The Pit [20]
you to know that it's inspiring to me. Yes, it is, inspiring; it's elevating. You don't know how it makes a man feel to have the companionship of a good and lovely woman."
"Landry, as though I were all that. Here, put another hook in here."
She held the fold towards him. But he took her hand as their fingers touched and raised it to his lips and kissed it. She did not withdraw it, nor rebuke him, crying out instead, as though occupied with quite another matter:
"Landry, careful, my dear boy; you'll make me prick my fingers. Ah--there, you did."
He was all commiseration and self-reproach at once, and turned her hand palm upwards, looking for the scratch.
"Um!" she breathed. "It hurts."
"Where now," he cried, "where was it? Ah, I was a beast; I'm so ashamed." She indicated a spot on her wrist instead of her fingers, and very naturally Landry kissed it again.
"How foolish!" she remonstrated. "The idea! As if I wasn't old enough to be----"
"You're not so old but what you're going to marry me some day," he declared.
"How perfectly silly, Landry!" she retorted. "Aren't you done with my hand yet?"
"No, indeed," he cried, his clasp tightening over her fingers. "It's mine. You can't have it till I say--or till you say that--some day--you'll give it to me for good--for better or for worse."
"As if you really meant that," she said, willing to prolong the little situation. It was very sweet to have this clean, fine-fibred young boy so earnestly in love with her, very sweet that the lifting of her finger, the mere tremble of her eyelid should so perturb him.
"Mean it! Mean it!" he vociferated. "You don't know how much I do mean it. Why, Laura, why--why, I can't think of anything else."
"You!" she mocked. "As if I believed that. How many other girls have you said it to this year?"
Landry compressed his lips.
"Miss Dearborn, you insult me."
"Oh, my!" exclaimed Laura, at last withdrawing her hand.
"And now you're mocking me. It isn't kind. No, it isn't; it isn't _kind._"
"I never answered your question yet," she observed.
"What question?"
"About your coming to see me when we were settled. I _thought_ you wanted to know."
"How about lunch?" said Page, from the doorway. "Do you know it's after twelve?"
"The girl has got something for us," said Laura. "I told her about it. Oh, just a pick-up lunch--coffee, chops. I thought we wouldn't bother to-day. We'll have to eat in the kitchen."
"Well, let's be about it," declared Landry, "and finish with these curtains afterward. Inwardly I'm a ravening wolf."
It was past one o'clock by the time that luncheon, "picked up" though it was, was over. By then everybody was very tired. Aunt Wess' exclaimed that she could not stand another minute, and retired to her room. Page, indefatigable, declaring they never would get settled if they let things dawdle along, set to work unpacking her trunk and putting her clothes away. Her fox terrier, whom the family, for obscure reasons, called the Pig, arrived in the middle of the afternoon in a crate, and shivering with the chill of the house, was tied up behind the kitchen range, where, for all the heat, he still trembled and shuddered at long intervals, his head down, his eyes rolled up, bewildered and discountenanced by so much confusion and so many new faces.
Outside the weather continued lamentable. The rain beat down steadily upon the heaps of snow on the grass- plats by the curbstones, melting it, dirtying it, and reducing it to viscid slush. The sky was lead grey; the trees, bare and black as though built of iron and wire, dripped incessantly. The sparrows, huddling under the house-eaves or in interstices of the mouldings, chirped feebly from time to time, sitting disconsolate, their feathers puffed out till their bodies assumed globular shapes. Delivery wagons trundled up and down the street at intervals, the horses and drivers housed in oil-skins.
The neighborhood was quiet. There was no sound of voices in the streets. But occasionally, from far
"Landry, as though I were all that. Here, put another hook in here."
She held the fold towards him. But he took her hand as their fingers touched and raised it to his lips and kissed it. She did not withdraw it, nor rebuke him, crying out instead, as though occupied with quite another matter:
"Landry, careful, my dear boy; you'll make me prick my fingers. Ah--there, you did."
He was all commiseration and self-reproach at once, and turned her hand palm upwards, looking for the scratch.
"Um!" she breathed. "It hurts."
"Where now," he cried, "where was it? Ah, I was a beast; I'm so ashamed." She indicated a spot on her wrist instead of her fingers, and very naturally Landry kissed it again.
"How foolish!" she remonstrated. "The idea! As if I wasn't old enough to be----"
"You're not so old but what you're going to marry me some day," he declared.
"How perfectly silly, Landry!" she retorted. "Aren't you done with my hand yet?"
"No, indeed," he cried, his clasp tightening over her fingers. "It's mine. You can't have it till I say--or till you say that--some day--you'll give it to me for good--for better or for worse."
"As if you really meant that," she said, willing to prolong the little situation. It was very sweet to have this clean, fine-fibred young boy so earnestly in love with her, very sweet that the lifting of her finger, the mere tremble of her eyelid should so perturb him.
"Mean it! Mean it!" he vociferated. "You don't know how much I do mean it. Why, Laura, why--why, I can't think of anything else."
"You!" she mocked. "As if I believed that. How many other girls have you said it to this year?"
Landry compressed his lips.
"Miss Dearborn, you insult me."
"Oh, my!" exclaimed Laura, at last withdrawing her hand.
"And now you're mocking me. It isn't kind. No, it isn't; it isn't _kind._"
"I never answered your question yet," she observed.
"What question?"
"About your coming to see me when we were settled. I _thought_ you wanted to know."
"How about lunch?" said Page, from the doorway. "Do you know it's after twelve?"
"The girl has got something for us," said Laura. "I told her about it. Oh, just a pick-up lunch--coffee, chops. I thought we wouldn't bother to-day. We'll have to eat in the kitchen."
"Well, let's be about it," declared Landry, "and finish with these curtains afterward. Inwardly I'm a ravening wolf."
It was past one o'clock by the time that luncheon, "picked up" though it was, was over. By then everybody was very tired. Aunt Wess' exclaimed that she could not stand another minute, and retired to her room. Page, indefatigable, declaring they never would get settled if they let things dawdle along, set to work unpacking her trunk and putting her clothes away. Her fox terrier, whom the family, for obscure reasons, called the Pig, arrived in the middle of the afternoon in a crate, and shivering with the chill of the house, was tied up behind the kitchen range, where, for all the heat, he still trembled and shuddered at long intervals, his head down, his eyes rolled up, bewildered and discountenanced by so much confusion and so many new faces.
Outside the weather continued lamentable. The rain beat down steadily upon the heaps of snow on the grass- plats by the curbstones, melting it, dirtying it, and reducing it to viscid slush. The sky was lead grey; the trees, bare and black as though built of iron and wire, dripped incessantly. The sparrows, huddling under the house-eaves or in interstices of the mouldings, chirped feebly from time to time, sitting disconsolate, their feathers puffed out till their bodies assumed globular shapes. Delivery wagons trundled up and down the street at intervals, the horses and drivers housed in oil-skins.
The neighborhood was quiet. There was no sound of voices in the streets. But occasionally, from far