremely pretty and pathetic as she lies -there, that I should not think any man could resist her. She is so -softened by what she has gone through, and so grateful for kindness, she -seems a different person from the over-dressed woman we have known -without liking very much. - -She told me yesterday a good deal about her former life. She has been an -orphan from her early girlhood, largely dependent upon an aunt who -wanted to be rid of her. It was partly by the contrivance of her aunt, -and partly because she longed to escape from a position of dependence, -that she married her first husband. She did not stop, I think, to -consider what she was doing, and she found her case a pretty hard one. -Her husband abused her, and before they had been married a year he ran -away to escape a charge of embezzlement. Word was sent to her soon after -that he was drowned. She took again her maiden name, and came East to -escape all shadow of the disgrace of her married life. She earned her -living as a typewriter, until she saw George at Franklin, where she was -employed in the bank. She confessed that she came here to secure him, -and she wept in begging my pardon for taking him away from me. - -If she can keep to her resolutions and if George will only be still fond -of her, things may yet go well with them. Aunt Naomi dryly observed -yesterday that what has happened will be likely to prevent Mrs. Weston -for a long time to come from trying to make a display, and so it may be -the best thing that could have befallen her. So much depends upon -George, though! - - -November 30. The dinner went off much better than I could have hoped. -Dr. Wentworth allowed Gertrude to leave her room for the first time, and -George brought her down to dinner in his arms. She was given only a -quarter of an hour, but this served for the topic of talk, and George -was so tender with his wife that Miss Charlotte was quite warmed to him. - -The two babies of course had to be produced, but it was rather painful -to see how thin and spindling the little Weston baby looked beside my -bonny Thomasine. Tomine has grown really to know me. She will come -scrambling like a little crab across the floor toward me if I appear in -the nursery. Hannah and Rosa are both jealous of me, and I triumph over -them in a fashion little less than inhuman. - -I am glad Thanksgiving is over, for in spite of all any of us might do -to seem perfectly at ease, some sense of constraint and -uncomfortableness was always in the background. On the whole, however, -we did very well; and Miss Charlotte sat with me far into the twilight, -talking of Mother. - - - - -XII - -DECEMBER - - -December 1. I dreamed last night a dream which affected me so strongly -that I can hardly write of it without shivering. I dreamed that George -came with Mr. Saychase to remarry, as I thought, Gertrude. When we all -stood by the side of her bed, however, George seized my hand, and -announced that he had come to marry me, and was resolved to have no -other wife. Gertrude fell back on her pillow in a faint. I struggled to -pull away the hand George had taken, but I was powerless. I tried to -scream, but that horrible paralysis which sometimes affects us in dreams -left me speechless. I felt myself helpless while Mr. Saychase went on -marrying me to George before the eyes of his own wife, in spite of -anything I could do to prevent it. The determination to be free of this -bond struggled in me so strongly against the helplessness which held me -that I sprang up in bed at last, awake and bursting into hysterical -crying. - -The strange thing about it all is that I seem to have broken more than -the sleep of the body. It is as if all these years I had been in a -drowse in my mind, and had suddenly sprung up throbbingly awake. I am as -aghast at myself as if I should discover I had unconsciously been -walking in the dark on the edge of a ghastly precipice,--yes, a -precipice on the edge of a valley full of writhing snakes! My very -flesh creeps at the thought that I could by any possibility be made the -wife of any man but Tom. I look back to-day over the long years I was -engaged, and understand all in a flash how completely George spoke the -truth when he used to complain I was an iceberg and did not know what it -was to be in love. He was absolutely right; and he was right to leave -me. I can only wonder that through those years when I endured his bodily -presence because I thought I loved his mental being, he could endure me -at all. He could not have borne it, I see now, if he had been really in -love with me himself. I am wise with a strange new wisdom; but whence it -comes, or why it has opened to me in a single night, from a painful -dream, is more than I can say. I understand that George never loved me -any more than I did him. He will go back to Gertrude,--indeed I do not -believe he has ever ceased to be fond of her, even when he declared he -was tired of her and wanted me to take him back. He was angry with her, -and no human being understands himself when he is angry. - -Last night after I waked I could not reason about things much. I was too -panic-stricken. I lay there in the dark actually trembling from the -horror of my dream, and realized that from my very childhood Tom has -stood between me and every other man. Now at last I, who have been all -these years in a dull doze, am awake. I might almost say, without being -in the least extravagant, that I am alive who was dead; I, who have -thought of love and marriage as I might have thought about a trip -abroad, know what love means. My foolish dream has changed me like