Part 13 (2/2)

”My aunt thought I ought to cultivate my voice. But I would never go upon the stage. I would rather sing in a church. I should like that better than teaching.”

”I think you're quite right,” said Staniford, gravely. ”It's certainly much better to sing in a church than to sing in a theatre. Though I believe the theatre pays best.”

”Oh, I don't care for that. All I should want would be to make a living.”

The reference to her poverty touched him. It was a confidence, coming from one so reticent, that was of value. He waited a moment and said, ”It's surprising how well we keep our footing here, isn't it? There's hardly any swell, but the s.h.i.+p pitches. I think we walk better together than alone.”

”Yes,” answered Lydia, ”I think we do.”

”You mustn't let me tire you. I'm indefatigable.”

”Oh, I'm not tired. I like it,--walking.”

”Do you walk much at home?”

”Not much. It's a pretty good walk to the school-house.”

”Oh! Then you like walking at sea better than you do on sh.o.r.e?”

”It isn't the custom, much. If there were any one else, I should have liked it there. But it's rather dull, going by yourself.”

”Yes, I understand how that is,” said Staniford, dropping his teasing tone. ”It's stupid. And I suppose it's pretty lonesome at South Bradfield every way.”

”It is,--winters,” admitted Lydia. ”In the summer you see people, at any rate, but in winter there are days and days when hardly any one pa.s.ses.

The snow is banked up everywhere.”

He felt her give an involuntary s.h.i.+ver; and he began to talk to her about the climate to which she was going. It was all stranger to her than he could have realized, and less intelligible. She remembered California very dimly, and she had no experience by which she could compare and adjust his facts. He made her walk up and down more and more swiftly, as he lost himself in the comfort of his own talking and of her listening, and he failed to note the little falterings with which she expressed her weariness.

All at once he halted, and said, ”Why, you're out of breath! I beg your pardon. You should have stopped me. Let us sit down.” He wished to walk across the deck to where the seats were, but she just perceptibly withstood his motion, and he forbore.

”I think I won't sit down,” she said. ”I will go down-stairs.” She began withdrawing her hand from his arm. He put his right hand upon hers, and when it came out of his arm it remained in his hand.

”I'm afraid you won't walk with me again,” said Staniford. ”I've tired you shamefully.”

”Oh, not at all!”

”And you will?”

”Yes.”

”Thanks. You're very amiable.” He still held her hand. He pressed it.

The pressure was not returned, but her hand seemed to quiver and throb in his like a bird held there. For the time neither of them spoke, and it seemed a long time. Staniford found himself carrying her hand towards his lips; and she was helplessly, trustingly, letting him.

He dropped her hand, and said, abruptly, ”Good-night.”

”Good-night,” she answered, and ceased from his side like a ghost.

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