"No, oh, no, indeed," shivered Tessa, "but she can go to sleep when I have to lie awake."

"Now I must go."

"I'll walk to the end of the planks with you."

Tessa was too much moved to care to talk; the walk with Miss Jewett was almost as silent as her walk homeward alone.

XV.-SEPTEMBER.

If Miss Jewett had not been once upon a laughing time a girl herself, she would have wondered where the girls in Dunellen found so much to laugh about. Nan Gerard laughed. Sue Greyson laughed, and Tessa Wadsworth laughed; they laughed separately, and they laughed together; they cried separately, too, but they did not cry together. Nan knew that it was September, because she had planned to come to Dunellen in September; Sue knew, because so few days remained before her wedding-day; and Tessa knew, because she found the September golden rod and pale, fall daisies in her long walks towards Mayfield; she knew it, also, because her book was copied and at the publishers', awaiting the decision over which she trembled in antic.i.p.ation night and day. One morning, late in the month, she found at the post-office a long, thick, yellow envelope, containing two dozens of pictures; several of them she had seen long ago in Sunday-school books, those that were new to her, appeared cut or torn from some book; the letter enclosed with the pictures requested her to write a couple of books and to use those pictures.

"I've heard of ill.u.s.trating books," she laughed to herself, "but it seems that I must ill.u.s.trate pictures."

Coaxing Miss Jewett into her little parlor, she showed her the pictures, and read aloud the letter.

"I think it is a great compliment to you," said the little woman, admiringly. "You do not seem to think of that."

"Father will think so. You and he are such humble people, that you think me exalted! Women have become famous before they were as old as I."

"You may become famous yet."

"It isn't in me. Genius is bold; if it were in me, I should find some way of knowing it. My work is such a little bit, such a poor little bit.

But I do like the letter."

"You will be glad of it when you are old."

"I am glad of it now."

She read it again: the penmanship was straggling and ugly.

"I do not know how to talk to you; you remind me of Tryphena and Tryphosa; St. Paul would know what to say to you. You seem to have no worldliness in your aims. Your style is impressive. I think that we can keep your pen busy. Your last ma.n.u.script is still in the balance."

"If it be found wanting, what shall I do! The suspense wears upon me."

"I begin to understand why mediocrity is long-lived. Don't be a goose, child."

Mr. Wadsworth was at his desk; he read the letter through twice without comment.

"Well!" she said, playing with a morsel of pink blotting paper.

"It's _beautiful_, daughter."

She wondered why it did not seem so much to her as it did to him and to Miss Jewett.

"I expect that Dine will take to authorship next."

Tessa's lips were keeping a secret, for Dine was writing a little story.

When had she ever failed to attempt the thing that Tessa had done? She had not taken Tessa's place in school, and had been graduated much nearer the foot of her cla.s.s than Tessa had ever stood; still she had Tessa's knack of writing stories, and telling stories, and had, at her urging, written a story for boys, which Tessa had criticised and copied; Dinah's penmanship being very pretty, but not at all plain. The letter made no allusion to the fate of Dinah's story; somewhat anxious about this, she slipped the bulky envelope into her pocket and turned her face homewards. Her winter's work was laid out for her; there was nothing to do but to do it.

So full was she with plans for the books that she did not hear steps behind her and at her side until Sue Greyson nudged her.

"Say, Tessa, turn down Market Street with me; I have something to tell you." The serious, startled voice arrested her instantly. What new and dreadful thing had Sue been doing now? Her only dread was for Dr. Lake.

"I've been ordering things for dinner; we have dinner at four, so I can afford to run around town in the morning. I'm in a horrid fix and there's n.o.body to help me out."

"What about?"

"_I_ haven't been doing any thing; it's other people; it's always other people," she said plaintively, "somebody is always doing something to upset my plans. You do not sympathize with me, you never do."

"I do not know how to sympathize with any thing that is not straightforward and true, and your course is rather zigzag."

"Dr. Towne said-"

"You haven't been talking to _him_," interrupted Tessa, flushing.

"No, only he called to see father and I was home alone and he asked me what ailed me and I had to tell him that I didn't want to be married."

"Well, what could he say?"

"He said, 'Stay with your father and be a good girl,'" laughed Sue, "the last thing I would think of doing. Father looks so glum and says, 'Oh, my little girl, what shall I do without you! I wish that fellow was at the bottom of the sea!' So do I, too. I don't see why I ever promised to marry him! I think that I must have been bereft of my senses."

"Why not ask him to wait a year-you will know your own mind-if you have any-by that time."

"Oh, deary me! I'd be married to John Gesner or some other old fool with money by that time! You don't mind being an old maid, but _I_ do!"

"How do you know that I don't mind?" Tessa could not forbear asking.

"Oh, you wouldn't be so happy and like to do things. I believe that I like Gerald a great deal better any way."

She grew frightened at Tessa's stillness; there was not one sympathetic line in the stern curving of her lips.

"Have you told Dr. Lake that?"

"You needn't cut me in two," laughed Sue uneasily, "men can't _sue_ women for breach of promise can they?"

"Answer me, please."

Sue hesitated, colored, stammered, finally confessed in a weak voice that tried hard to be brave, "Yes, I have! There now! You can't hurt me!

Father said last night that if I had taken Lake he would have given me the house and every thing in it 'for the old woman to keep house with,'

you know! And then he said that it was hard for me to leave him now that he is growing old, that he would have to marry somebody that wouldn't care for him, that he never had had much pleasure in his life, that Gerald was a good physician and they could work together and how happy we might all have been! He was mad enough though when he first discovered that Gerald was in love with me; he threatened to send him off. But that's his way! He is one thing one day and another thing the next! And I couldn't help it, Tessa, I really, _really_ couldn't, but I was so homesick and just then Gerald came in-he looked so tired, his cough has come back, too-and when he said 'How many days yet, Susan?' I said quick, before I thought, 'I like you a hundred times better! I would rather marry you than Stacey.' And then he turned so white that I thought he was dead, and he said something, I don't know whether it was swearing or praying-and caught me in his arms, and said after that he would never let me go! And then I said-I said-I couldn't help it-that I would write to Stacey and send back the ring and he took it off and tossed it out the window! I And then I made him go and find it! Stacey can give it to some other girl. I didn't hurt it. I always took it off when I swept or wet my hands. Life is so uncertain, I thought that he might want it again."

"Life _is_ uncertain. I never realized it until this minute."

"Now your voice isn't angry," said poor Sue eagerly. "I want you to think that I have done right."