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Page 91
Halcombe Dike, coming home from church that morning a little in advance
of the crowd, saw a "Pre-raphaelite" in the doorway of Mr. Guest's barn,
and quietly unlatching the gate came nearer to examine it. It was worth
examining. There was a ground of great shadows and billowy hay; a pile
of crimson apples struck out by the light through a crack; two children
and a kitten asleep together in a sunbeam; a girl on the floor with a
baby crawling over her; a girl in a chocolate-colored dress with yellow
leaves in her hair,--her hair upon her shoulders, and her eyelashes wet.
"Well, Sharley!"
She looked up to see him standing there with his grave, amused smile.
Her first thought was to jump and run; her second, to stand fire.
"Well, Mr. Halcombe! Moppet's stuck yellow leaves all over me; my hair's
down; I've got on a horrid old morning-dress; look pretty to see
company, don't I?"
"Very, Sharley."
"Besides," said Sharley, "I've been crying, and my eyes are red."
"So I see."
"No, you don't, for I'm not looking at you."
"But I am looking at you."
"Oh!"
"What were you crying about, Sharley!"
"Because my grandmother's dead," said Sharley, after some reflection.
"Ah, yes, I remember! about '36, I think, her tombstone gives as the
date of that sad event?"
"I think it's wicked in people to laugh at people's dead grandmothers,"
said Sharley, severely. "You ought to be at church."
"So I was."
"I wasn't; mother wouldn't--" But her lip quivered, and she stopped. The
memory of the new hat and Sunday dress, of the golden church-bells, and
hush of happy Sabbath-morning thoughts came up. That he should see her
now, in this plight, with her swollen eyes and pouting lips, and her
heart full of wicked discontent!
"Wouldn't what, Sharley?"
"_Don't!_" she pleaded, with a sob; "I'm cross; I can't talk. Besides, I
shall cry again, and I _won't_ cry again. You may let me alone, or you
may go away. If you don't go away you may just tell me what you have
been doing with yourself this whole long summer. Working hard, of
course. I don't see but that everybody has to work hard in this world! I
hate this world! I suppose you're a rich man by this time?"
The young man looked at the chocolate dress, the yellow leaves, the
falling hair, and answered gravely,--a little coldly, Sharley
thought,--that his prospects were not encouraging just now. Perhaps they
never had been encouraging; only that he in his young ardor had thought
so. He was older now, and wiser. He understood what a hard pull was
before young architects in America,--any young architect, the best of
young architects,--and whether there was a place for him remained to be
proved. He was willing to work hard, and to hope long; but he grew a
little tired of it sometimes, and so--He checked himself suddenly. "As
if," thought Sharley, "he were tired of talking so long to me! He
thought my question impertinent." She hid her face in her drooping hair,
and wished herself a mile away.
"There was something you once told me about some sort of buildings?" she
ventured, timidly, in a pause.
"The Crumpet Buildings. Yes, I sent my proposals, but have not heard
from them yet; I don't know that I ever shall. That is a large affair,
rather. The name of the thing would be worth a good deal to me if I
succeeded. It would give me a start, and--"
"Ough!" exclaimed Sharley. She had been sitting at his feet, with her
face raised, and red eyes forgotten, when, splash! an icy stream of
water came into her eyes, into her mouth, down her neck, up her sleeves.
She gasped, and stood drenched.
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