It was nine o'clock and I had only been at home for a few minutes when a note came from Statia Barton. It was written in a very cool strain, but its contents were unexpectedly agreeable, for all that. Statia said she was afraid she had been a little too severe, and that, as it distressed Tom very much to have a general falling out, she had made it up with him. She had nothing to take back in what she had said relating to a certain matter, (what woman ever took back anything?) but was willing to admit that it was, really, my personal affair and that she had no right to control my conduct. She believed it best, on the whole, that we should see each other as little as possible before I went away, but she did not wish, on reflection, to make trouble between her brother and his friend. If Tom wanted me to come to spend an evening with him, she hoped I would do it, and she promised to keep out of my way.
It was a queer mixture, take it altogether, but I was very glad to receive it. The calming effect on my general condition was such that when I went to bed, I slept for nearly seven hours without interruption, something I had not done for the previous fortnight.
Monday, on account of New Years, was as dull as Sunday. When I awoke with the exultant knowledge that it was at last Tuesday morning, I sprang from bed joyfully. Filling my tub with water as it ran from the street pipe, I plunged into its icy depths. Rising again I repeated the operation half a dozen times, until the effect on my entire body was of a healthy glow, and then proceeded to dress with care. I was long in selecting a necktie, for one thing, and tried three pairs of cuff-links before I was content. My coffee was barely tasted, and the newspapers were scanned as if in a dream.
All the time, mind you, I was trying my best to obey the injunction of Dr. Chambers to avoid the least excitement. I persuaded myself that I was simply happy and that no injurious effect could be apprehended from a merely contented frame of mind. I did not stop to think that I was pursuing a short road to the nervous prostration from which I had emerged, and which had its origin in the same lack of control I was exhibiting.
Tom Barton called about eight o'clock and, as he entered the room, came straight to me with his right hand extended. I took it heartily in mine, glad that the chasm between us was bridged at last.
"Dear old fellow," he said, with strong feeling, "forgive me for anything disagreeable I said, the other day. I feel now that I misjudged you. Let us end that matter and when you come to my house this evening, tell me exactly what route you are going to take, so I can arrange where to write you."
I promised to come if I could, and if that was impossible, to send a message to account for my absence. I told him I had bought a set of small maps which would show my route perfectly and that I hoped for frequent communications with him. Neither of us said anything about Statia, for I think he felt as I did that we should get along better without bringing in her name. He was obliged to leave after a brief call. As soon as he was out of sight I donned my out-door garments and proceeded by round-about stages toward Miss May's residence.
The hands of my watch pointed to ten exactly, when I rang her bell. It is considered a virtue, I believe, to be prompt at an appointment. The woman who attended the door dampened my ardor somewhat, however, by informing me that Miss May had not yet returned. She suggested that I go at once to the lady's room and make myself comfortable till she came, which must be very soon.
I walked slowly up the stairs, which seemed longer than ever, oppressed with a new series of doubts. Perhaps she would not come at all. Perhaps she had taken my three hundred dollars and fled to parts unknown. Perhaps—oh! the ugly things that came into my head between the lower hall and the door of that empty room.
I turned the knob and entered. Somehow the sight of the things that belonged to her began to mollify me. There was the chair in which she had been seated when I saw her last—happy chair! There was the dressing table, the brush and comb she used, the glass into which she had looked with her beautiful blue-gray eyes. Yes, and masquerading as a cabinet, yet deceiving no one for a second, was the folding bed that had often received her lovely form, with her head pillowed in happy slumber.