Jerome glanced down at her, and her fair face, between the folds of her white shawl, had a look which smote his heart, so full it was of maiden dignity and yet of the surprise of pain.
A new consideration came to Jerome. “Why should I stay away from her, refuse all her little invitations, and treat her so?” he thought. “What if I do get to wanting her more, and get hurt, if it pleases her? There is no danger for her; she does not care about me, and will not. The suffering will all be on my side. I guess I can bear it; if it pleases her to have me come I will do it. I have been thinking only of myself, and what is a hurt to myself in comparison with a little pleasure for her? She has asked me to this tea-party, and here I am hurting her by refusing, because I am so afraid of getting hurt myself!”
Suddenly Jerome looked at Lucina, with a patient and tender smile that her father might have worn for her. “I shall be very happy to come,” said he.
“Not unless you can make it perfectly convenient,” Lucina replied, with cold sweetness; “I would rather not urge you.”
“It will be perfectly convenient,” said Jerome. “I thought at first I ought not to go, that was all.”
“Of course, Aunt Camilla and I will be very happy to have you come, if you can,” said Lucina. Still, she was not appeased. Jerome's hesitating acceptance of this last invitation had hurt her more than all that had gone before. She began to wish, with a great pang of shame, that she had not gone to his house that night, had not tried to see him, had not proposed this miserable party. Perhaps he did mean to slight her, after all, though nobody ever had before, and how she had followed him up!
She walked on very fast; they were nearly home. When they reached her gate, she said good-night, quickly, and would have gone in without another word, but Jerome stopped her. He had begun to understand her understanding of it all, and had taken a sudden resolution. “Better anything than she should think herself shamed and slighted,” he told himself.
“Will you wait just a minute?” he said; “I've got something I want to say.”
Lucina waited, her face averted.
“I've made up my mind to tell you why I thought I ought not to come, that Sunday night,” said Jerome; “I didn't think of telling you, but I can see now that you may think I meant to slight you, if I don't. I did not think at first that you could dream I could slight anybody like you, and not want to go to see you, but I begin to see that you don't just know how every one looks at you.”