XVIII.-MOODS.

All through the month of October she felt cross, sometimes she looked cross, but she did not speak one cross word, not even once; she was not what we call "sweet" in her happiest moods, but she was thoroughly sound in her temper and often a little, just a very little, sharp. Never sharp to her father, however, because she reverenced him, and never to her mother because she was pitiful towards her; she could appreciate so few of life's best havings and givings, that Tessa could never make her enjoyment less by speaking the thoughts that, at times, almost forced their own utterance; therefore her mood was kept to herself all through the month.

There was no month in the year that she loved as well as she loved October; in any of its days it was a trial to be kept within doors.

She would have phrased her mood as "cross" if she had had the leisure or the inclination to keep a diary; she had kept a journal during the first year of her friendship with Ralph Towne and had burned it before the year was ended in one of her times of being ashamed of herself.

One of the happenings that irritated her was the finding in her desk a sc.r.a.p of a rhyme that she had written one summer day after a talk with Ralph Towne; she dropped it into the parlor grate chiding herself for ever having been so nonsensical and congratulating herself upon having outgrown it.

It was called _The Silent Side_ and was the story of a maiden wandering in the twilight up a lane bordered with daisies, somebody didn't come and her eyes grew tired of watching and her heart beat faint with waiting, so she wandered down the daisy-bordered lane! She did feel a little tender over the last lines even if she were laughing over it:

"'Father,' she said, 'I may not say, But will _you_ not tell him I love him so?"

Had any one in all the world of maidenhood beside her ever prayed such a prayer? Old words came to her: "Thou knowest my foolishness."

The rhyme was dated the afternoon that Ralph Towne had said-but what right had she to remember anything that he had said? He had forgotten and despised her for remembering; but he could not despise her as much as she despised herself!

Why was it that understanding him as she certainly did understand him, that she knew that she would fly to the ends of the earth with him if he should take her hand and say, "Come"; that is, she was _afraid_ that she would. It was no marvel that the knowledge gave her a feeling of discomfort, of intense dissatisfaction with herself; how woefully wrong she must be for such a thing to be true!

On the blank side of a sheet of ma.n.u.script, she scribbled a stanza that haunted her; it gave expression to the life she had lived during the two years just pa.s.sed.

"A nightingale made a mistake; She sang a few notes out of tune; Her heart was ready to break, And she hid from the moon."

In this month her book was accepted; that check for two hundred and six dollars gave pleasure that she and others remembered all their lives; with this check came one for fifteen dollars for Dinah; she almost laughed her crossness away over Dine's little check.

Dine's reply was characteristic:

"Thus endeth my first and last venture upon the literary sea; I follow in your wake no longer.

"If it were matrimony now-

"John (isn't John a grand, strong name?) doesn't like literary women. He reads Owen Meredith to me, and Miss Mulock. He says that I am like Miss Mulock's _Edna_."

Each letter of Dine's teemed with praises of John Woodstock; she thought that he was like Adam Bede, or Ninian in "Head of the Family," or perhaps Max in "A Life for a Life"; she was lonely all day long without him, and as happy as she could be on earth with him all the long evenings.

Tessa frowned over the letters; Dine made no allusion to him in letters written to her father and mother; her whole loving, girlish heart she poured out to Tessa. And Tessa cried over them and prayed over them.

Sue returned from her bridal tour undeniably miserable; even the radiant mood of Dr. Lake was much subdued. Tessa met them together at Mrs.

Towne's one evening, two days after the coming home, and was cut to the heart by their manner towards each other: she was defiant; he, imploring.

"I'm sorry I'm married any way," she exclaimed.

"Don't say that," he remonstrated, his face flushing painfully.

"I will say it-I _do_ say it! I _am_ sorry!"

"You know that you don't mean it."

"Yes, I do mean it, too."

Dr. Towne glanced at Tessa and gave an embarra.s.sed laugh. Mrs. Towne's expression became severe; Tessa could have shaken Sue. Nan Gerard turned on the music stool with her most perfect laugh; Tessa could have shaken _her_ for the enlightenment that ran through it.

"We will have no more music after that," said Professor Towne.

Sue bade Tessa good night holding both her hands. "I wish I had married Stacey," she whispered.

"Don't tell Dr. Lake, I beg of you."

"Oh, he knows it. Come and see me."

"No, I will not. You shall not talk to me about your husband."

"I will if I want to. You must come."

"Do come," urged Dr. Lake coming towards them. But she would not promise.

The last Sat.u.r.day evening in October found Tessa alone before the fire in Mrs. Towne's sitting-room; Mrs. Towne was not well, and had sent for her to come; she had gone to her sleeping room immediately after tea, and asked Tessa to come to her in two hours.

She was in a "mood"; so she called it to herself, a mood in which self-a.n.a.lysis held the prominent place; her heart was aching, she knew not for what, she hardly cared, if the aching might be taken away and she could go to sleep and then awake to find the sun shining.

For the last hour she had been curled up in a crimson velvet chair, part of the time with her head bowed upon the arm; there were tears on her eyelashes, on her fingers, and on the crimson velvet. In the low light, she was but a gray figure crowned with chestnut braids, and only that Ralph Towne saw when he entered noiselessly through the half open door.

Tessa thought that no one in the world moved so gently or touched her so lightly as Ralph Towne. He stood an instant beside her before she stirred, then she raised her head slowly, ashamed of her flushed, wet cheeks. She could not hide from the moon.

"Well?" she said, thinking of her eyes and cheeks.

"Are you dreaming dreams alone, here in the dark?"

"I'm afraid so; I dream too many dreams; I want something real; I do not like the stuff that dreams are made of."

"You are real enough." He leaned against the low mantel with one elbow resting upon it; she did not lift her eyes; she was afraid. Had he come to say something to her?

"Miss Tessa."

She did not reply, she was rubbing her fingers over the crimson velvet.

"I have been thinking of something that I wish to say to you."

"Well, I am approachable," in a light, saucy voice.

"Think well before you speak; it is a question that, middle-aged as I am, I never asked any woman before; I want to ask you to become my wife."

She had raised her eyes in surprise, unfeigned surprise.

"You need not look like that," he said irritably; "you look as if you had never thought of it."

"I have not-for a long time; perhaps I did once-before I became old and wise. I _am_ surprised, I can not understand it; I was so sure that you could never care for me."