XXIII
I can hardly tell you just how we came to own our love to each other; butone day I found myself alone with her mother, with the sense thatEveleth had suddenly withdrawn from the room at the knowledge of myapproach. Mrs. Gray was strongly moved by something; but she governedherself, and, after giving me a tremulous hand, bade me sit.
"Will you excuse me, Mr. Homos," she began, "if I ask you whether youintend to make America your home after this?"
"Oh no!" I answered, and I tried to keep out of my voice the despair withwhich the notion filled me. I have sometimes had nightmares here, inwhich I thought that I was an American by choice, and I can give you noconception of the rapture of awakening to the fact that I could still goback to Altruria, that I had not cast my lot with this wretched people."How could I do that?" I faltered; and I was glad to perceive that I hadimparted to her no hint of the misery which I had felt at such a notion."I mean, by getting naturalized, and becoming a citizen, and taking upyour residence among us."
"No," I answered, as quietly as I could, "I had not thought of that."
"And you still intend to go back to Altruria?"
"I hope so; I ought to have gone back long ago, and if I had not met thefriends I have in this house--" I stopped, for I did not know how Ishould end what I had begun to say.
"I am glad you think we are your friends," said the lady, "for we havetried to show ourselves your friends. I feel as if this had given me theright to say something to you that you may think very odd."
"Say anything to me, my dear lady," I returned. "I shall not think itunkind, no matter how odd it is."
"Oh, it's nothing. It's merely that--that when you are not here with us Ilose my grasp on Altruria, and--and I begin to doubt--"
I smiled. "I know! People here have often hinted something of that kindto me. Tell me, Mrs. Gray, do Americans generally take me for animpostor?"
"Oh no!" she answered, fervently. "Everybody that I have heard speak ofyou has the highest regard for you, and believes you perfectly sincere.But--"
"But what?" I entreated.
"They think you may be mistaken."
"Then they think I am out of my wits--that I am in an hallucination!"
"No, not that," she returned. "But it is so very difficult for us toconceive of a whole nation living, as you say you do, on the same termsas one family, and no one trying to get ahead of another, or richer, andhaving neither inferiors nor superiors, but just one dead level ofequality, where there is no distinction except by natural gifts and gooddeeds or beautiful works. It seems impossible--it seems ridiculous."
"Yes," I confessed, "I know that it seems so to the Americans."
"And I must tell you something else, Mr. Homos, and I hope you won't takeit amiss. The first night when you talked about Altruria here, and showedus how you had come, by way of England, and the place where Altruriaought to be on our maps, I looked them over, after you were gone, and Icould make nothing of it. I have often looked at the map since, but Icould never find Altruria; it was no use."
"Why," I said, "if you will let me have your atlas--"
She shook her head. "It would be the same again as soon as you wentaway." I could not conceal my distress, and she went on: "Now, youmustn't mind what I say. I'm nothing but a silly old woman, andEveleth would never forgive me if she could know what I've been saying."
"Then Mrs. Strange isn't troubled, as you are, concerning me?" I asked,and I confess my anxiety attenuated my voice almost to a whisper.
"She won't admit that she is. It might be better for her if she would.But Eveleth is very true to her friends, and that--that makes me all themore anxious that she should not deceive herself."
"Oh, Mrs. Gray!" I could not keep a certain tone of reproach out of mywords.
She began to weep. "There! I knew I should hurt your feelings. But youmustn't mind what I say. I beg your pardon! I take it all back--"
"Ah, I don't want you to take it back! But what proof shall I give youthat there is such a land as Altruria? If the darkness implies the day,America must imply Altruria. In what way do I seem false, or mad, exceptthat I claim to be the citizen of a country where people love one anotheras the first Christians did?"
"That is just it," she returned. "Nobody can imagine the firstChristians, and do you think we can imagine anything like them in our ownday?"
"But Mrs. Strange--she imagines us, you say?"
"She thinks she does; but I am afraid she only thinks so, and I know herbetter than you do, Mr. Homos. I know how enthusiastic she always was,and how unhappy she has been since she has lost her hold on faith, andhow eagerly she has caught at the hope you have given her of a higherlife on earth than we live here. If she should ever find out that she waswrong, I don't know what would become of her. You mustn't mind me; youmustn't let me wound you by what I say."
"You don't wound me, and I only thank you for what you say; but I entreatyou to believe in me. Mrs. Strange has not deceived herself, and I havenot deceived her. Shall I protest to you, by all I hold sacred, that I amreally what I told you I was; that I am not less, and that Altruria isinfinitely more, happier, better, gladder, than any words of mine cansay? Shall I not have the happiness to see your daughter to-day? I hadsomething to say to her--and now I have so much more! If she is in thehouse, won't you send to her? I can make her understand--"
I stopped at a certain expression which I fancied I saw in Mrs. Gray'sface.
"Mr. Homos," she began, so very seriously that my heart trembled with avague misgiving, "sometimes I think you had better not see my daughterany more."
"Not see her any more?" I gasped.
"Yes; I don't see what good can come of it, and it's all very strange anduncanny. I don't know how to explain it; but, indeed, it isn't anythingpersonal. It's because you are of a state of things so utterly opposed tohuman nature that I don't see how--I am afraid that--"
"But I am not uncanny to _her!_" I entreated. "I am not unnatural,not incredible--"
"Oh no; that is the worst of it. But I have said too much; I have said agreat deal more than I ought. But you must excuse it: I am an old woman.I am not very well, and I suppose it's that that makes me talk so much."
She rose from her chair, and I, perforce, rose from mine and made amovement towards her.
"No, no," she said, "I don't need any help. You must come again soon andsee us, and show that you've forgotten what I've said." She gave me herhand, and I could not help bending over it and kissing it. She gave alittle, pathetic whimper. "Oh, I _know_ I've said the most dreadfulthings to you."
"You haven't said anything that takes your friendship from me, Mrs. Gray,and that is what I care for." My own eyes filled with tears--I do notknow why--and I groped my way from the room. Without seeing any one inthe obscurity of the hallway, where I found myself, I was aware of someone there, by that sort of fine perception which makes us know thepresence of a spirit.
"You are going?" a whisper said. "Why are you going?" And Eveleth had meby the hand and was drawing me gently into the dim drawing-room thatopened from the place. "I don't know all my mother has been saying toyou. I had to let her say something; she thought she ought. I knew youwould know how to excuse it."
"Oh, my dearest!" I said, and why I said this I do not know, or how wefound ourselves in each other's arms.
"What are we doing?" she murmured.
"You don't believe I am an impostor, an illusion, a visionary?" Ibesought her, straining her closer to my heart.
"I believe in you, with all my soul!" she answered.
We sat down, side by side, and talked long. I did not go away the wholeday. With a high disdain of convention, she made me stay. Her mother sentword that she would not be able to come to dinner, and we were alonetogether at table, in an image of what our united lives might be. Wespent the evening in that happy interchange of trivial confidences thatlovers use in symbol of the unutterable raptures that fill them. We werethere in what seemed an infinite present, without a past, withou
t afuture.