"Sylvia, I won't give you up—I can't!"
"Darling, it isn't giving me up—it's only waiting a little longer for me."
"Don't you think I've waited long enough already?"
"Yes, Austin, but—Perhaps I won't have to stay away a whole year—perhaps by spring—or we might be married now, just as we planned, and take Edith with us."
"No, no!" he cried; "you know I wouldn't do that—I want you all to myself!" Then, still more passionately, "You're only twenty-two yourself—you shan't darken your own youth with—this—this horrible thing. You've seen sorrow and sin enough—far, far too much! You've a right to be happy now, to live your own life—and so have I."
"And hasn't Edith any right?"
"No—she's forfeited hers."
"Do you really think so? Do you believe that a young, innocent, sheltered girl, so pretty and so magnetic that she attracts immediate attention wherever she goes, who has starved for pretty things and a good time, and suddenly finds them within her reach, whose parents wilfully shut their eyes to the fact that she's growing up, and boast that 'they've kept everything from her'—and then let her go wherever she chooses, with that pitiful lack of armor, doesn't deserve another chance? And I think if you had stayed with her through last night—and seen the change that suffering—and shame—and hopelessness have wrought in that little gay, lovely, thoughtless creature, you'd feel that she had paid a pitifully large forfeit already—and realize that no matter how much we help her, she'll have to go on paying it as long as she lives."
Austin was silent for a moment; then he muttered:
"Well, why doesn't she marry Jack Weston? She admits that it was half her fault—and that he really does care for her."
"Marryhim!" Sylvia cried,—"after that! He cares for her as much as it is in him to care for anybody—but you know perfectly well what he is! Do you want her to tie herself forever to an ignorant, intemperate, sensual man? Put herself where the nightmare of her folly would stare her perpetually in the face! Where he'd throw it in her teeth every time he was angry with her, that he married her out of charity—and probably tell the whole countryside the same thing the first time he went to Wallacetown on a Saturday evening and began to 'celebrate'? How much chance for hope and salvation would be left for her then? Have you forgotten something you said to me once—something which wiped away in one instant all the bitterness and agony of three years, and sent me—straight into your arms? 'The best part of a decent man's love is not passion, but reverence; his greatest desire, not possession, but protection; his ultimate aim, not gratification, but sacrifice.'"
"I didn't guess then what a beautiful and wonderful thing passion could be—I'd only seen the other side of it."
Sylvia winced, but she only said, very gently: "Then can you, with that knowledge, wish Edith to keep on seeing it all her life? It's—it's pretty dreadful, I think—remember I've seen it too."
"Good God, Sylvia, do stop talking as if the cases were synonymous!You were married! It's revolting to me to hear you keep saying that you 'understand.' There's no more likeness between you and Edith than there is between a lily growing in a queen's garden and a sweet-brier rose springing up on a dusty highroad."
"I know how you feel, dear; but remember, the sweet-brier rose isn't aweed! They're both flowers—and fragrant—and—and fragile, aren't they?" Then, very softly: "Besides, the lily growing in the queen's garden, even though the wicked king may own it for a time, is usually picked in the end—by the fairy prince—to adorn his palace; while the little sweet-brier rose any tramp may pluck and stick in his hat—and fling away when it is faded. And if it was really the property of an honest woodman and his wife, and the highroad ran very close to the border of a sheltered wood, where their cottage was—wouldn't they feel very badly when they found their rose was gone?"
"You plead very well," said Austin almost roughly, "and you're pleading for every onebut me—for Edith and father and mother, who've all done wrong—and now you want to take the burden of their wrongdoing on your own innocent shoulders, and make me help you—no matter howIsuffer!I'vetried to doright—never so hard in all my life—and mostly—I 've succeeded. You've helped—I never could have done it without you—but a lot of it has been pulling myself up by my own bootstraps. Now I've reached the end of my rope—and I suppose, instead of thinking of that —the next thing you do will be to make excuses for Jack Weston."
