“Is not this what we usually call the Indian summer?”
said Tessa, as she extended her hand.
“Cousin Grace says so. I wish I knew what ails Mr. Ralph. His mother says that he is having a worry; she always knows when he is having a worry by his eyes; they do look very melancholy, and last night I overheard him say to Mrs. Towne, ‘A man has to keep his eyes pretty wide open not to step on peoples’ toes.’ I didn’t think much of that, but he said afterward, ‘A man may do in an hour what he can’t undo in a lifetime.’ He never talks much, so I know that something is on his mind, or he would not have talked so long. She said that he must be patient and do right.”
“Why, Sue, you did not listen!”
“Of course not. They were in the library, and I was on the balcony outside the window. I heard his voice—he was walking up and down, and, I confess, I did want to know what it was all about! I thought that it might be about me, you know. But I can’t stay here all day; Mrs. Towne is to take me to spend the day with the Gesners. It is splendid there. Mr. John Gesner I don’t like, but Mr. Lewis Gesner treats me so respectfully and talks to me as if he liked to hear me talk. And Miss Gesner is loveliness personified! Mr. Towne said that he had a call to make this afternoon, and would walk home. He will be up in the four o’clock train.”
“A call to make!”
The words were in her ears all day; she dressed for her walk, then concluded to stay at home. How could he undo what he had so thoughtlessly, so mercilessly, done? Would he come and talk to her as he had talked to his mother? Would he say, “I am sorry that you have misinterpreted my words?” Misinterpreted! Did they not both speak English? Sincere, straightforward, frank English? It was the only language that she knew. In what tongue had he spoken to her?
Her fluttering reverie was brought to a sudden and giddy end; the sound of a firm tread on the dried leaves under the maple-trees outside the gate, a tall figure in plain, elegant black,—the startled color in her eyes told the rest; she sprang to her feet, dropped her long, white work, shook off all outward nervousness, brushed her hair, fastened a bow of blue ribbon down low on her braids, questioned her eyes and lips to ascertain if they were safe, and then passed down the stair-way with a light, sure tread, and stood on the piazza to welcome Ralph Towne; her own composed, womanly self, rather more self-repressed than usual, and with a slight stateliness that she had never assumed with him. But he only noted that she appeared well and radiant; he understood her no more—than he understood several other things. Ralph Towne had been called “slow” from his babyhood.