Justin sat beside her, and she had been sure then, but had long since grown to doubt the evidence of her senses, that he, too, vibrated with pleasure at the nearness.Was there not a summer morning when his hand touched her white lace mitt as they held the hymn-book together, and the lines of theRise, my soul, and stretch thy wings, Thy better portion trace,became blurred on the page and melted into something indistinguishable for a full minute or two afterward? Were there not looks, and looks, and looks? Or had she some misleading trick of vision in those days? Justin's dark, handsome profile rose before her: the level brows and fine lashes; the well-cut nose and lovable mouth--the Peabody mouth and chin, somewhat too sweet and pliant for strength, perhaps.Then the eyes turned to hers in the old way, just for a fleeting glance, as they had so often done at prayer-meeting, or sociable, or Sunday service.Was it not a man's heart she had seen in them? And oh, if she could only be sure that her own woman's heart had not looked out from hers, drawn from its maiden shelter in spite of all her wish to keep it hidden!
Then followed two dreary years of indecision and suspense, when Justin's eyes met hers less freely; when his looks were always gloomy and anxious; when affairs at the Peabody farm grew worse and worse; when his mother followed her husband, the old Deacon, and her daughter Esther to the burying-ground in the churchyard.Then the end of all things came, the end of the world for Nancy:
Justin's departure for the West in a very frenzy of discouragement over the narrowness and limitation and injustice of his lot; over the rockiness and barrenness and unkindness of the New England soil; over the general bitterness of fate and the "bludgeonings of chance."He was a failure, born of a family of failures.If the world owed him a living, he had yet to find the method by which it could be earned.All this he thought and uttered, and much more of the same sort.In these days of humbled pride self was paramount, though it was a self he despised.There was no time for love.Who was he for a girl to lean upon?--he who could not stand erect himself!
He bade a stiff good-bye to his neighbours, and to Nancy he vouchsafed little more.A handshake, with no thrill of love in it such as might have furnished her palm, at least, some memories to dwell upon; a few stilted words of leave-taking; a halting, meaningless sentence or two about his "botch" of life--then he walked away from the Wentworth doorstep.But half way down the garden path, where the shrivelled hollyhocks stood like sentinels, did a wave of something different sweep over him--a wave of the boyish, irresponsible past when his heart had wings and could fly without fear to its mate--a wave of the past that was rushing through Nancy's mind, well-nigh burying her in its bitter-sweet waters! For he lifted his head, and suddenly retracing his steps, he came toward her, and, taking her hand again, said forlornly:
"You'll see me back when my luck turns, Nancy."Nancy knew that the words might mean little or much, according to the manner in which they were uttered, but to her hurt pride and sore, shamed woman-instinct, they were a promise, simply because there was a choking sound in Justin's voice and tears in Justin's eyes."You'll see me back when my luck turns, Nancy;" this was the phrase upon which she had lived for more than ten years.Nancy had once heard the old parson say, ages ago, that the whole purpose of life was the growth of the soul; that we eat, sleep, clothe ourselves, work, love, all to give the soul another day, month, year, in which to develop.She used to wonder if her soul could be growing in the monotonous round of her dull duties and her duller pleasures.She did not confess it even to herself; nevertheless she knew that she worked, ate, slept, to live until Justin's luck turned.Her love had lain in her heart a bird without a song, year after year.Her mother had dwelt by her side and never guessed;her father too; and both were dead.The neighbours also, lynx-eyed and curious, had never suspected.If she had suffered, no one in Edgewood was any the wiser, for the maiden heart is not commonly worn on the sleeve in New England.If she had been openly pledged to Justin Peabody, she could have waited twice ten years with a decent show of self-respect, for long engagements were viewed rather as a matter of course in that neighbourhood.The endless months had gone on since that grey November day when Justin had said good-bye.It had been just before Thanksgiving, and she went to church with an aching and ungrateful heart.The parson read from the eighth chapter of St.Matthew, a most unexpected selection for that holiday."If you can't find anything else to be thankful for," he cried, "go home and be thankful you are not a leper!"Nancy took the drastic counsel away from the church with her, and it was many a year before she could manage to add to this slender store anything to increase her gratitude for mercies given, though all the time she was outwardly busy, cheerful, and helpful.
Justin had once come back to Edgewood, and it was the bitterest drop in her cup of bitterness that she was spending that winter in Berwick (where, so the neighbours told him, she was a great favourite in society, and was receiving much attention from gentlemen), so that she had never heard of his visit until the spring had come again.Parted friends did not keep up with one another's affairs by means of epistolary communication, in those days, in Edgewood; it was not the custom.Spoken words were difficult enough to Justin Peabody, and written words were quite impossible, especially if they were to be used to define his half-conscious desires and his fluctuations of will, or to recount his disappointments and discouragements and mistakes.
