Chapter VII
John Brierly came.
He first wrote Drusilla a long letter and Drusilla answered it by telegraph--an answer that brought a reminiscent smile to John Brierly's lips. It read:
"I can't talk by letter. Just come."
And John came.
He was met at the station by the young man from the lawyer's office who had been to see him in Cliveden, and when he arrived at the house he found Drusilla awaiting him. After the young man left, Drusilla said:
"John, come upstairs; I want to look at you, and I want to talk to you."
She took him up to the small library, which looked very cozy with its fire in the big grate and the heavy English curtains drawn at the windows.
"Now set down there in that chair, John. It was made for a man--no woman could ever get out of it without help once she got in--and tell me all about yourself, John."
John looked around the luxurious room in a hesitating manner.
"I hardly know what to say, Drusilla--I can't understand all this--I can't understand."
"Never mind, John; it's all real. I know how you feel. I felt that way myself for the first few weeks; but now I'm gettin' used to it."
"Is--is--this place yours, Drusilla?"
"Yes, it's mine. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, but now I just want to talk to you and about you. You want to smoke, don't you? Light your pipe and be comfortable. It'll make you think better."
John laughed.
"I do want to smoke."
He drew his pipe from some pocket and filled it from a worn tobacco pouch. Drusilla watched him interestedly.
"Now I know what this room needed. It needs tobacco. It'll make the curtains smell as if people lived here. You know the greatest trouble I find with this place, John, is to have it feel human. Everything is so sort of--sort of--dead--with just me a-creepin' round, and James and William tip-toein', and the hired girls never speakin' except to say, 'No, ma'am' or 'Yes, ma'am.' Why, sometimes I'd like to hear somebody drop somethin', or get mad, or stomp, or do somethin' as if they was alive. Here, help me pull up the chair closer by the fire, where I can see you without putting on my specs. There, that is comfortable. Now tell me all about yourself."
John looked into the fire dreamily.
"Drusilla, I am afraid I have been a failure. Your mother was right; I've been always a dreamer and a failure."
Drusilla leaned toward him.
"Never you mind, John. So long as you haven't been a dreamer and a democrat, I can stand it. I never could abide democrats. Why didn't you ever marry?"
John looked at her.
"I couldn't, Drusilla."
Drusilla flushed at the look in his face and sat back in her chair.
"Oh--Oh--"
John said again, earnestly: "I just couldn't, Drusilla. When I got you out of my heart enough to look at another woman, I was too old to care."
"What are you going to do now?" Drusilla asked, to turn the conversation into another channel.
"What I have done for the last few years--sit quietly by and wait for the messenger to come."
"Stuff and nonsense, John! I don't believe in waitin' for messengers. That's meetin' them half way. I believe in bein' so busy that he'll have a hard time to catch up to me."
"But I'm old, Drusilla, and--"
"Old, nothin' of the sort! You ain't but two years older'n me and I'm jest beginnin' to live. Why I've jest took to raisin' children, John, and I'm goin' to watch 'em grow up; so I can't afford to think about being old or dyin'. I got to see these babies get started someway."
John looked at her curiously.
"Yes, you're surprised--so's everybody--and it kind of tickles me to surprise people. I've had to do the things expected of me all my life; I couldn't afford to surprise no one; so I feel like I'm breaking out now, and--and--" laughing, "I like it, John--I like it. Why, when Mr. Thornton stands up so stiff and straight and makes his mouth square and hard to say, 'Impossible!' why--why--my toes kind of wiggle around in delight like the babies do when you hold 'em to the fire. But I don't want to talk about myself; we got lots of time to do that. I want to know what you intend doin'."
"Nothing, Drusilla. I have enough to live on in my little town; and with my books, and--"
"But, John, you can't live with jest books."
"That's all I have left, Drusilla. All my friends are gone."
"That's what I wanted to hear. You ain't got no one that draws your heart back to that place in Ohio, have you?"
"No one in the world, Drusilla."
Drusilla settled back into her chair and gave a sigh of contentment.
"Then what I've been dreamin' of ever sence I saw your name in the paper can come true."
"What have you been a-dreaming of, Drusilla?"
Drusilla was silent for a few moments, looking thoughtfully into the fire. Then she said softly:
"Ever sence I knew you was alive, and after I sent that young man out to you and he told me about you, I jest been dreamin' of seein' you settin' there, smokin' your pipe, and me a-settin' here, talkin' to you, and I have come into this room more the last two weeks, lookin' at it, thinkin' how it would look with your things layin' around. You are alone, John, and I'm alone. As I wrote you, we are both two old ships that have sailed the seas alone for all these years, and now we're nearin' port. Why can't we make the rest of the voyage together? I have a home too big for one lone woman; you have no home at all. Years ago your home would 'a' been mine, if you could 'a' give it to me; and now I want to share mine with you. No--don't start," as she saw John make a movement, "I ain't proposin' to you, John. We're too old to think of such things, but I want to die with my hand in some one's who cares for me and who I care for. You're the only one in all the world that's left from out my past, and I want you near me."
"But, Drusilla--"
"Don't interrupt me, John. I want you to live here near me. These rooms are a man's rooms. I want to see a man in 'em; and, John, you're the man I want."
"But, Drusilla--"
"Now, John," raising her faded hand, "don't argue with me. I can see it's took you by surprise. But why shouldn't you live here, and