On the Church Steps | Page 8

my own darling girl, that we should be married as soon as
possible after I returned from Europe.
Her love, clearer-sighted, had striven to forestall our separation: why
should we be parted all those weary weeks? why put the sea between

us?
I had accepted all these obstacles as a dreary necessity, never thinking
for the moment that conventional objections might be overcome, aunts
and guardians talked over, and the whole matter arranged by two
people determined on their own sweet will.
What a lumbering, masculine plan was mine! _After I returned from
Europe!_ I grew red and bit my lips with vexation. And now my dear
girl was shy and hurt. How should I win back again that sweet impulse
of confidence?
Presently the household began to stir. I heard unbarring and unbolting,
and craftily retreated to the gate, that I might seem to be just coming in,
to the servant who should open the door.
It was opened by a housemaid--not the Mary of the night before--who
stared a moment at seeing me, but on my asking if Miss Bessie was
ready yet to walk, promised smilingly to go and see. She returned in a
moment, saying that Miss Bessie begged that I would wait: she was
hurrying to come down.
The child! She has slept too soundly. I shall tell her how insensate she
must have been, how serenely unconscious when the flower came in at
the window.
The clock on the mantel struck seven and the half hour before Bessie
appeared. She was very pale, and her eyes looked away at my greeting.
Passively she suffered herself to be placed in a chair, and then, with
something of her own manner, she said hurriedly, "Don't think I got
your note, Charlie, last night, or I wouldn't, indeed I wouldn't, have
kept you waiting so long this morning."
"Didn't Mary bring it to you?" I asked, surprised.
"Yes: that is, she brought it up to my room, but, Charlie dear, I wasn't
there: I wasn't there all night. I did shut my door, though I heard you
calling, and after a little while I crept out into the entry and looked over

the stairs, hoping you were there still, and that I could come back to
you. But you were not there, and everything was so still that I was sure
you had gone--gone without a word. I listened and listened, but I was
too proud to go down into the parlor and see. And yet I could not go
back to my room, next Aunt Sloman's. I went right up stairs to the blue
room, and stayed there. Mary must have put your note on my table
when she came up stairs. I found it there this morning when I went
down."
"Poor darling! And what did you do all night in the blue room? I am
afraid," looking at her downcast eyes, "that you did not sleep--that you
were angry at me."
"At you? No, at myself," she said very low.
"Bessie, you know that my first and only thought was of the hurry and
worry this journey would cost you. You know that to have you with me
was something that I had scarce dared to dream."
"And therefore," with a flash of blue eyes, "for me to dare to dream it
was--" and again she hid her face.
"But, my precious, don't you know that it was for you to suggest what I
wanted all the time, but thought it would be too much to ask?" For I
had discovered, of course, in my morning's work among the dead
leaves on the porch, that I had desired it from the moment I had known
of my journey--desired it without acknowledging it to myself or
presuming to plan upon it.
At this juncture breakfast was announced, and the folding doors thrown
open that led into the breakfast-parlor, disclosing Mrs. Sloman seated
by the silver urn, and a neat little table spread for three, so quick had
been the housemaid's intuitions.
"Good-morning, Charles: come get some breakfast. You will hardly be
in time for your train," suggested Aunt Sloman in a voice that had in it
all the gloom of the morning. Indeed, the clouds had gathered heavily
during the parlor scene, and some large drops were rattling against the

window.
I looked at my watch. After eight! Pshaw! I will let this train go, and
will telegraph to the office. I can take the night train, and thus lose only
a few hours. So I stayed.
What rare power had Bessie in the very depths of her trouble, and with
her face pale and eyes so heavy with her last night's vigil--what gift that
helped her to be gay? Apparently not with an effort, not forced, she