Suddenly I saw George coming toward me with Miss West. They did not notice me at first, they were so engaged in talking and laughing together. My mood sobered instantly, but I said to myself that I certainly ought to be glad to see George enjoying himself; and, in any case, a lady does not show her foolish feelings. So I went toward them, trying to look as I had before I caught sight of them. They saw me in a moment, and instantly their laughter stopped. If they had come forward simply and at ease, I should have thought no more about it, I think; but no one could see their confusion without feeling that they expected me to disapprove. And if they expected me to disapprove, it seems to me they must have been saying things--But probably this is all my imagination and mean jealousy.
"You see I've captured him," Miss West called out in rather a high voice, as we came near each other.
"I have no doubt he was a very willing captive," I answered, smiling, and holding out my hand.
I realize now how I hated to give her my hand, and most certainly her manner was not entirely that of a lady.
"We've been for a long walk," she went on, "and now I suppose I ought to let you have him."
"I couldn't think of taking him. I am only going home."
"But it seems real mean to keep him, after I've had him all the afternoon. I must give him to you."
"I hope he wouldn't be so ungallant as to be given, and leave you to go home alone," I said. "That is not the way we treat strangers in Tuskamuck."
"Oh, you mustn't call me a stranger," Miss West responded, twisting her head to look up into George's face. "I'm really in love with the place, and I should admire to live here all the rest of my life."
To this I had nothing to say. George had not spoken a word. I could not look at him, but I moved on now. I felt that I must get away from this girl, with her strange Western speech, and her familiar manner.
"Good-by," I said. "Mother will want me, and I mustn't linger any longer."
I managed to smile until I had left them, but the tears would come as I hurried up the hill toward home. Oh, how can I bear it!
January 23. The happiness of George is the thing which should be considered. In any case I am helpless. I can only wait, in woman's fashion. Even if I were convinced he would be happier and better with me,--and how can I tell that?--what is there I could do? My duty is by mother's sick-bed, and even if my pride would let me struggle for the possession of any man, I am not free to try even that degrading conflict. I should know, moreover, that any man saved in spite of himself would be apt to look back with regret to the woman he was saved from. Jean Ingelow's "Letter L" is not often repeated in life, I am afraid. Still, if one could be sure that it is a danger and he were saved, this might be borne. If it were surely for his good to think less of me, I might bear it somehow, hard as it would be. But my hands are tied. There is nothing for me but waiting.