202 JENNY AND MR. CLEAVES.
“Then I am angry! [am as angry as I can be! for I have told him that [like him! I have told Mrs. Cleavesa—who, pray, is this Mrs. Cleaves then?”
- “*His brother’s wife. That is his brother’s
place; he just spends his summers, and now and then a week, or a few weeks, as he is doing now, out here at their house.”
Well, 1 told Mrs. Cleaves that I like him! that I like him very much indeed! Mercy on us!” for 1 was horrified aa one recollection came crowding after another. ‘I told him no longer ago than last evening, when we three—be, Mrs. Cleaves and I—were sitting here together, that his conservatism, humane and just toward all sides, collected, reasonable, philosophical and clear, at all timer, upon all questions, quieted me—only think, George!—soothed me—think of that!—whenever I niet it upon a disturbing topic; was what I, who am prone to over-fear- ing, over-hoping, over-working, and all manner of tension, and many others like me, here on the wrong-headed earth, where there is so much to disturb one, need. J told him that I had a long time seen and felt this in his writings; that pow I knew him personally, and had him for my friend, I was glad of the quality, as proud of it as if he were my own brother! It was very much like this, what I told Aim—for I felt how good he is, and what goed he) does me—and 1 am ashamed! He will know some time that I thought he was married; but I am ashamed! and I will not see him once more! In every note Miss Perkins has sent out to me, she has begged me to come in and go to Salem with her. I will go in with you this very day; I ought to have gone before.”
George— bless his calm, sincere face and voice! —said quietly, without minding my storm, “Lye been thinking I should like to marry Miss Per- kins, if she’s any like you, if this is what makes you like her so well, if she'll have me. Will she, think, if I offer?” .
‘Likely as not,” I told him, instantaneously pleased, instantaneously losing sight of my vexa- tion. ‘Likely as not she would. She's a little, blue, shivering, cold thing; she needs just such a husband as you are to make her life warmer. Oh! but I forget! I must go and find Harriet.”
Whistling softly, composedly—although 1 believe he made the composure this time—he opened the door for me, and saw me go.
Harriet had hid herself in the nursery. When T looked in, she crowded herself back into a cor- her, waiting there, watching me, with air half laughing, half deprecating; but, at last, with air wholly deprecating, she came forward, saying, “It was too bad, darling!” and took me into her long, beautiful arms. ‘It was too bad! and I, as a woman, knew it was all the time. But George wouldn’t listen to me. He always made me do just as he pleased at home, you remember; and I, some way, couldn't resist him now, especially as Robert thought it well enough, under the circumstances. George said there was nothing else that would make things go on right between you and—and Mr. Cleaves, whom we all like so much, and wanted you to like. He said you would be flying off, or you would just be an odd, silent thing—this is what he said, dear—every time Mr. Cleaves came in, if we didn't do sume such thing to deceive you, and this is why we did it. I am sorry; I have been sorry all along that I consented; but you will forgive us!”
Yes, I said, but I must go, that day, with George, in to Miss Perkins’. And then her tears, which had been all the time struggling, came forth a stream. Mine, which also had been struggling, came; and we wept like two children. Then we kissed each other with hot kisses, as Harriet said, ‘‘Now all was spoiled—now would never forgive them; she saw plainly that I never would. If she had only held out, in the first place, in what she knew to be right; but now all was spoiled!”
In vain I assured her that I loved them as much as ever, more than ever; the assurance was in vain, because, after I had made and repeated it, I adhered still to my determination about going. I got my release, at last, only by showing her that it could not fuil of being a thousand times worse for all concerned, if I remained; for if I remained, and again met Mr. Cleaves there, I should appall him and them all by my counter-impudence and fierceness. We laughed at this, then we sighed. Harriet called it “a bad business,” but nequi- esced. She would rather I would go than stay and give myself and him that pain, she said; for I, as well as he, would feel better if I went, leaving the peace of those few pleasant days unbroken.
Yes, I said, begging her pardon for the pain I was giving her. I would come again, I told her, whenever she could write to me that Mr. Cleaves was traveling up the Nile, or the Senegal, or any of their branches. Again she laughed, then again she sighed, and her tears rose. When the time came, and I was about to enter the carriage, she held me, with streaming tears, and said, ‘I shall never forgive myself! It was a wicked, cruel lie, and I shall never forgive myself! George, I don’t see how you can be so comfort- able about it: he was composedly buckling a rein, ‘for it was a false, cruel thing. If Jenny
