It was so few weeks ago that she had said to Peggy that she did not expect very much from life, though she believed that many pleasant things would be hers, and that little joys and occupations would keep her busy and cheerful. And when she had said that it was absolutely true. But to-day she knew it was true no longer. All that had then seemed so cheerful and bright was at this moment as gray as ash to her; indoors, perhaps, it would still be possible to see that fire lived and burned in those embers, but they were now as if the sun had shone on them, dimming and rendering invisible in that glorious blaze the lesser illumination of the sticks and coals. With what honesty, too, and complete straightforwardness of purpose she had come down to settle here in Mannington, to absorb herself, in pursuance of the future she had sketched out to Peggy, in the quiet occupations with which her garden and the little local interests of the place would supply her, while she pushed forward over the gray sea of elderly years. And then, without warning almost, so swift had been its coming, the bomb had exploded, so to speak, in the middle of her flower-beds. She loved Hugh, no longer with the pale snowdrop love of girls, but with the full colour and glory of her mature womanhood. So much was certain.
She believed as she lay there, hearing the tapping blind, seeing the darkness-shrouded shapes of the things in her room, that more than this was certain. Vivid, full of moods and brightnesses as he was, she had never seen on his face until to-day the look that was there when she told him who that was for whom he had been seeking so diligently, whose was the mind that had conceived and the hand that wrote the work which had inspired him with so heartfelt a sympathy and admiration. All the last month they had been advancing daily in intimacy and friendliness, but there was something in the blank silence with which he received her announcement, something in his quiet salute of the hand that had written “Gambits,” something in the boyish shout of exultation with which he had thrown up his hat into the air, that told her that it was as if his soul had leaped some stream or barrier across which up till now they had done no more than shake friendly hands, and that they stood together now, not friends any longer, but lovers. In the stillness and loneliness of night, when above all other times a woman is honest with herself, neither exaggerating nor extenuating, but setting down quietly and firmly what she believes, Edith believed that. She could not and did not attempt to reason her way to the conclusion, any more than a bird measures the distance of the branch on which her nest is built or calculates the speed of flight when she would drop there. She just lights there, without calculation, by the nest-side, where love “keeping her feet” has guided her.
Again, for a little space, as she turned in her cool rustling bed, she detached these thoughts from herself and but listened to the tapping of the blind against her window. But it was for few seconds that that detachment was possible, for all her warm woman’s heart, tender and kind and starving to give and to receive this love which was its appointed, God-ordained food, beat upon her and shook her into life again. It was no wind that tapped there; it was he who tapped at her heart and had been admitted with doors flung back and kingly welcome. And, half laughing to herself, laughter that comes not out of the lips or of the amused brain, but of the deep bubbling with the well-spring of the heart, “Come in, Hughie, come in!” she whispered, and looked toward the window, knowing that it was but her imagination that made her speak, yet feeling it would not be strange if she saw there, across the shadow of the window-bars, the shadow of his head. And what then? She would go across to the window, not frightened, knowing it was he, and he would say the words that were wine to her, and she would give him wine for his wine.
Then suddenly the character and significance of the tapping blind changed altogether, and she sat up in her bed, frightened at its new message. It warned her, and warned her with terrible distinctness. He was so young, it told her, while for her all youth was gone. There might be one or two bright warm November days for her, a week perhaps of Indian summer, but after that, chill and the fogs of November and its frosts; she would be no match for that dear spirit of spring that had lost its way and come here by mistake, making it shiver, making it long to escape. It would be unable to see below the rime and the fog; it would judge, as all youth did, by appearance, by the flush of smooth cheeks, by the brightness of the eye in its unwrinkled frame, by the gloss of abundant hair, by laughter and the indefatigable joy of day and night; and since these things would be soon missing to her, it would think that the surface rime pierced below, that the depths were hard with the iron of age, that the heart was silvered with frost even as the head was silvered.
She got quickly out of bed and lit her candles, for this was nightmare, and placing them one on each side of her looking-glass, looked long at herself, critically and honestly. And as she looked courage and hope came back to her. Where were the wrinkles she had feared, or where the frosted hair? Thick and black and untouched by white it lay round her head, and her face was smooth and unpitted by the years that had gone, and her eyes were bright with the dawn of the fulfilment of her womanhood, which she had missed so long, but was now streaking her heaven in lines of gold and crimson, and flush of delicate green, even as outside across the water-meadows and behind the gray tower of St. Olaf’s dawn was coming swiftly. Surely it had been but for a moment that night had been heavy, and on the wings of the morning came joy.
Canon Alington, as his wife often told him, had a great deal of tact, and how prodigious was the amount with which Nature had endowed him may be gathered from the fact that he never asked any of the guests who might happen to be staying at St. Olaf’s over a Sunday whether or no they were going to church. He was, such was his liberal doctrine, primarily their host, and as such was bound to give them religious as well as all other liberties, and consequently when Hugh at about ten minutes to eleven came through the hall, where Ambrose was prancing about in a slightly subdued and Sabbatical manner with a hymn-book and prayer-book and a Bible in his hand, and a threepenny bit in his pocket, and met Canon Alington just coming out of his study on his way to church, Hugh’s appearance in gray flannels and a straw hat roused no comment of disapprobation. Indeed, Canon Alington said, “It will be cool in the garden.” But Ambrose’s tact was not equal to his father’s. He looked up at Hugh with the light shining on his spectacles.
“Aren’t you coming to church, Uncle Hugh?” he asked.
“No, not this morning.”
“Aren’t you well, Uncle Hugh? I’m so sorry! Shall I stop behind, as mamma does when I’m not well, and read the psalms and lessons to you? Or shall I go to church and tell you about the sermon afterward?”
“Yes, thanks awfully, old boy!” said Hugh; “I think that would be the best plan. Now run after your father, or else you will be late.”