a -vision which changes a mere man into a prophet or a seer. - -I cannot bear that Tom should go on suffering. I must somehow let him -know. December 2. Fortune was kind to me this morning, and Tom knows. I -had to go to take some flannel to old Peggy Cole, and as I crossed the -Foot-bridge Tom came out of Deacon Daniel's mill. He flushed a little -when he saw me, and half hesitated, as if he were almost inclined to -turn back. I did not mean to let him escape, however, and stood still, -waiting for him. We shook hands, and I at once told him I had wanted to -see him, so that if he were not in a hurry I should be glad if he would -walk on with me. - -He assented, not very willingly I thought, and we went on over the -bridge together. The sun was shining until the snow-edges glistened like -live coals, and everywhere one looked the air fairly shimmered with -light. The tide was coming up in the river, and the cakes of ice, -yellowed in patches by the salt water until they were like unshorn -fleeces, were driven against the long sluice-piers, jostling and pushing -like sheep frightened into a corner. The piers themselves, and every -spar or rock that showed above the water, were as white as snow could -make them. It was one of those days when the air is a tonic, so that -every breath is a joy; and as Tom and I walked on together I could have -laughed aloud just for joy of the beautiful winter day. - -"How cold the water looks," Tom said, turning his face away from me and -toward the Rim. "It is fairly black with cold." - -"Even the ice-cakes seem to be trying to climb out of it," I returned, -laughing from nothing but pure delight. "I suppose that is the way you -feel about me, Tom. You haven't been near Tomine or me for ten days, and -you know you wanted to get away from me this morning." - -He did not answer for a minute. Then he said in a strained voice:-- - -"It's no use, Ruth; I shall have to go away. I can't stand it here. It -was bad enough before, but now I simply cannot bear it." - -"You mean," I returned, full of fun and mischief, "that the idea of my -offering myself to you was too horrible? You had a chance to refuse, -Tom; and you took it. I should think I was the one to feel as if it -wasn't to be borne." - -He stopped in the street and turned to face me. - -"Don't, Ruth," he protested in a voice which went straight to my heart. -"If you knew how it hurts me you wouldn't joke about it." - -I wanted to put my arms about his neck and kiss him as I used to do when -we were babies; but that was manifestly not to be thought of, at least -not in the street in plain sight of the blacksmith shop. - -"It isn't any joke," said I. "Just walk along so the whole town need not -talk about us, please." - -He walked on, and I tried to think of a sentence which would tell him -that I really cared for him, yet which I could say to him there in the -open day, with the sun making a peeping eye of every icy crystal on -fence or tree-twig. - -"Well?" he cried after a moment. - -"O Tom," I asked in despair, "why don't you help me? I can't say it. I -can't tell you I"-- - -I did not dare to look at him, and I came to a stop in my speech because -I could feel that he was pressing eagerly to my side. - -"You what, Ruth?" he demanded, his voice quivering. "Be careful!" - -Perhaps his agitation helped me to master mine. Certain it is for the -moment I thought only that he must not be kept in suspense, and so I -burst out abruptly:-- - -"Tom, you are horrid! I've offered myself to you once, and now you want -me to protest in the open street that I can't live without you! Well, -then; I can't!" - -"Ruth!" - -It was all he said; just my name, which he has said hundreds and -hundreds of times ever since he could say anything; but I think I can -never hear my name again without remembering the love he put into it. I -trembled with happiness, but I would not look at him. I walked on with -my eyes fixed on the snowy hills beyond the town, and tried to believe I -was acting as if I had said nothing and felt nothing unusual. I remember -our words up to this time, but after that it is all a joyful blur. I -know Tom walked about and waited for me while I did my errand with Peggy -Cole; the droll old creature scolded me because the flannel was not -thicker, and I beamed on her as if she were expressing gratitude; then -he walked home with me, and couldn't come in because as we turned the -corner we saw Aunt Naomi walk into the house. - -One thing I do remember of our talk on the way home. Tom said suddenly, -and with a solemnity of manner that made me grave at once:-- - -"There is one thing more, Ruth, we must be frank about now or we shall -always have it between us. Can you forgive me for being baby's father?" - -He had found just the phrase for that dreadful thing which made it most -easy for me to answer. - -"Tom, dear," I answered, "it isn't for me to forgive or not to forgive. -It is in the past, and I want to help you to forget utterly what cannot -now be helped." - -"But baby," he began, "she"-- - -"Baby is ours," I interrupted. "All the rest may go." - -He promised to come in to-night, and then I had to face Aunt Naomi. She -looked me through and through with eyes that seemed determined to have -the very deepest secrets of my soul. Whether I concealed anything from -her or not I cannot tell; but after all why should I care? The day has -been lived through, and it is time for Tom to come. - - -December 3. If I could write--But I cannot, I cannot! Ever since Rosa -rushed in last night, crying out that Tom was drowned, I have seen -nothing but the water black