“I didn’t see him,” said Tish. But she did not look at me. She fell to pacing up and down the kitchen, deep in thought.
“What time is it, Lizzie?” she asked.
“Almost eight.”
Here Tish gave what in another woman would have been a groan.
“It’s raining,” she observed, and fell to pacing again. At last she told me to follow her outside, and I went, feeling that she had at last made a decision. Her attitude throughout her period of cogitation had been not unlike that of Napoleon before Waterloo. There were the same bent head and clasped hands, the same melancholy mixed with determination.
Mr. Culver was sitting under his tree, with his coat collar turned up around his neck. Tish stopped and surveyed him with gentle dignity.
“You may enter the house,” she said. “The country will gain nothing by your having pneumonia, although personally I am indifferent. And, after thinking over your case, I have come to this decision.” She paused, as for oratorical effect. “I shall deliver you to your registration precinct by nine o’clock,” she said impressively, “and immediately after that, I shall see that you two are married. I am not young,” she went on, “and perhaps I do not think enough of sentiment. But it shall never be said of me that I parted two loving hearts, one of which may, before the snow flies, be still and pulseless in a foreign grave.”
She then, still with that new air of melancholy majesty, led me to the barn, leaving him staring.
It was there, by means of a key hanging round her neck, that Letitia Carberry, great hearted woman and patriot that she is, bared her inner heart to me. In the barn was a large and handsome ambulance, with large red crosses on side and top, which she had offered to the government if she might drive it herself. But the government which she was even then so heroically serving had refused her permission, and Tish had buried her disappointment in the bucolic solitude of her farm.
Such, in brief, was Tish’s tragic secret.