XVII.-THE NIGHT BEFORE.

Two of the pretty crimson and brown chairs were drawn to the back parlor grate; Sue had kindled a fire in the back parlor because she felt "shivery," beside, it had rained all day; the wedding morning promised to be chilly and rainy.

Early after tea Dr. Greyson had been called away; Dr. Lake had not returned from a long drive, the latest Irish girl was singing l.u.s.tily in the kitchen; Sue and Tessa were alone together before the fire. The white shades were down, the doors between the rooms closed, they were altogether cozy and comfortable. Almost as comfortable, Tessa was thinking, as if there were no dreaded to-morrow; but then she was the only person in the world who could see any thing to be dreaded in the to-morrow. Tessa's fingers were moving in and out among the white wool that she was crocheting into a long comforter for her father; Sue sat idly restless looking into Tessa's face or into the fire.

Now and then Tessa spoke, now and then Sue e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed or laughed or sighed.

"Life is too queer for any thing," she said reflectively. "Don't you know the minister said that Sunday that we helped to make our own lives?

I have often thought of that."

Tessa's wool was tangled, she unknotted it without replying.

The rain plashed against the windows, a coal fell through the grate and dropped upon the fender.

"I wonder how Stacey feels," said Sue. "Perhaps he is taking out another girl to-night. That ring was large, it will not fit a small hand; perhaps he sold it, you can always get three quarters the worth of a diamond, I have heard people say."

Tessa's lips were not encouraging, but Sue was not looking at her.

"Gerald has the wedding ring in his pocket; I tried it on this noon. I wanted to wear it to get used to it, but he wouldn't let me. He is sentimental like you. I expect that he is really enjoying carrying it around in his pocket. S. G. L. is written in it."

The rain plashed and Tessa worked; suddenly the door-bell gave a sharp clang, a moment later little Miss Jewett, in a waterproof, was ushered in.

"I had to come, girls. I hope I don't intrude."

"Intrude!" Both of Sue's affectionate arms were around the wet figure.

"Tessa is thinking of glum things to say to me, do sit down and say something funny."

The long waterproof was unb.u.t.toned and hung upon the hat-stand in the hall, the rubbers were placed upon the hearth to dry, and the plump little woman pressed into Tessa's arm-chair. Moving an ottoman to her side, Tessa sat with her arm upon the arm of her chair.

"I'm _so_ glad to see you," Sue cried, dropping into her own chair.

"What a long walk you have had in the rain just to give me some good advice. Don't you wish that Tessa was going off, too?"

"Tessa will not go off till she is good and ready," replied Miss Jewett, "and then she will go off to some purpose."

"Make a good match, do you mean?"

"If she can find her match," caressing the hand on the arm of the chair.

"Oh, Miss Jewett, tell us a story! A real love story! Humor me just this once, this last time! I don't like advice and I do like love stories."

"Do you, too, Tessa?"

"Yes, I shall write one some day! They shall both be perfect and love each other perfectly. It shall not be an earthly story, but a heavenly one."

"That would be too tame," said Sue. "I should want it to be a little wicked."

"That would be more like life-"

"And then get good in the end! That is like life, too," interrupted Sue.

"Now, go on, please."

"Very well. To-night is an event, I suppose I may as well celebrate it.

I will tell you about a present I had once, the most perfect gift I ever received."

"But I wanted a love story."

"And you think that _my_ story can not be that? Sometimes I think that unmarried people live the most perfect love stories."

Lifting the ma.s.s of white wool from Tessa's lap and taking the needle, she worked half a minute before she spoke; Sue's curious, bright eyes were on her face, Tessa's were on the wool she was playing with.

"Twenty-five years ago, when I was younger than I am now, and as intense and as full of aspirations as Tessa here, and as full of fun, as _you_, Sue Greyson, I boarded one winter with a widow. She was quite middle-aged and lived alone with her chickens and cat, very comfortably off, but she wanted a boarder or two for company. My store was a little affair then, but I was a busy body; I used to study and sew evenings.

Ah, those evenings! I often think them over now as I sit alone. I shall never forget that winter. I _grew_. The widow and I were not alone; before I had been there a week a young man came, he was scarcely older than I-"

Sue laughed and looked at Tessa.

"He was to sail away in the spring to some dreadful place,-that sounds like you, Sue,-to be a missionary!"

"A _missionary!_" exclaimed Sue.

"Every evening he read aloud to us, usually poetry or the Bible. Poetry meant something to me then-that sounds like you, Tessa. One evening he read Esther, one evening Ruth, and when he read Nehemiah, oh, how enthusiastic we were! He talked and talked and talked, and I listened and listened and listened till all my heart went out to meet him."

"Ah," cried Sue, "to think of you being in love, Miss Jewett. I didn't know that you were ever so naughty!"

"At last the time came that he must go-the very last evening. I thought that those evenings could never end, but they did. I could hardly see my st.i.tches for tears; I was making over a black bombazine for the widow, and the next evening I had to rip my work out! He read awhile,-he was reading _Ra.s.selas_ that night,-and then he dropped the book and talked of his work and the life he expected to lead.

"'You ought to take a wife,' said the widow.

"'No woman will ever love me well enough to go to such a place with me,'

he said.

"Just then I dropped the scissors and had to bend down to pick them up.

The widow went out into the kitchen to set the sponge for her bread and clear out the stove for morning, and we stayed alone and talked. We talked about whether he would be homesick and seasick, and how glad he would be of letters from home; not that he had many friends to write to him, though; and I sewed on and on, and threaded my needle, and dropped my scissors, and almost cried because all I cared for in the wide world would sail away with him, and he would never know!

"'The best of friends must part,' he said when she brought in his candle and lighted it for him.

"In the morning, we all arose early and took our last breakfast together by lamplight. She shook hands with him twice, and wished him all sorts of good wishes, and then he held out his hand to me and said, 'Good-by.'

I said, 'Good-by.' And then he said, 'You have given me a very pleasant winter; I shall often think of it.' And I said, 'Thank you,' and ran away up-stairs to cry by myself. That was five and twenty years ago-before you were born, Sue, and before Tessa could creep; there were wet eyes in the world, before you were born, girls, and there will be wet eyes long after we are all dead; and always for the same reason-because somebody loves somebody.

"He is a hard worker-I rejoice in his life. Five years ago he came home, but not to Dunellen; he had no friends here; after resting awhile he returned to his field of labor, and died before he reached it, but was buried in the place he loved better than home.

"I thought of him and loved him and prayed for him through those twenty years. I think of him and love him and give thanks for him now, and shall till I die and afterwards!"

"Why didn't you go with him?" asked Sue.

"He did not ask me."

"Would you if he had?"