And with this Nattie was fain to be content. But she felt great pity for the poor fellow; perhaps because of the unhappiness in her own heart.
It is only from the depths of our own sorrows that we learn to feel for that of others.
As Quimby and Clem entered, both Nattie and Cyn looked surprised and curious, but Quimby, so excited now that his usual nervous bashfulness was forgotten, said immediately,
“I—I beg pardon, I am sure, for calling so late, but my business will not wait, and I wanted Clem as witness—he and Cyn—so as to make no mistake now!” then turning to the astonished Nattie, he went on,
“Nattie, I—I—my feelings for you have long been of—of adoration—no, please, hear me—” as she made a gesture to interrupt him. “Tonight, in this room, I addressed another—Celeste—” here he groaned, but recovered himself and went on, “in the dark, you know, with words intended for you. I want to know now, what, had I not been so deceived, you would have said?”
“But what difference can it make now?” asked Nattie, hesitating, and wishing to spare him, as he paused for a reply.
“Every difference!” said Quimby, wildly. “I beg you to—to answer me truly, in order that I may know what course to take!”
“Then since you wish,” replied Nattie, with a pitying glance, “I will tell you that as a friend I think very highly of you, and always shall. But, that is all.”
“Then come on, Celeste!” exclaimed Quimby, in a burst of despair. “She—she says, she loves me, and I—I may get used to it in time! all but her teeth,” he added, in his strict honesty, “to those I never can!”
Cyn felt a mischievous desire to hint that time might relieve him of his objection, but restrained herself and said,
“But you can explain the matter to her, you know!”
“Just what I have been telling him,” said Clem. “No woman would force herself on a man under such circumstances!”
“She would, I feel it!” answered the unconvinced Quimby. “Miss Rogers—Nattie, I—I thank you, I—I shall always remember you as something unattainable and dear, and hope somebody more worthy may be to you what I would have been if I could. But I—I was born to make mistakes, you know, and I—I am used to it—and ought to be thankful it was not Miss Kling!”
“I am very, very sorry!” murmured Nattie, and Clem saw there were tears in her eyes.
“Moral—never make love in the dark!” said Cyn, looking with solemn warning at Clem.
“Be sure that all—all the gas in the room is lighted if ever you propose!” added Quimby, miserably, to his friend.
“I will remember,” said Clem, glancing at Nattie. “There are worse mistakes made in the dark than on the wire, it seems!”
“Far—far worse!” groaned Quimby, as Nattie hastily turned her head aside.
“But now, really, Quimby!” urged Cyn, seriously, “do be sensible. Do not be foolish enough to marry a woman you do not want, because you cannot have the one you do!”
But Quimby, with the fear of old Fishblate, and a breach of promise suit, and a dread of explanations in his mind—moreover, having firmly decided that a little more or less of misery did not matter, could not be persuaded to take any steps himself, or allow them to be taken, to free himself from the result of his latest mistake.
Therefore, it came about, to the surprise of those not in the secret, and the unconcealed exultation of one of the parties immediately concerned, that the engagement of Quimby and Celeste was announced.
XV
One Summer Day
The week that decided Quimby’s fate so unexpectedly and brought him so much woe, to Cyn brought good tidings. Her success at the concert had been so decided that she was the recipient of many offers for the coming season, and was enabled to accept those that promised most advantageously. No one was more honestly glad than was Nattie in her congratulations; Nattie, who had fought and overcome that selfish pain and bitter wonder of hers, why Cyn should have everything and she nothing.
Since the approach of summer, a much-talked of project among them had been a little picnic party in the woods, and as Clem now proposed to get it up in honor of Cyn’s success, the plan was immediately carried out. Mrs. Simonson, with a feeble protest, because Miss Kling was not invited, accompanied them. The “them,” of course, consisted of Cyn, Nattie, Clem, Jo, and the newly betrothed ones.
Nature was kind to these seekers of her solitudes, and gave them a perfect day; one of those that occur in our uncertain climate less often than might be wished, but that penetrate everywhere with their sunshine, when they do come, even into hearts where sunshine seldom glances. So, for the nonce, our friends forgot all their little troubles; even Quimby brightening up, and ceasing to think of his engagement, as they stood underneath the green trees, by the banks of a small river; sunshine everywhere, and the music of birds in the air.
“Is it not glorious?” cried Cyn, like a child, in her exuberance.
“Why not camp out here, and stay all summer?” ecstatically suggested Clem, as he fondled his fishing tackle.
“But it might not always be pleasant like this,” said practical Mrs. Simonson.
“When the sun shines we forget it may ever storm,” said Jo, and looking admiringly at Cyn as he spoke.
“Is our artist
