She knew down deep in her heart that she did love him, that she had waited these two years because there was no one like him to her. Of course, she had not really meant that he should throw up his fine prospects, but be willing to for her sake. And she knew now it was all very foolish and wicked, and that she deserved to be left alone for years and years and have them all full of sorrowful regret.
“I am going to turn over a new leaf, indeed I am,” and she slipped out of Uncle Gaspard’s arms. “See what a fright I have made of myself with red eyes and swollen face, and my hair frousled. Dinner must be nearly ready. Oh, what a long morning! And I have made you unhappy, when I love you so much,” in accents of tenderest regret.
He kissed her and went away.
They were very silent at dinner. Mère Lunde grumbled because they ate so little. Then Uncle Gaspard went out. The boats were loading up with lead, as well as other materials, and he was interested in that, and needed as well.
No one came during the evening. She heard the violins and singing up the street, the fiddles and dancing down below. The fire was all out; no one wanted it after the cooking was done. There were some black charred ends and piles of ashes. It had a melancholy appearance. And then she fancied herself as old as Mère Lunde, sitting by the chimney corner, only Mère Lunde had married the man of her choice—it seemed now to Renée that every one must have done so—and though her two sons were dead, she had had them once; and everybody must die some time. But to die without having been very happy, that made her shudder. And, then, to know that one had cast it away rather than give up a whim of will.
So the next day passed and the next. Sunday she and Uncle Gaspard went to church. There would only be one Sunday more for André—ten days. For her—how many?
Coming down the path they glanced at each other. What wonderful languages live in the depths of the eyes! André came to her side, and then she colored and the hand he took trembled, but she did not withdraw it. They walked on homeward. She never knew whether any one spoke or not. Uncle Gaspard was lingering behind, giving thanks that he was likely to get his heart’s desire.
They paused at the garden gate. He opened it for her to pass. There was midsummer richness and bloom in it, the homely every-day herbs giving out a sweetness in their plain flowering that was reviving. He followed her, but she made a little pause at the vine-clad arbor.
“I am wilful and delight in my own way,” she began, and the words trembled on the fragrant air. “I am like a briar that pricks you when you would gather the rose——”
“But the rose is sweet for all that. And—I will take the rose.”