PAGE 8
The Vice-Consort
by
“When I rose to leave, she stood for a moment, looking at me as though she expected me to say something on the subject which was certainly interesting to her as well as to me. But now I did not want to talk, and I gave her no chance to say anything. I walked rapidly home, feeling as jealous of Margaret Temple as any woman could feel of another.
“I was glad that day that Bernard liked to go fishing, for my mind was in such a condition that I did not think of anything that might happen to him–at least, anything but just one thing, and that was awful. Emily Cheston supposed I had a headache, and I let her think so, for it gave me more time to myself. I looked at the thing that threatened to crush all my happiness, on every possible side. Early in the morning a ray of relief had come to my troubled mind, and this was that I did not believe he would have her, anyway. But I had seen her since, and no such ray comforted me now.
“I knew, as I had not known before, what a power she might have over a man. Widowers, I thought, are generally ready enough to marry again; but, no matter what they think about it, they mostly wait a good while, for the sake of appearances. But this would be different. When a man knows that his wife had selected some one as her successor–and he would be sure to know this, the woman would see to that–he would not feel it necessary to wait. He would be carrying out his dead wife’s wishes, and of course in this there should be no delay. Oh, horrible! When I thought of myself as Bernard’s dead wife, and that woman living, I actually kicked the stool my feet were resting on. I vowed in my mind the thing should never be. I felt better after I had made this vow, although I had not thought of any way by which I could carry it out. Certainly I was not going to say anything to Bernard about it, one way or another.”
Here the Next Neighbor paused again. And at that moment the red thrush gave a little low trill, as much as to say: “Listen to me now.” Then he twittered and chirped in a tentative way as if he had not made up his mind about singing, and the party on the terrace felt like clapping to encourage him.
“I wonder if he knows he has an audience,” said the Daughter of the House, in a very low tone.
“He knows it is impolite to interrupt the story,” said her father. “No; there he goes!”
And, sure enough, the bird, having decided that on the whole it would help matters in whatever direction he wished them to be helped, sang out, clear and loud, what seemed to his audience the most delightful song he had yet given them.
When he had finished, the Next Neighbor said: “That was so full of soul I hate to go on with my very material story.”
“It strikes me,” said the Old Professor, “that there is a good deal of soul in your story.”
“Thank you,” said the Next Neighbor, as she again took up the thread of her narrative.
“That evening, prompted by a sudden impulse, I went up to Bernard, and, looking into his face, I declared that I would never leave him.
“‘What!’ he exclaimed. ‘Has any one been asking you to leave me?’
“‘Of course not,’ said I, a little irritated–he has such queer ways of taking what I say. ‘I mean I am not going to die before you do. I am not going to leave you in this world to take care of yourself.’
“He looked at me as though he did not understand me, and I do not suppose he did, although he only said: ‘I am delighted to hear that, my dear girl. But how are you going to manage it? How about that hereditary disease you were talking of the other day?’