Part 26 (1/2)

”Of course I do not ask you to separate yourself from your mother,” he went on, his eyes dropping for the moment to the brim of his hat, which he held in his hand; ”I shall be glad if she will always make her home with us.”

Then she did speak. And as her words came forth, the red rose in her face until it was deeply colored.

”With what an effort you said that! But you will not be tried. One gray hair in my mother's head is worth more to me, Mr. Noel, than anything you can offer.”

”I knew before I began that this would be the point of trouble between us, Faith,” he answered. ”I can only a.s.sure you that she will find in me always a most respectful son.”

”And when you were thinking so searchingly and seriously, it was _this_ that you thought of--whether you could endure her! Do you suppose that I do not see the effort? Do you suppose I would ever place my mother in such a position? Do you suppose that you are of any consequence beside her, or that anything in this world weighs in my mind for one moment compared with her happiness?”

”We can make her happy; I suppose that. And I suppose another thing, and that is that we could be very happy ourselves if we were married.”

”The Western girl, the girl from Tuscolee! The girl who thought she could paint, and could not! The girl who knew so little of social rules that she made a fool of herself every time she saw you!”

”All this is of no consequence, since it is the girl I love,” answered Noel.

”You do not. It is a lie. Oh, of course, a very unselfish and n.o.ble one; but a lie, all the same. You have thought of it seriously and searchingly? Yes, but only for the last fourteen days! I understand it all now. At first I did not, I was confused; but now I see the whole.

You were not unconscious out there on the Campagna; you heard what I said when I thought you were dying, or dead. And so you come--come very generously and self-sacrificingly, I acknowledge that--and ask me to be your wife.” She rose; her eyes were brilliant as she faced him. ”I might tell you that it was only the excitement, that I did not know or mean what I was saying; I might tell you that I did not know that I had said anything. But I am not afraid. I will not, like you, tell a lie, even for a good purpose. I did love you; there, you have it! I have loved you for a long time, to my sorrow and shame. For I do not respect you or admire you; you have been completely spoiled, and will always remain so.

I shall make it the one purpose of my life from this moment to overcome the feeling I have had for you; and I shall succeed. Nothing could make me marry you, though you should ask me a thousand times.”

”I shall ask but once,” said Noel. He had risen also; and, as he did, he remembered the time when they had stood in the same place and position, facing each other, and she had told him that she was at his feet. ”I did hear what you said. And it is of that I have been seriously thinking during the days of my confinement to the house. It is also true that it is what you said which has brought me here to-day. But the reason is that it has become precious to me--this knowledge that you love me. As I said before, in one way I have always done you justice, and it is that way which makes me realize to the full now what such a love as yours would be to me. If it is true that I am spoiled, as you say I am, a love like yours would make me better, if anything can.” He paused. ”I have not said much about my own feelings,” he added; ”I know you will not credit me with having any. But I think I have. I think that I love you.”

”It is of little moment to me whether you do or not.”

”You are making a mistake,” he said, after a pause, during which their eyes had met in silence.

”The mistake would be to consent.”

She had now recovered her self-possession. She even smiled a little.

”Imagine Mr. Raymond Noel in the street of the Hyacinth!” she said.

”Ah, I should hardly wish to live here; and my wife would naturally be with me.”

”I hope so. And I hope she will be very charming and obedient and sweet.” Then she dropped her sarcasms, and held out her hand in farewell. ”There is no use in prolonging this, Mr. Noel. Do not think, however, that I do not appreciate your action; I do appreciate it. I said that I did not respect you, and I have not until now; but now I do.

You will understand, of course, that I would rather not see you again, and refrain from seeking me. Go your way, and forget me; you can do so now with a clear conscience, for you have behaved well.”

”It is not very likely that I shall forget you,” answered Noel, ”although I go my way. I see you are firmly resolved. For the present, therefore, all I can do is to go.”

They shook hands, and he left her. As he pa.s.sed through the small hall on his way to the outer door he met Mrs. Spurr; she was attired as opulently, in respect to colors, as ever, and she returned his greeting with much cordiality. He glanced back; Miss Macks had witnessed the meeting through the parlor door. Her color had faded; she looked sad and pale.

She kept her word; she did not see him again. If he went to the street of the Hyacinth, as he did two or three times, the little maid presented him with the Italian equivalent of ”begs to be excused,” which was evidently a standing order. If he wrote to her, as he did more than two or three times, she returned what he wrote, not unread, but without answer. He thought perhaps he should meet her, and was at some pains to find out her various engagements. But all was in vain; the days pa.s.sed, and she remained invisible. Towards the last of May he left Rome. After leaving, he continued to write to her, but he gave no address for reply; she would now be obliged either to burn his letters or keep them, since she could no longer send them back. They could not have been called love-letters; they were friendly epistles, not long--pleasant, easy, sometimes amusing, like his own conversation. They came once a week. In addition he sent new books, and occasionally some other small remembrance.

In early September of that year there came to the street of the Hyacinth a letter from America. It was from one of Mrs. Spurr's old neighbors at Tuscolee, and she wrote to say that John Macks had come home--had come home broken in health and spirits, and, as he himself said, to die. He did not wish his mother to know; she could not come to him, and it would only distress her. He had money enough for the short time that was left him, and when she heard it would be only that he had pa.s.sed away; he had pa.s.sed from her life in reality years before. In this John Macks was sincere. He had been a ne'er-do-well, a rolling stone; he had not been a dutiful son. The only good that could be said of him, as far as his mother was concerned, was contained in the fact that he had not made demands upon her small purse since the sum he took from her when he first went away. He had written to her at intervals, briefly. His last letter had come eight months before.

But the Tuscolee neighbor was a mother herself, and, doing as she would be done by, she wrote to Rome. When her letter came Mrs. Spurr was overwhelmed with grief; but she was also stirred to an energy and determination which she had never shown before. For the first time in years she took the leaders.h.i.+p, put her daughter decisively back into a subordinate place, and a.s.sumed the control. She would go to America. She must see her boy (the dearest child of the two, as the prodigal always is) again. But even while she was planning her journey illness seized her--her old rheumatic troubles, only more serious than before; it was plain that she could not go. She then required that her daughter should go in her place--go and bring her boy to Rome; this soft Italian air would give new life to his lungs. Oh, she should not die! Ettie need not be afraid of that. She would live for years just to get one look at him!

And so it ended in the daughter's departure, an efficient nurse being left in charge; the physician said that although Mrs. Spurr would probably be crippled, she was in no danger otherwise.

Miss Macks left Rome on the 15th of September. On the 2d of December she again beheld the dome of St. Peter's rising in the blue sky. She saw it alone. John Macks had lived three weeks after her arrival at Tuscolee, and those three weeks were the calmest and the happiest of his unsuccessful--unworthy it may be--but also bitterly unhappy life. His sister did not judge him. She kissed him good-bye as he lost consciousness, and soon afterwards closed his eyes tenderly, with tears in her own. Although he was her brother, she had never known him; he went away when she was a child. She sat beside him a long time after he was dead, watching the strange, youthful peace come back to his worn face.