"I have had an uncomfortable day; but I don't suppose I am materially worse—at least the doctor doesn't tell me so."
Then another pause. Certainly he did not mean to help her.
"I am afraid," she said, getting up, and laying down upon the table the paper-cutter that she had been turning and twisting in her fingers, "I am afraid our being here makes you very uncomfortable. And it ought to be just the other way. We are so much indebted to you! You have been so good—and—and—"
She made a step toward him, and standing behind the screen in front of his sofa, which came up to her waist, leaned on it for a moment, looking down—then said, "I don't know how to express it, exactly; I hope you'll understand. I know I haven't behaved well about—about—things—but I suppose I had some excuse. It is so hard to remember one's own insignificance, and to think only about other people! I have thought of no one's discomforts or miseries but my own. I haven't been nice at all; I've been horrid. I never should have believed it of myself. At my age it seems so paltry and undignified to be minding what people may say or think, if only you know you're doing right. I have resolved I will never let it come into my mind again, nor affect my conduct in any way. And I hope you will excuse my rudeness, and the discomfort I have caused you, and will let me make up for it in some way, while we stay with you."
He lay looking at her as she stood behind the screen, leaning a little toward him on her folded arms. The only light in the room was behind her, shining through her fair, fine hair, now in a little curling disorder; all her face was in shadow. It is possible she looked to the lonely man almost a "blessed damosel," leaning to him out of Heaven.
"You have made up for it," he said, "very fully. I hope we shall always be friends, if you will let me."
"It shan't be my fault if we are not," she said. Then, hurriedly saying good-night, she went away. There was a clock in the hall, which struck nine as she passed it. It had a peculiar tone, and she never could forget it. It had been striking as she passed it on the gloomy morning last summer, when she had hurried to that fearful death-bed.
It gave her a pang to hear it now. It seemed sharply to accuse her of something. It recalled to her all her prejudices, all her resolutions. It brought to her mind his manner when she had told him of his wife's death, his absence of feeling in all the days that followed. It revived his banishing the mother's memory from the children's minds; his ready purpose to send away her favorite Gabrielle. And then she thought of what she had just been saying—of what he had just said, and in what an earnest way! Her face burned at the recollection.
"Am I never to have any peace in this tiresome matter," she said to herself as she shut herself into her room. "I will not think of it any more, while I am obliged to remain in this house. I will honestly do all I can to make things comfortable; he has done enough to make that proper. Afterwards I will keep my promise by being kind to the children, and by really serving them when it is in my power. It does not involve me in any intimacy with him. You can stand a person's friend, and not see him once a year. I will never do anything to injure or annoy him. That is being an honest friend, as we are bidden to be, even to our enemies. I have put myself and my pride away. I will do all I can to forward the comfort and pleasure of every one in the house, and there is the end of it."