“You are not strong enough to go from home. If you do not feel well, will you write for me to come and bring you home?”
“I can not promise,” she answered decidedly.
They were neither of them in a mood for further talk; she felt more at rest than she had felt for two years; there was nothing to think of, nothing to be hurried about; she had a whole year to be happy in, and then—she would be happy then, too. As for him—she could not see his face, for they had turned into the cross-road, thickly wooded, that opened into the clearing before the gates of Old Place.
He spoke to his horse in his usual tone, “Gently, Charlie.” He stooped to wrap the robe more closely about her feet; as he raised himself, she slipped her ungloved hand into his. “Don’t be troubled about me, I will not be troubled; I will not reason; but don’t be sure; perhaps when the year is over I shall not be satisfied.”
“You will not be so patient with me another year; I shall not take another year.”
“Tessa, you are a goose; but you are a darling, nevertheless.”
“You do not understand me,” she said, withdrawing her hand.
“I am too humble to expect ever to do that. You have never seen our home. Is it too late to go over the place to-night?”
“I will go with your mother some time; she has described every room to me.”
“Who is that fellow that you were engaged to?”
“Ah!” Then after a pause, “Tell me the whole story.”
The whole story was not long; she began with his school-boy love, speaking in short sentences, words and tone becoming more intense as she went on
“I did not mean to be so wrong; but I was so unhappy and he cared—”
“What shall I do without you all winter?”
“What have you done without me every winter?” she asked merrily.
With an effort she drew herself away from the arm that would have encircled her. Morbidly fearful of making another mistake, she would not answer his words or his tone.
“The witches get into me at night,” she said, soberly, “and I say things that I may regret in the sunlight.”
“It is not like you to regret speaking truth. Remember, I do not exact any promise from you; but if the time ever come that you know you love me, I want you to tell me so.”
He drove up under the maple trees, before the low iron fence, as he had done on the last night of the old year; another old year was almost ended; they stood holding each other’s hand, neither caring to speak.