Since Louis' departure Clara had had several "pale" days, as she called them. After Aunt Phebe left us, she seemed to grow weak. I felt worried, and could not refrain from asking her what troubled her. She turned her beautiful eyes full on me, and putting both her hands in mine, said:
"I know that Louis heard it, and that he told you, and your secret sympathy has been a strength to me. It will pass over, Emily, but Professor Benton is not satisfied. He will not be content that I may not answer his demand for love. Yes, Emily, his words were soft, but a blade was beneath them and I could feel that it would have cut my heart-strings. I thank our Father that I do not love him; I should be so starved. Emily, I can love your brother,—no, no, not with that best love," she said quickly, noting, I suppose, the look of wonder in my eyes, "but I can have that love for him that is founded on great respect and faith in his pure heart. It is only their art draws them together; they are not alike, and they will not come too near. The days will sunder them, and it will be better that they should. But, Emily, I must, I fear, call Louis back to give me strength. He is a great help to me. On his heart as on his arm I can rest myself, and I need him so much. I cannot tell you now, but you will know some time when you are no longer as strong as now, how the spirit feels the darts that are shot from the mind of another, and bury their poisoned points in the quivering life."
She looked so weak as she spoke, her face was so transparently white, that I trembled with fear.
That night we slept together—she alone slept, however, for my eyes were open, their lids refusing to close until after midnight, and it was long after that hour before I fully lost consciousness. I felt wretched the next day in both body and mind, and my spirit was roused within me.
"I will avert it," I said to myself—thinking first to ask mother how, and afterward saying aloud "No, I'll do it myself, Emily will do it," and the harder I thought the faster I worked.
I never washed the dishes so quickly; milkpans were despatched speedily to the buttery shelves, and at last Aunt Hildy, who was kneading bread, stopped, and looking at me, said:
"What on airth are you going to do? you work as if you was a gettin' reddy to go to a weddin', or somethin'—Is there doins on hand among the folks?"
"No, mam," I replied, "but I have been so full of thoughts I could not help hurrying."
"I hope you're on the right track, Emily; sometimes ideas that stir one up so aint jest the kind we ought to have."
"I'm on the track of truth, Aunt Hildy, and that is the right track."