Part 41 (2/2)
Perhaps his agitation helped me to master mine. Certain it is for the moment I thought only that he must not be kept in suspense, and so I burst out abruptly:--
”Tom, you are horrid! I've offered myself to you once, and now you want me to protest in the open street that I can't live without you! Well, then; I can't!”
”Ruth!”
It was all he said; just my name, which he has said hundreds and hundreds of times ever since he could say anything; but I think I can never hear my name again without remembering the love he put into it. I trembled with happiness, but I would not look at him. I walked on with my eyes fixed on the snowy hills beyond the town, and tried to believe I was acting as if I had said nothing and felt nothing unusual. I remember our words up to this time, but after that it is all a joyful blur. I know Tom walked about and waited for me while I did my errand with Peggy Cole; the droll old creature scolded me because the flannel was not thicker, and I beamed on her as if she were expressing grat.i.tude; then he walked home with me, and couldn't come in because as we turned the corner we saw Aunt Naomi walk into the house.
One thing I do remember of our talk on the way home. Tom said suddenly, and with a solemnity of manner that made me grave at once:--
”There is one thing more, Ruth, we must be frank about now or we shall always have it between us. Can you forgive me for being baby's father?”
He had found just the phrase for that dreadful thing which made it most easy for me to answer.
”Tom, dear,” I answered, ”it isn't for me to forgive or not to forgive.
It is in the past, and I want to help you to forget utterly what cannot now be helped.”
”But baby,” he began, ”she”--
”Baby is ours,” I interrupted. ”All the rest may go.”
He promised to come in to-night, and then I had to face Aunt Naomi. She looked me through and through with eyes that seemed determined to have the very deepest secrets of my soul. Whether I concealed anything from her or not I cannot tell; but after all why should I care? The day has been lived through, and it is time for Tom to come.
December 3. If I could write--But I cannot, I cannot! Ever since Rosa rushed in last night, crying out that Tom was drowned, I have seen nothing but the water black with cold, and the flocks of ice cakes grinding--Oh, why should I torment myself with putting it down?
December 5. We buried him to-day. Cousin Mehitable sent a wreath of ivy.
n.o.body else knows our secret. If he remembers, it is sweet for him to know.
December 13. The stars are so beautiful to-night they make me remember how Tom and I in our childhood used to play at choosing stars we would visit when we could fly. To-night he may be exploring them, but for me they s.h.i.+ne and s.h.i.+ne, and my tears blur them, and make them dance and double.
December 19. I have been talking with Deacon Richards and Mr. Turner.
They both think I can take Tom's place on the reading-room committee without coming forward too much. Nothing need be said about it, only so I can do most of Tom's work. Of course I cannot go to the room evenings as he did; but Mr. Turner will do that. Tom was so interested in this that I feel as if I were continuing his work and carrying out his plans.
I remember all he had told me, and it almost seems like doing it with him. Almost!
December 20. Now I know all about Tom's death that anybody knows. I could not talk about it before. Aunt Naomi and dear Miss Charlotte both tried to tell me, but I would not let them. To-night Mr. Turner came to talk about the library, and before he went away we spoke about Tom. He was so homely in his speech, so honest, so kindly, that I kept on, and could listen to him even when he told how Tom died.
That night Tom had been down on the other side of the river, and was coming up--coming to me--past the Flatiron wharf. Mrs. Brownrig was on the wharf, crazy with drink, and threatening to throw herself overboard.
Two or three of the people who live near there, men and women, were trying to get her away, and when Tom appeared they asked him to see what he could do. As he came near her the old woman shrieked out that he had killed her daughter and would murder her; and before they realized what she was doing she had jumped into the water. Tom ran to the edge, unfastening his overcoat as he went, and just paused to tear it off before he leaped in after her. The tide was running out, and the water was full of ice. He had a great bruise on his forehead where he had evidently been struck by a block. Mrs. Brownrig pinioned his arms too, so he had no chance anyway. It was a mercy that the bodies were recovered before the tide drifted them out.
”Tom was an awful good fellow,” the blacksmith concluded, ”an awful good fellow.”
I could not answer him.
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