Part 37 (1/2)

That evening, under some pretense of clean towels, Luclarion came up into Desire's room.

She was sitting alone, by the window, in the dark.

Luclarion fussed round a little; wiped the marble slab and the basin; set things straight; came over and asked Desire if she should not put up the window-bars, and light the gas.

”No,” said Desire. ”I like this best.”

So did Luclarion. She had only said it to make time.

”Desire,” she said,--she never put the ”Miss” on, she had been too familiar all her life with those she was familiar with at all,--”the fact is I've got something to say, and I came up to say it.”

She drew near--came close,--and laid her great, honest, faithful hand on the back of Desire Ledwith's chair, put the other behind her own waist, and leaned over her.

”You see, I'm a woman, Desire, and I know. You needn't mind me, I'm an old maid; that's the way I do know. Married folks, even mothers, half the time forget. But old maids never forget. I've had my stumps, and I can see that you've got yourn. But you'd ought to understand; and there's n.o.body, from one mistake and another, that's going to tell you. It's awful hard; it will be a trouble to you at first,”--and Luclarion's strong voice trembled tenderly with the sympathy that her old maid heart had in it, after, and because of, all those years,--”but Kenneth Kincaid”--

”_What_!” cried Desire, starting to her feet, with a sudden indignation.

”Is going to be married to Rosamond Holabird,” said Luclarion, very gently. ”There! you ought to know, and I have told you.”

”What makes you suppose that that would be a trouble to me?” blazed Desire. ”How do you dare”--

”I didn't dare; but I had to!” sobbed Luclarion, putting her arms right round her.

And then Desire--as she would have done at any rate, for that blaze was the mere flash of her own shame and pain--broke down with a moan.

”All at once! All at once!” she said piteously, and hid her face in Luclarion's bosom.

And Luclarion folded her close; hugged her, the good woman, in her love that was sisterly and motherly and all, because it was the love of an old maid, who had endured, for a young maid upon whom the endurance was just laid,--and said, with the pity of heaven in the words,--

”Yes. All at once. But the dear Lord stands by. Take hold of His hand,--and bear with all your might!”

XIX.

INSIDE.

”Do you think, Luclarion,” said Desire, feebly, as Luclarion came to take away her bowl of chicken broth,--”that it is my _duty_ to go with mamma?”

”I don't know,” said Luclarion, standing with the little waiter in her right hand, her elbow poised upon her hip,--”I've thought of that, and I _don't_ know. There's most generally a stump, you see, one way or another, and that settles it, but here there's one both ways. I've kinder lost my road: come to two blazes, and can't tell which. Only, it ain't my road, after all. It lays between the Lord and you, and I suppose He means it shall. Don't you worry; there'll be some sort of a sign, inside or out. That's His business, you've just got to keep still, and get well.”

Desire had asked her mother, before this, if she would care very much,--no, she did not mean that,--if she would be disappointed, or disapprove, that she should stay behind.

”Stay behind? Not go to Europe? Why, where _could_ you stay? What would you do?”

”There would be things to do, and places to stay,” Desire had answered, constrainedly. ”I could do like Dorris.”

”Teach music!”

”No. I don't know music. But I might teach something I do know. Or I could--rip,” she said, with an odd smile, remembering something she had said one day so long ago; the day the news came up to Z---- from Uncle Oldways. ”And I might make out to put together for other people, and for a real business. I never cared to do it just for myself.”