|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 60
When the company which had spent the sultry August evening upon the porch
in the semi-darkness was near to breaking up, Leaver came to Charlotte
and took his place beside her. When she left the house he was with her,
and the two crossed the street and went in at the hedge gate together.
"May I stay a very little while?" he asked. And when she assented he
added, "Shall we find the bench in your garden?"
"Do you know that bench?" she questioned, surprised.
"I spent many hours upon it before you came, and during the days when I
was not getting about much. I listened to the reading of two books,
lounging there. So it seems like a familiar spot to me."
"It is my favourite resting place. I am sorry you were driven away by my
coming. You and Miss Mathewson would have been very welcome there, all
the rest of the summer, if I had known."
"Thank you. But I have passed the invalid stage and am not being treated
as a patient. I read for myself, at present, and tramp the country,
instead of sitting on benches, anywhere. It's a great improvement."
"I am very glad."
Charlotte let him lead the way to the retreat under the apple-tree, and
he proved his knowledge of it by stopping now and then to hold aside
hindering branches of shrubbery, and to lift for her a certain heavily
leafed bough which drooped across the path, but which would hardly have
been discerned in the summer starlight by one not familiar with its
position.
"It would be a pity to tear that gown," he remarked, as the last barrier
was passed. "It occurred to me, as I looked at you to-night, that it was
one I had seen you wear in Baltimore, last winter. Am I right?"
"Last winter, and the winter before, and even the winter before that, if
you had known me so long," she answered, with a gay little laugh. "I am
so fond of it I shall not discard it until it can no longer be mended."
"You are wise. I believe it is hardly the attitude of the modern woman
toward dress of any sort, but it might well be. We never tire of Nature,
though she wears the same costume season after season."
"Her frocks don't fray at the edges--or when they do she turns them such
gorgeous colours that we don't notice they are getting worn."
"Aren't there some rough edges on this bench? Please take this end; I
think I recall that it is smoother than the other."
"Thank you. One good tear, and even Granny's needle couldn't make me
whole again."
He bent over to pick up a scarf of silver gauze which had slipped from
her shoulders. He laid it about them, and as he did so she shivered
suddenly, though the air was warm, without a hint of dampness. But she
covered the involuntary movement with a shrug, saying lightly, "A man I
know says he thoroughly believes a woman is colder rather than warmer in
a scarf like this, on the theory that anything with so many holes in it
must create an infinite number of small draughts."
"He may be right. But I confess, as a physician, I like to cover up
exposed surfaces from the open night air--to a certain extent--even with
an excuse for a protection like this."
He sat down beside her. The bench was not a long one, and he was nearer
to her than he had yet been to-night. She sat quietly, one hand lying
motionless in her lap. The other hand, down at her side, laid hold of the
edge of the bench and gripped it rather tightly. She began to talk about
the old garden, as it lay before them, its straggling paths and beds of
flowers mere patches of shadow, dark and light. He answered, now and
then, in an absent sort of way, as if his mind were upon something else,
and he only partly heard. She spoke of "Sunny Farm"--the children's
hospital in the country--of Burns and Ellen and Bob--and then, suddenly,
with a sense of the uselessness of trying all by herself to make small
talk under conditions of growing constraint, she fell silent. He let the
silence endure for a little space, then broke it bluntly.
"I'm glad," he said, in the deep, quiet voice she remembered well, "that
you will give me a chance. What is the use of pretending that I have
brought you here to talk of other people? I have something to say to you,
and you know it. I can't lead up to it by any art, for it has become
merely a fact which it is your right to know. You should have known it
long ago."
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|