A Modern Instance. William Dean HowellsЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Are you pretty well to-day?” she asked.
“Well, no, Mrs. Gaylord, I'm not,” answered Bartley. “I'm all out of sorts. I haven't felt so dyspeptic for I don't know how long.”
Mrs. Gaylord smoothed the silk dress across her lap,—the thin old black silk which she still instinctively put on for Sabbath observance, though it was so long since she had worn it to church. “Mr. Gaylord used to have it when we were first married, though he aint been troubled with it of late years. He seemed to think then it was worse Sundays.”
“I don't believe Sunday has much to do with it, in my case. I ate some mince-pie and some toasted cheese last night, and I guess they didn't agree with me very well,” said Bartley, who did not spare himself the confession of his sins when seeking sympathy: it was this candor that went so far to convince people of his good-heartedness.
“I don't know as I ever heard that meat-pie was bad,” said Mrs. Gaylord, thoughtfully. “Mr. Gaylord used to eat it right along all through his dyspepsia, and he never complained of it. And the cheese ought to have made it digest.”
“Well, I don't know what it was,” replied Bartley, plaintively submitting to be exonerated, “but I feel perfectly used up. Oh, I suppose I shall get over it, or forget all about it, by to-morrow,” he added, with strenuous cheerfulness. “It isn't anything worth minding.”
Mrs. Gaylord seemed to differ with him on this point. “Head ache any?” she asked.
“It did this morning, when I first woke up,” Bartley assented.
“I don't believe but what a cup of tea would be the best thing for you,” she said, critically.
Bartley had instinctively practised a social art which ingratiated him with people at Equity as much as his demands for sympathy endeared him: he gave trouble in little unusual ways. He now said, “Oh, I wish you would give me a cup, Mrs. Gaylord.”
“Why, yes, indeed! That's just what I was going to,” she replied. She went to the kitchen, which lay beyond another room, and reappeared with the tea directly, proud of her promptness, but having it on her conscience to explain it. “I 'most always keep the pot on the stove hearth, Sunday morning, so's to have it ready if Mr. Gaylord ever wants a cup. He's a master hand for tea, and always was. There: I guess you better take it without milk. I put some sugar in the saucer, if you want any.” She dropped noiselessly upon her feather cushion again, and Bartley, who had risen to receive the tea from her, remained standing while he drank it.
“That does seem to go to the spot,” he said, as he sipped it, thoughtfully observant of its effect upon his disagreeable feelings. “I wish I had you to take care of me, Mrs. Gaylord, and keep me from making a fool of myself,” he added, when he had drained the cup. “No, no!” he cried, at her offering to take it from him. “I'll set it down. I know it will fret you to have it in here, and I'll carry it out into the kitchen.” He did so before she could prevent him, and came back, touching his mustache with his handkerchief. “I declare, Mrs. Gaylord, I should love to live in a kitchen like that.”
“I guess you wouldn't if you had to,” said Mrs. Gaylord, flattered into a smile. “Marcia, she likes to sit out there, she says, better than anywheres in the house. But I always tell her it's because she was there so much when she was little. I don't see as she seems over-anxious to do anything there but sit, I tell her. Not but what she knows how well enough. Mr. Gaylord, too, he's great for being round in the kitchen. If he gets up in the night, when he has his waking spells, he had rather take his lamp out there, if there's a fire left, and read, any time, than what he would in the parlor. Well, we used to sit there together a good deal when we were young, and he got the habit of it. There's everything in habit,” she added, thoughtfully. “Marcia, she's got quite in the way, lately, of going to the Methodist church.”
“Yes, I've seen her there. You know I board round at the different churches, as the schoolmaster used to at the houses in the old times.”
Mi's. Gaylord looked up at the clock, and gave a little nervous laugh. “I don't know what Marcia will say to my letting her company stay in the sitting-room. She's pretty late to-day. But I guess you won't have much longer to wait, now.”
She spoke with that awe of her daughter and her judgments which is one of the pathetic idiosyncrasies of a certain class of American mothers. They feel themselves to be not so well educated as their daughters, whose fancied knowledge of the world they let outweigh their own experience of life; they are used to deferring to them, and they shrink willingly into household drudges before them, and leave them to order the social affairs of the family. Mrs. Gaylord was not much afraid of Bartley for himself, but as Marcia's company he made her more and more uneasy toward the end of the quarter of an hour in which she tried to entertain him with her simple talk, varying from Mr. Gaylord to Marcia, and from Marcia to Mr. Gaylord again. When she recognized the girl's quick touch in the closing of the front door, and her elastic step approached through the hall, the mother made a little deprecating noise in her throat, and fidgeted in her chair. As soon as Marcia opened the sitting-room door, Mrs. Gaylord modestly rose and went out into the kitchen: the mother who remained in the room when her daughter had company was an oddity almost unknown in Equity.
Marcia's face flashed all into a light of joy at sight of Bartley, who scarcely waited for her mother to be gone before he drew her toward him by the hand she had given. She mechanically yielded; and then, as if the recollection of some new resolution forced itself through her pleasure at sight of him, she freed her hand, and, retreating a step or two, confronted him.
“Why, Marcia,” he said, “what's the matter?”
“Nothing,” she answered.
It might have amused Bartley, if he had felt quite well, to see the girl so defiant of him, when she was really so much in love with him, but it certainly did not amuse him now: it disappointed him in his expectation of finding her femininely soft and comforting, and he did not know just what to do. He stood staring at her in discomfiture, while she gained in outward composure, though her cheeks were of the Jacqueminot red of the ribbon at her throat. “What have I done, Marcia?” he faltered.
“Oh, you haven't done anything.”
“Some one has been talking to you against me.”
“No one has said a word to me about you.”
“Then why are you so cold—so strange—so—so—different?”
“Different?”
“Yes, from what you were last night,” he answered, with an aggrieved air.
“Oh, we see some things differently by daylight,” she lightly explained. “Won't you sit down?”
“No, thank you,” Bartley replied, sadly but unresentfully. “I think I had better be going. I see there is something wrong—”
“I don't see why you say there is anything wrong,” she retorted. “What have I done?”
“Oh, you have not done anything; I take it back. It is all right. But when I came here this morning—encouraged—hoping—that you had the same feeling as myself, and you seem to forget everything but a ceremonious acquaintanceship—why, it is all right, of course. I have no reason to complain; but I must say that I can't help being surprised.” He saw her lips quiver and her bosom heave. “Marcia, do you blame me for feeling hurt at your coldness when I came here to tell you—to tell you I—I love you?” With his nerves all unstrung, and his hunger for sympathy, he really believed that he had come to tell her this. “Yes,” he added, bitterly, “I will tell you, though it seems to be the last word I shall speak to you. I'll go, now.”
“Bartley! You shall never go!” she cried, throwing herself in his way. “Do you think I don't care for you, too? You may kiss me,—you may kill me, now!”
The passionate tears sprang to her eyes, without the sound of sobs or the contortion of weeping, and she did not wait for his embrace. She flung