It might reasonably be supposed that the event last narrated disturbed my life. It did in a measure, and for a time, but I was not very long in bringing it back to its accustomed channel.
Strange as it may seem, although we lived across the street from one another, I saw nothing of Mr. Chance for many weeks. Perhaps it is not strange though, after all, since each of us was taking pains to avoid the other, and we knew each other's habits of life pretty well by this time.
But if I didn't see him, I heard of him frequently enough, for Mrs. Purblind rarely ever met me without saying something about "Dolph," as she called him. She was exceedingly fond of him, and with good cause, for he was a most affectionate, thoughtful, unselfish brother. He was very different from her, and they were not confidential friends, when serious matters were concerned, but they were companionable, nevertheless.
It is not likely Mrs. Purblind realized that she was shut out from something that deeply concerned her brother; but she worried about him. She was certain he was ill--he had little appetite, and was in no way like himself, she said. Miss Sprig wondered what had come over him.
I believe Mrs. Purblind must have been deaf as well as blind, otherwise the neighborhood gossip regarding Mr. Chance and myself, which was rife a year ago, would certainly have reached her. Evidently she had heard nothing, and she continued to keep my innermost breast in a secret ferment, by pouring her fears and speculations into my ear. She even confided in me that she had for a long time suspected the existence of an affair between Miss Sprig and her brother, but this young woman declared that he never paid her the slightest attention of a matrimonial character; that he'd been very kind to her, very jolly, and friendly, but that was all.
I think that if Mount Vesuvius had leaped out of me, and taken its departure, I could scarce have felt more relieved. I really had been harboring a volcano for some time, and it was a hot tenant.
Shortly after hearing this latter piece of Mrs. Purblind's news, another bit was added.
"Dolph has gone away," she said, one day; "left suddenly, this morning. He confessed to being played out, and I'm sure he looks it. He's gone on to Buffalo, to brother Dave's."
That night I sat down and wrote a letter; when one has done wrong, his first conscious act should be to confess.
I was in a trying position; one is at such a time. Two months had elapsed, and Mr. Chance might have changed his mind and intent. Men do, occasionally; women, too. And indeed he never had asked me to marry him. True, that is the supposition when a man, with any real manhood about him, tells a woman he loves her--when he shows her marked attentions, in fact; but, as I said to Mr. Chance, I did not intend to take such things for granted. I had not changed in that respect. I had, however, become convinced that I was harsh and unjust to him. It is a blundering teacher who takes badness in a child for granted--does not wait for proof. It is an inspired teacher who ignores the bad sometimes, even after it has been proven. To think the worst, so some of the psychologists tell us, will often create the worst. Even a cook does well to make the most of her materials. Her dishes will be likely to turn out ill, if she treats the ingredients with disrespect. It would seem that I, who had in a manner made a specialty of matrimonial cookery, had something yet to learn. Randolph Chance had given me a lesson.