human destiny to the exacting and ignorant rule of
what he termed moral conventionalities. He had startled and angered
Hosmer with his denunciation of Thérèse's sophistical guidance.
Rather—he proposed—let Hosmer and Thérèse marry, and if Fanny were
to be redeemed—though he pooh-poohed the notion as untenable with
certain views of what he called the rights to existence: the existence
of wrongs—sorrows—diseases—death—let them all go to make up the
conglomerate whole—and let the individual man hold on to his
personality. But if she must be redeemed—granting this point to their
littleness, let the redemption come by different ways than those of
sacrifice: let it be an outcome from the capability of their united
happiness.
Hosmer did not listen to his friend Homeyer. Love was his god now, and
Thérèse was Love's prophet.
So he was sitting in this little parlor waiting for Fanny to come.
She came after an interval that had been given over to the indulgence
of a little feminine nervousness. Through the open doors Hosmer could
hear her coming down the back stairs; could hear that she halted
mid-way. Then she passed through the dining-room, and he arose and
went to meet her, holding out his hand, which she was not at once
ready to accept, being flustered and unprepared for his manner in
whichever way it might direct itself.
They sat opposite each other and remained for a while silent; he with
astonishment at sight of the "merry blue eyes" faded and sunken into
deep, dark round sockets; at the net-work of little lines all traced
about the mouth and eyes, and spreading over the once rounded cheeks
that were now hollow and evidently pale or sallow, beneath a layer of
rouge that had been laid on with an unsparing hand. Yet was she still
pretty, or pleasing, especially to a strong nature that would find an
appeal in the pathetic weakness of her face. There was no guessing at
what her figure might be, it was disguised under a very fashionable
dress, and a worsted shawl covered her shoulders, which occasionally
quivered as with an inward chill. She spoke first, twisting the end of
this shawl.
"What did you come for, David? why did you come now?" with peevish
resistance to the disturbance of his coming.
"I know I have come without warrant," he said, answering her
implication. "I have been led to see—no matter how—that I made
mistakes in the past, and what I want to do now is to right them, if
you will let me."
This was very unexpected to her, and it startled her, but neither with
pleasure nor pain; only with an uneasiness which showed itself in her
face.
"Have you been ill?" he asked suddenly as the details of change in her
appearance commenced to unfold themselves to him.
"Oh no, not since last winter, when I had pneumonia so bad. They
thought I was going to die. Dr. Franklin said I would 'a died if Belle
Worthington hadn't 'a took such good care of me. But I don't see what
you mean coming now. It'll be the same thing over again: I don't see
what's the use, David."
"We won't talk about the use, Fanny. I want to take care of you for
the rest of your life—or mine—as I promised to do ten years ago; and
I want you to let me do it."
"It would be the same thing over again," she reiterated, helplessly.
"It will not be the same," he answered positively. "I will not be the
same, and that will make all the difference needful."
"I don't see what you want to do it for, David. Why we'd haf to get
married over again and all that, wouldn't we?"
"Certainly," he answered with a faint smile. "I'm living in the South
now, in Louisiana, managing a sawmill down there."
"Oh, I don't like the South. I went down to Memphis, let's see, it was
last spring, with Belle and Lou Dawson, after I'd been sick; and I
don't see how a person can live down there."
"You would like the place where I'm living. It's a fine large
plantation, and the lady who owns it would be the best of friends to
you. She knew why I was coming, and
what he termed moral conventionalities. He had startled and angered
Hosmer with his denunciation of Thérèse's sophistical guidance.
Rather—he proposed—let Hosmer and Thérèse marry, and if Fanny were
to be redeemed—though he pooh-poohed the notion as untenable with
certain views of what he called the rights to existence: the existence
of wrongs—sorrows—diseases—death—let them all go to make up the
conglomerate whole—and let the individual man hold on to his
personality. But if she must be redeemed—granting this point to their
littleness, let the redemption come by different ways than those of
sacrifice: let it be an outcome from the capability of their united
happiness.
Hosmer did not listen to his friend Homeyer. Love was his god now, and
Thérèse was Love's prophet.
So he was sitting in this little parlor waiting for Fanny to come.
She came after an interval that had been given over to the indulgence
of a little feminine nervousness. Through the open doors Hosmer could
hear her coming down the back stairs; could hear that she halted
mid-way. Then she passed through the dining-room, and he arose and
went to meet her, holding out his hand, which she was not at once
ready to accept, being flustered and unprepared for his manner in
whichever way it might direct itself.
They sat opposite each other and remained for a while silent; he with
astonishment at sight of the "merry blue eyes" faded and sunken into
deep, dark round sockets; at the net-work of little lines all traced
about the mouth and eyes, and spreading over the once rounded cheeks
that were now hollow and evidently pale or sallow, beneath a layer of
rouge that had been laid on with an unsparing hand. Yet was she still
pretty, or pleasing, especially to a strong nature that would find an
appeal in the pathetic weakness of her face. There was no guessing at
what her figure might be, it was disguised under a very fashionable
dress, and a worsted shawl covered her shoulders, which occasionally
quivered as with an inward chill. She spoke first, twisting the end of
this shawl.
"What did you come for, David? why did you come now?" with peevish
resistance to the disturbance of his coming.
"I know I have come without warrant," he said, answering her
implication. "I have been led to see—no matter how—that I made
mistakes in the past, and what I want to do now is to right them, if
you will let me."
This was very unexpected to her, and it startled her, but neither with
pleasure nor pain; only with an uneasiness which showed itself in her
face.
"Have you been ill?" he asked suddenly as the details of change in her
appearance commenced to unfold themselves to him.
"Oh no, not since last winter, when I had pneumonia so bad. They
thought I was going to die. Dr. Franklin said I would 'a died if Belle
Worthington hadn't 'a took such good care of me. But I don't see what
you mean coming now. It'll be the same thing over again: I don't see
what's the use, David."
"We won't talk about the use, Fanny. I want to take care of you for
the rest of your life—or mine—as I promised to do ten years ago; and
I want you to let me do it."
"It would be the same thing over again," she reiterated, helplessly.
"It will not be the same," he answered positively. "I will not be the
same, and that will make all the difference needful."
"I don't see what you want to do it for, David. Why we'd haf to get
married over again and all that, wouldn't we?"
"Certainly," he answered with a faint smile. "I'm living in the South
now, in Louisiana, managing a sawmill down there."
"Oh, I don't like the South. I went down to Memphis, let's see, it was
last spring, with Belle and Lou Dawson, after I'd been sick; and I
don't see how a person can live down there."
"You would like the place where I'm living. It's a fine large
plantation, and the lady who owns it would be the best of friends to
you. She knew why I was coming, and
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