Part 34 (2/2)
”But you say there is no perfect understanding. Oh, a sort of romance. I see. Well, you will make her a good husband and consequently a good living.”
A vision of the Professor as he had sat amid his s.h.i.+fting toasts to woman arose before Milford. ”Good husband, I hope; and a good living, I am determined,” he said.
”You couldn't have made a better reply, Mr. Milford, if you had pondered a week. You are quite happy at times. It was voted last summer that you had good blood, and you must have it still,” she added with a smile.
”Although you call yourself a Westerner, you are really from the East, I believe.”
”Yes, but to live in the West soon rubs out the marks of all sections.”
”True enough, I suppose. But do you expect to go back there?”
”Yes, but I don't know how long I'll stay. I may run out and come straight back. I can't tell. It all depends.”
”Upon Gunhild's decision?”
”Not wholly. The fact is I can't explain myself. Oh, I could,” he added, observing her wondering eye, ”but I serve my purpose best by----”
”By showing that you have no confidence in me,” she suggested. ”No,” she hastened to continue, ”you have none. You have shown it all along. But why should I ask you to have confidence? We met by accident at a farm-house, during a holiday, at a time when real friends.h.i.+ps are rarely formed. Impressed by the ephemeral season, we recognize that we too are but fleeting, with changing likes and dislikes, the prejudices and predilections of an hour. Of course, my affection for Gunhild is lasting. Her interests and mine walk far down the road together, hand in hand. I could not expect you to see this; you saw her and all else stood about her in a dim radius. I was a shadow, dim or dark, as the day was light or heavy, the same as Mrs. Blakemore. My station ent.i.tled me to respect, and you gave it. But you did not feel that my love for the young woman ent.i.tled me to something closer than respect. You are no common man, Mr. Milford. Your face is a Vand.y.k.e conception of a spirit of adventure. You are a strength repenting a weakness; there are flaws in you, and yet I could wish that I were the mother of such a son.”
”Don't,” said Milford, touching her hand; ”please don't. I honor you; I could get down on my knees to you. You're not a shadow. There is nothing in a shadow that makes a man bow his head in reverence. But I can't tell you.”
”Is it so very bad, Mr. Milford?”
”Yes, it is worse than very bad.”
He moved further from her, and looked at her as if he expected her to move also, but she did not. ”There is redemption,” she said; ”moral redemption.”
”There must be a material redemption,” he replied.
”G.o.d demands that it must be spiritual,” she said.
”But man insists that it must be earthly,” he persisted.
”The gospel was tenderest coming from the mouth of one who had been infamous.”
”Yes,” he replied, ”but then the blood of the Virgin's Son was still red upon the earth, and in the heart of the changing world that blood atoned for everything. It is different now. Man may forgive, but he wants the dollar.”
”And he's goin' to get it unless you tie his hands behind him,” said Mrs. Stuvic, stepping into the room. ”Yes, you bet! Why don't you have that girl play the pian, Mrs.--I can't recollect your name to save my life.”
”She didn't bring her music,” Mrs. Goodwin replied, and the old woman ”whiffed.” ”Music the cat's foot! Don't she know a tune? Tell her to give me a jig and I'll dance it.”
”She won't play, Mrs. Stuvic. It's of no use to ask her.”
”She won't? Well, then, she needn't. Mebbe she don't like my pian. But I want to tell you that it's as good as anybody's. I give a hundred and fifty dollars and a colt for it, and the carpenter painted it fresh this spring. But if she don't want to play, she needn't. What's become of that woman--out here last year? Can't think of her name, but her husband moped about and ended up by callin' your young woman a peach.
What's become of her?”
”She's gone to the seash.o.r.e, I understand,” Mrs. Goodwin answered, looking slyly at Milford.
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