with cold, and the flocks of ice cakes -grinding--Oh, why should I torment myself with putting it down? - - -December 5. We buried him to-day. Cousin Mehitable sent a wreath of ivy. -Nobody else knows our secret. If he remembers, it is sweet for him to -know. - - -December 13. The stars are so beautiful to-night they make me remember -how Tom and I in our childhood used to play at choosing stars we would -visit when we could fly. To-night he may be exploring them, but for me -they shine and shine, and my tears blur them, and make them dance and -double. - - -December 19. I have been talking with Deacon Richards and Mr. Turner. -They both think I can take Tom's place on the reading-room committee -without coming forward too much. Nothing need be said about it, only so -I can do most of Tom's work. Of course I cannot go to the room evenings -as he did; but Mr. Turner will do that. Tom was so interested in this -that I feel as if I were continuing his work and carrying out his plans. -I remember all he had told me, and it almost seems like doing it with -him. Almost! - - -December 20. Now I know all about Tom's death that anybody knows. I -could not talk about it before. Aunt Naomi and dear Miss Charlotte both -tried to tell me, but I would not let them. To-night Mr. Turner came to -talk about the library, and before he went away we spoke about Tom. He -was so homely in his speech, so honest, so kindly, that I kept on, and -could listen to him even when he told how Tom died. - -That night Tom had been down on the other side of the river, and was -coming up--coming to me--past the Flatiron wharf. Mrs. Brownrig was on -the wharf, crazy with drink, and threatening to throw herself overboard. -Two or three of the people who live near there, men and women, were -trying to get her away, and when Tom appeared they asked him to see what -he could do. As he came near her the old woman shrieked out that he had -killed her daughter and would murder her; and before they realized what -she was doing she had jumped into the water. Tom ran to the edge, -unfastening his overcoat as he went, and just paused to tear it off -before he leaped in after her. The tide was running out, and the water -was full of ice. He had a great bruise on his forehead where he had -evidently been struck by a block. Mrs. Brownrig pinioned his arms too, -so he had no chance anyway. It was a mercy that the bodies were -recovered before the tide drifted them out. - -"Tom was an awful good fellow," the blacksmith concluded, "an awful good -fellow." - -I could not answer him. - - -December 23. Deacon Webbe has been here to-day. He was so bowed and bent -and broken I could hardly talk to him without sobbing; and I had to tell -him I was to have been his daughter, and that if he would let me, I -would be so still. He was greatly touched, and he will keep our secret. - - -December 24. More than the death of Father, more, even, than that of -Mother who had been my care and comfort so long, the death of Tom seems -to leave me alone in a wide, empty universe. I cannot conceive of a -future without him; I cannot believe the bonds which bound us are -broken. I have his child, and I cannot take baby in my arms without -feeling I am coming closer to Tom. All my friends have been very dear. I -do not think any one of them, except perhaps Miss Charlotte, suspects -how much the loss of Tom means to me, but they at least realize that we -were life-long comrades, and that I must feel the death of the father of -baby very keenly. However much or little they suspect, no one has -betrayed any intimation that Tom and I were more than close friends. -Even Aunt Naomi has said nothing to make me shrink. People are so kind -in this world, no matter what pessimists may say. - - -December 31. I have been very busy with all the Christmas work for my -poor people, the things Tom wanted done for the reading-room, and the -numberless trifles which need to be attended to. To-night I think I am -writing in my diary for the last time. The year has been full of -wonderful things, some of them terrible to bear, and yet, now I look -back, I see it has brought me more than it has taken away. Tom is mine -always, everywhere, as long as we two have any existence in all the wide -spaces between the stars we used to choose to fly to; and his baby is -left to comfort me and to hearten me for the work I have all around me -to do. I cannot keep the tears back always, and heartache is not to be -cured by any sort of reasoning that I know; yet as long as I have his -love, the memory of Father and Mother, and dear baby, I have no right to -complain. Just to be in one's place and working, to go on -growing,--dying when the time comes,--what a priceless, blessed thing -life is! - - - Transcriber's Note. - - Phrases in italics are indicated by _italics_. - - Phrases in bold are indicated by =bold=. - - Words in the text which were in small-caps were - converted to normal case. - - Double-word "a" removed on page 228: - "Yours truly and with a a sad and loving" - - Typos corrected: - page 35: - "fastastic" --> "fantastic" - (fantastic bunches of snow in the willows) - page 119: - "be" --> "he" - (clergyman with whom he) - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Diary of a Saint, by Arlo Bates - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DIARY OF A SAINT *** - -***** This file should be named 41801-8.txt or 41801-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/8/0/41801/ - -Produced by Michael Seow, sp1nd and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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