The whole household arrangement, mind, morals and manners, seemed demoralized. Never before had an ill-natured word been spoken between auntie and Marjy. Auntie had been like the placid autumn day, Marjy like the blithe spring sunshine. Now everything was like a draught of bitter water. Henry went about his work listlessly.
The days dragged along tiresomely, Marjy and Henry met occasionally, and although no word was spoken, by tacit consent the engagement was ended. Marjy went nowhere and would receive no company. Gossips commented—there must be something wrong; a bird of the air whispered—there always is a telltale bird—that Henry was a defaulter; then, rumor had it, a common thief. A kind friend? told him the report—there is also always the kind friend—he was raging. He declared that he would leave the place, that he would not stay here in disgrace; he surely thought that Marjy or her aunt had circulated the report, and he was furious over it.
A little reflection caused him to change his mind about leaving: “I have done no wrong, and I will not run! If they think to drive me away by that scheme, they will get left, that’s all!” said he grimly. Meanwhile some one told Marjy that she heard that “Henry and Marjy had stolen money from her auntie, and had intended to elope; that Auntie Nelson had caught them before they could get out of the street door; she took the money from Henry, and forbid him the house. It isn’t true is it, dear?” concluded she.
Marjy astonished the gossip by such an outburst of temper as frightened her out of the house, after which she locked herself in her own chamber, to sob and cry for the rest of the day. Everything was as miserable as it was possible to be; Marjy would go out no more in daylight, but after nightfall, with a heavy veil over her face, she would steal out for a walk as though she were some guilty thing.
One night as she passed Henry’s room she paused and looked up at the window; he sat beside a small table on which was placed a lamp, his head bowed upon his arms in an attitude of despair; he raised his face, the change and melancholy look filled Marjy’s heart with grief. He arose wearily and began pacing to and fro. Marjy dropped her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly; the moon, which had been under a cloud, came out a flood of silver radiance; Marjy leaning against a low railing on the opposite side of the street, was, unconsciously to herself, in the full glow.
“Marjy! Marjy!” called a voice softly.
She started in affright; but Henry caught her hands, and held them fast.
“Marjy, Marjy, my pet, don’t cry!”
She made him no answer, but sobbed hysterically in his arms.
“What is it, Marjy, is there more trouble?” he asked, feeling—as most men do in the presence of a woman’s tears—perfectly helpless.