IV
On Sunday evening Benedicta pretended that she was sleepy; and when Mrs. Wilkinson told her to go to bed, and get a good night’s rest, she assented willingly. As a matter of fact, she thought that very likely she would never go to sleep again. Certainly she didn’t want to waste time in that way.
She sat down in the dark by the window, where she could look out over the garden, but she didn’t see it. She had abolished time and space, and was looking into the middle of the afternoon that had passed.
She saw herself and Francis Dumall sitting on a fallen tree in the woods, where the sun shone through the leaves in queer bright spots on his hair, like gold coins. He was dressed in an old belted coat and tweed trousers that didn’t match, but his shabby clothes were worn with his own air of careless distinction. He was hatless. Sometimes he looked like a boy, and sometimes very much of a man.
He had talked about books. He had talked in an enthralling, a marvelous way. He had made Benedicta resolve to begin to read books herself.
“Why have I gone on like this?” she thought. “Never even trying to improve my mind, with all the spare time I’ve had! It’s disgraceful. I’m ashamed of myself. I don’t know what Mr. Dumall must think of me!”
This was somewhat hypocritical, for she had at least a suspicion of what Mr. Dumall thought of her. He hadn’t talked about books all the time; nor was it likely that when he had asked if he might come[Pg 134] to see her, he had contemplated nothing but a literary monologue.
In spite of this, however, and in spite of the look in his gray eyes, which was unmistakably admiration, Benedicta was doubtful.
“He can’t really like me,” she thought.
She did not realize how unworthy of a Miller such humility was. Why shouldn’t he really like her? What was he but a boy not much older than herself, and, like herself, obscure and poor? She didn’t even realize how lovely she was, lost in her ridiculous admiration for him.
“He’s so different from me!” she thought. “He’s not ashamed of being poor. He doesn’t care one bit about clothes, and dancing, and things like that. He could hold his own anywhere. Everybody respects him and likes him. Nan thinks he’s splendid. He is splendid! He’s risen above his disadvantages, and I haven’t. I’ve let myself be so miserable about being poor that I’ve neglected everything else. He remembers that he belongs to a fine old family, and he’s worthy of it!”
She must follow this inspiring example. She must be worthy of her fine, old family. She wished the magic summer night would pass so that she might begin. She was filled with impatience and hope, half happy, half miserable.
She began to dream of the past, when the Dumalls and the Millers were in their prime, when the two houses blazed with lights in the evening and were filled with guests, when the estates were intact, when the ladies exchanged visits, riding along the roads in carriages, and all the country people uncovered as they passed. All gone now—gone forever!
“I don’t care!” she said, wiping away a tear. “I’d rather have what I have than ten times the Wilkinsons’ money!”
The result of her meditations was to make her none too gracious to the Wilkinsons the next morning. She took leave of them, firmly resolving never to set foot in their house again, because it wasn’t worthy of a Miller. She was going home to improve her mind, and never to see or think of any one less august than a Dumall for the rest of her life.
“She’s a high and mighty young woman, I must say!” observed Mr. Wilkinson, a little hurt by her patronizing farewell.
His wife and daughter were not hurt. They said in the same breath:
“Poor Benedicta!”
“Why?” he wished to know.
They didn’t explain, but the thought both of them had was that it is a lamentable piece of folly to bite off one’s nose to spite one’s face, especially in the case of such a delightful nose and such a pretty face as Benedicta’s.