I sat there, playing with the edge of the lamp-mat—and thinking of
Jimmy.
And then Mr. Robert Grey Sr. made a mistake. He got a hold of my hand and fingered it. He came and took me in his arms—and kissed my mouth.
I jerked away from him—he almost fell over. "No! O NO!" I cried. "I can't do it Mr. Grey. I simply can't!"
He turned the color of ashes.
"Why not?" he said.
"Because it isn't decent," said I firmly. "I can't bear to have you touch me—never could. I will be a servant to you—I will work for you—nurse you—but to be your wife!—I'm sorry Mr. Grey, but I can't do it."
I ran upstairs, and cried and cried; and I had reason to cry, for father was a living thundercloud after that, and mother was worse; and they wouldn't take any more of Mr. Grey's kindnesses, either of them.
My lettuce and radishes kept us alive until the potatoes were ripe. I sold them, fresh every day. Walked three miles with a big basket full every morning, to one of the summer hotels. It was awfully heavy, especially when it rained. They didn't pay much, but it kept us—a dollar a day, sometimes more.
Father got better in course of time, of course, and went to work on the farm in a discouraged sort of way. But mother was worse, if anything. She never blamed me—never said a word; but her eyes were a living reproach.
"Mother, dear," I begged her, "do forgive me! I'll work till I drop, for you; I'll deny myself everything: I'll do most anything that's decent and honest. But to marry a man you don't love is not honest; and to marry an old invalid like that—it's not decent."