On the Church Steps | Page 6

throbbing
through my brain, while my first answer was not given in words.
When I had persuaded Bessie to look at me and to answer me in turn, I
hoped we should be able to talk about it with the calm judgment it
needed.
"To leave my wife--my wife!"--how I lingered on the word!--"in some
poky lodgings in London, while I am spending my day among dusty
boxes and files of deeds in a dark old office, isn't just my ideal of our
wedding-journey; but, Bessie, if you wish it so--"
What was there in my tone that jarred her? I had meant to be
magnanimous, to think of her comfort alone, of the hurry and business
of such a journey--tried to shut myself out and think only of her in the
picture. But I failed, of course, and went on stupidly, answering the
quick look of question in her eyes: "If you prefer it--that is, you know, I
must think of you and not of myself."
Still the keen questioning glance. What new look was this in her eyes,
what dawning thought?
"No," she answered after a pause, slowly withdrawing her hand from
mine, "think of yourself."

I had expected that she would overwhelm me in her girlish way with
saucy protestations that she would be happy even in the dull London
lodgings, and that she would defy the law-files to keep me long from
her. This sudden change of manner chilled me with a nameless fear.
"If I prefer it! If I wish it! I see that I should be quite in your way, an
encumbrance. Don't talk about it any more."
She was very near crying, and I wish to heaven she had cried. But she
conquered herself resolutely, and held herself cold and musing before
me. I might take her hand, might kiss her unresisting cheek, but she
seemed frozen into sudden thoughtfulness that it was impossible to
meet or to dispel.
"Bessie, you know you are a little goose! What could I wish for in life
but to carry you off this minute to New York? Come, get your hat and
let's walk over to the parsonage now. We'll get Doctor Wilder to marry
us, and astonish your aunt in the morning."
"Nonsense!" said Bessie with a slight quiver of her pretty, pouting
mouth. "Do be rational, Charlie!"
I believe I was rational in my own fashion for a little while, but when I
ventured to say in a very unnecessary whisper, "Then you will go
abroad with me?" Bessie flushed to her temples and rose from the sofa.
She had a way, when she was very much in earnest, or very much
stirred with some passionate thought, of pacing the parlor with her
hands clasped tightly before her, and her arms tense and straining at the
clasping hands. With her head bent slightly forward, and her brown hair
hanging in one long tress over her shoulder, she went swiftly up and
down, while I lay back on the sofa and watched her. She would speak it
out presently, the thought that was hurting her. So I felt secure and
waited, following every movement with a lover's eye. But I ought not
to have waited. I should have drawn her to me and shared that rapid,
nervous walk--should have compelled her with sweet force to render an
account of that emotion. But I was so secure, so entirely one with her in
thought, that I could conceive of nothing but a passing tempest at my
blundering, stupid thoughtfulness for her.

Suddenly at the door she stopped, and with her hand upon it said,
"Good-night, Charlie;" and was out of the room in a twinkling.
I sprang from the sofa and to the foot of the stairs, but I saw only a
glimpse of her vanishing dress; and though I called after her in low,
beseeching tones, "Bessie! Bessie!" a door shut in the distant corridor
for only answer.
What to do? In that decorous mansion I could not follow her; and my
impulse to dash after her and knock at her door till she answered me, I
was forced to put aside after a moment's consideration.
I stood there in the quiet hall, the old clock ticking away a solemn
"I-told-you-so!" in the corner. I made one step toward the kitchen to
send a message by one of the maids, but recoiled at the suggestion that
this would publish a lovers' quarrel. So I retreated along the hall, my
footsteps making no noise on the India matting, and entered the parlor
again like a thief. I sat down by the table: "Bessie will certainly come
back: she will get over her little petulance, and know I am here
waiting."
All about the parlor were the traces of