Waldo Goes Out to Taste Life, and Em Stays At Home and Tastes It
At nine o'clock in the evening, packing his bundles for the next morning's start, Waldo looked up, and was surprised to see Em's yellow head peeping in at his door. It was many a month since she had been there. She said she had made him sandwiches for his journey, and she stayed a while to help him put his goods into the saddlebags.
"You can leave the old things lying about," she said; "I will lock the room, and keep it waiting for you to come back some day."
To come back some day! Would the bird ever return to its cage? But he thanked her. When she went away he stood on the doorstep holding the candle till she had almost reached the house. But Em was that evening in no hurry to enter, and, instead of going in at the back door, walked with lagging footsteps round the low brick wall that ran before the house.
Opposite the open window of the parlour she stopped. The little room, kept carefully closed in Tant Sannie's time, was well lighted by a paraffin lamp; books and work lay strewn about it, and it wore a bright, habitable aspect. Beside the lamp at the table in the corner sat Lyndall, the open letters and papers of the day's post lying scattered before her, while she perused the columns of a newspaper. At the centre table, with his arms folded on an open paper, which there was not light enough to read, sat Gregory. He was looking at her. The light from the open window fell on Em's little face under its white kapje as she looked in, but no one glanced that way.
"Go and fetch me a glass of water!" Lyndall said, at last.
Gregory went out to find it; when he put it down at her side she merely moved her head in recognition, and he went back to his seat and his old occupation. Then Em moved slowly away from the window, and through it came in spotted, hard-winged insects, to play round the lamp, till, one by one, they stuck to its glass, and fell to the foot dead.
Ten o'clock struck. Then Lyndall rose, gathered up her papers and letters, and wished Gregory good night. Some time after Em entered; she had been sitting all the while on the loft ladder, and had drawn her kapje down very much over her face.
Gregory was piecing together the bits of an envelope when she came in.
"I thought you were never coming," he said, turning round quickly, and throwing the fragments onto the floor. "You know I have been shearing all day, and it is ten o'clock already."
"I'm sorry. I did not think you would be going so soon," she said in a low voice.
"I can't hear what you say. What makes you mumble so? Well, good night, Em."
He stooped down hastily to kiss her.
"I want to talk to you, Gregory."
"Well, make haste," he said pettishly. "I'm awfully tired. I've been sitting here all the evening. Why couldn't you come and talk before?"
"I will not keep you long," she answered very steadily now. "I think, Gregory, it would be better if you and I were never to be married."
"Good Heaven! Em, what do you mean? I thought you were so fond of me?
You always professed to be. What on earth have you taken into your head now?"
"I think it would be better," she said, folding her hands over each other, very much as though she were praying.
"Better, Em! What do you mean? Even a woman can't take a freak all about nothing! You must have some reason for it, and I'm sure I've done nothing to offend you. I wrote only today to my sister to tell her to come up next month to our wedding, and I've been as affectionate and happy as possible.
