Which of us was teacher remained somewhat obscure.

XII

It might reasonably be supposed that the event last narrated disturbed my life. It did in a measure, and for a time, but I was not very long in bringing it back to its accustomed channel.

Strange as it may seem, although we lived across the street from one another, I saw nothing of Mr. Chance for many weeks. Perhaps it is not strange though, after all, since each of us was taking pains to avoid the other, and we knew each other's habits of life pretty well by this time.

But if I didn't see him, I heard of him frequently enough, for Mrs.

Purblind rarely ever met me without saying something about "Dolph," as she called him. She was exceedingly fond of him, and with good cause, for he was a most affectionate, thoughtful, unselfish brother. He was very different from her, and they were not confidential friends, when serious matters were concerned, but they were companionable, nevertheless.

It is not likely Mrs. Purblind realized that she was shut out from something that deeply concerned her brother; but she worried about him.

She was certain he was ill-he had little appet.i.te, and was in no way like himself, she said. Miss Sprig wondered what had come over him.

I believe Mrs. Purblind must have been deaf as well as blind, otherwise the neighborhood gossip regarding Mr. Chance and myself, which was rife a year ago, would certainly have reached her. Evidently she had heard nothing, and she continued to keep my innermost breast in a secret ferment, by pouring her fears and speculations into my ear. She even confided in me that she had for a long time suspected the existence of an affair between Miss Sprig and her brother, but this young woman declared that he never paid her the slightest attention of a matrimonial character; that he'd been very kind to her, very jolly, and friendly, but that was all.

I think that if Mount Vesuvius had leaped out of me, and taken its departure, I could scarce have felt more relieved. I really had been harboring a volcano for some time, and it was a hot tenant.

Shortly after hearing this latter piece of Mrs. Purblind's news, another bit was added.

"Dolph has gone away," she said, one day; "left suddenly, this morning.

He confessed to being played out, and I'm sure he looks it. He's gone on to Buffalo, to brother Dave's."

That night I sat down and wrote a letter; when one has done wrong, his first conscious act should be to confess.

I was in a trying position; one is at such a time. Two months had elapsed, and Mr. Chance might have changed his mind and intent. Men do, occasionally; women, too. And indeed he never had asked me to marry him.

True, that is the supposition when a man, with any real manhood about him, tells a woman he loves her-when he shows her marked attentions, in fact; but, as I said to Mr. Chance, I did not intend to take such things for granted. I had not changed in that respect. I had, however, become convinced that I was harsh and unjust to him. It is a blundering teacher who takes badness in a child for granted-does not wait for proof. It is an inspired teacher who ignores the bad sometimes, even after it has been proven. To think the worst, so some of the psychologists tell us, will often create the worst. Even a cook does well to make the most of her materials. Her dishes will be likely to turn out ill, if she treats the ingredients with disrespect. It would seem that I, who had in a manner made a specialty of matrimonial cookery, had something yet to learn. Randolph Chance had given me a lesson.

In my letter, I said that time and thought had shown me I had done him a wrong, and that I was very sorry; that, no doubt, he had changed in some feelings, and it was, perhaps, not likely we should meet very soon; but that I wished him to know I realized my mistake, and that I was still his friend.

The second day after I had written, I heard from him; our letters were penned the same night, and must have crossed each other. In his he said he had held off as long as he could, but was coming right back from Buffalo to see me. He was certain he could explain everything; he had nothing to hide, and he hoped I would let him tell me what was in his heart; that for months he had known but one real wish, one real aspiration-to win me for his wife. He begged me to let him begin anew, and make an effort to attain this great end.

That evening, in the gloaming, I was at my study window. I could look into the parlor of the Thrush home. A shadow had fallen upon that dear nest; one of the little birdies had flown away, but it was now forever sheltered from all storms in the dear Christ's bosom, so all was well.

The gentle little mother was nearly crushed at first, even more so than the father, though he felt the loss deeply; but erelong she lifted her sweet face, and smiled through her tears. And now, at the end of two weeks, she was to her husband, at least, as cheerful as ever, even more tender, and she made the home as bright as before. So many women are selfish in their grief, unwise too. They act as if their husbands were aliens, and did not share the sorrow. It is true the man usually recovers sooner than the woman from such a blow, but no one should blame him for that. His nature is different, necessarily different; not in kind, but in degree. It has to be; his is the outside battle; he must needs be rugged. But "a man's a man for a' that," and the woman who shuts him out in the hour of bereavement, or who darkens the home continuously, and overcasts its good cheer, is both selfish and foolish.

In such cases husband and wife are parted, instead of being brought nearer to one another, as they should be when they have a little amba.s.sador in the court of Heaven.

My heart was very tender that evening, and as I sat beside the glowing fire, before the lamps were lighted, my thoughts ran to Mrs. Purblind.

The poor little woman had seemed sad of late, and I guessed, without word from her, that it was because her husband was going out so much at night. I did wish she could see some things as they really were.

She sat there with me that evening-in spirit, at least, on the opposite side of the fireplace, and her mournful face touched me deeply.

"He doesn't seem to care for his home," she said sadly.

"Make him care for it. Man is a domestic animal. If he doesn't stay at home, something is wrong."

"I do all I can," she answered in a dull tone.

"No doubt you do now," I said; "but learn more, and then you will improve."

"I was looking over some trunks in the attic to-day, and I came across my wedding gown. It called up so much! I can't get over it-" and she sobbed aloud.

I couldn't speak just then. The tears were too near.

"Oh, when first I wore that gown, how happy I was, and how I looked forward to the future! Everything was bright then, but now it's so changed that I'd hardly know it was the same-it isn't the same-I'm not the same, either--"

Here she broke down again.

I leaned over, and laid my hand on hers. You know she wasn't really there; the real Mrs. Purblind seldom talked over her affairs with me, but I could feel what she was suffering, none the less.

"I want to tell you something, if I may," I said.

She a.s.sented in a dumb sort of fashion, and I leaned a little nearer.

The firelight gleamed on the walls, and in its glow the pictures looked down kindly upon us. Soft shadows rested in the corners of the room, and an air of peace and comfort brooded throughout, as a bird upon her nest.

"Think a little while," I said gently; "think of his side. Is he quite the same as he was when he married?"

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed; "he was so loving and attentive then."

"Had he any hopes and plans? Enthusiasm? Did life look bright to him?"

A serious look traversed her face, as though she were entertaining a new thought.

"Look at him as he used to be," I continued.

And as I spoke, she saw that a young man with a fresh, sunny face-a healthy, happy, care-free face-was sitting in the ruddy firelight.

She gave a start.

"That is Joe as he used to be!" she said. "Oh, how he's changed!"

Even as she spoke, the young man faded away, and an older man-much older, apparently, careworn, and unhappy-looking-took his place.

The coals in the glowing grate sank, and the bright light suddenly died.

A deep shadow rested upon the figure beside us; he was with us, and yet seemed so alone.

"Who would think a man could change that way in ten years!" exclaimed Mrs. Purblind; "would you believe it possible?"

"Not unless he had known many disappointments, and borne loads and cares beyond his years."

"I have never thought of that," she murmured, "I believe poor Joe has been disappointed too."

"He certainly has."

"It's too bad, and there's no help for it now," she added with a sob.