"Yes," said Sylvia, very gently, "that's just what I'm going to do. I know how hard you've tried—I know how well you've succeeded. I know there aren't many men like you—as good as you—in the whole world. I'm not saying that because I'm in love with you—I'm not saying it to encourage you—I'm saying it because it's true. You've conquered—all along the line. It's so wonderful—and so glorious—that sometimes it almost takes my breath away. Darling—you know I've never reproached you—even in my own mind—for anything that may have happened before you knew me—andIknow, that much as you wish now it never had happened—still you can comfort yourself with the old platitudes of 'the double standard.' 'All men do this some time—or nearly all men. I haven't been any worse than lots of others—and I've always respectedgoodwomen'—oh, I've heard it all, hundreds of times! Some day I hope you'll feel differently about that, too—that you won't teachyourson to argue that way—not only because it's wrong, but because it's dangerous—and very much out of date, besides. This isn't the time to go into all that—but I wonder if you would be willing to tell me everything that went through your mind for five minutes—when I came to you the night of the Graduation Ball, and you took me in your arms?"
"Sylvia!" The cry came from the hidden depths of Austin's soul, wrung with grief and shame. "I thought you never guessed—-Since you did—how could you go on loving me so—how can you say what you just have—about my—goodness?"
"Darling,don't! I never would have let you know that I guessed—if everything else I said hadn't failed! That wasn't a reproach! 'Go on loving you'—how could I help loving you a thousand times more than ever—when you won the greatest fight of all? It's no sin to be tempted—I'm glad you're strong enough—and human enough—for that. And I'm thankful from the bottom of my heart—that you're strong enough—anddivineenough—to resist temptation. But you know—even a man like you—what a sorceress plain human nature can be. What chance has a weakling like Jack Weston against her, when she leads him in the same path?"
For all answer, he buried his face in the folds of her dress, and lay with it hidden, while she stroked his hair with soft and soothing fingers; she knew that she had wounded him to the quick, knew that this battle was the hardest of all, knew most surely that it was his last one, and that he would win it. Meanwhile there was nothing for her to do but to wait, unable to help him, and forced to bear alone the burden of weariness and sacrifice which was nearly crushing her. Should Austin sense, even dimly, how the sight of Edith's suffering through the long, sleepless night had brought back her own, by its reawakened memories of agony which he had taught her to forget; should divine that she, too, had counted the days to their marriage, and rejoiced that the long waiting was over, she knew that Edith's cause would be lost. She counted on the strength of the belief that most men hold—they never guess how mistakenly—that fatigue and pain are matters of slight importance among the really big things of life, and that women do not feel as strongly as they do, that there is less passion in the giving than in the taking, that mother-love is the greatest thing they ever know. Some day, she would convince him that he was wrong; but now—At last he looked up, with an expression in his eyes, dimly seen in the starlight, which brought fresh tears to hers, but new courage to her tired heart.
"If you do love me, and I know you do," he said brokenly, "never speak to me about that again. You've forgiven it—you forgive everything—but I never shall forgive myself, or feel that I can atone, for what I meant—for that one moment—to do, as long as I live. On Christmas night, when there was no evil in my heart, you thought you saw it there, because your trust had been betrayed before; I vowed then that I would teach you at least that I was worthy of your confidence, and that most men were; and when I had taught you, not only to trust me, but to love me, so that you saw no evil even when it existed—I very nearly betrayed you. It wasn't my strength that saved usboth—it was your wonderful love and faith. There's no desire in the world that would profane such an altar of holiness as you unveiled before me that night." He lifted her soft dress, and kissed the hem of her skirt. "I haven't forgiven myself about—what happened before I knew you, either," he whispered; "you're wrong there. I used those arguments, once, myself, but I can't any more. We'll teach—our son—better, won't we, so that he'll have a cleaner heritage to offer his wife than I've got for mine—but he won't love her any more. Now, darling, go back to the house, and get some rest, if you can, but before you go to sleep, pray for me—that when Edith doesn't need you any more—I may have you for my own. And now, please, leave me—I've got to be alone—"
"Dat," said a voice out of the darkness, "is just vat she must nod do."
Austin sprang to his feet. It was too dark to see more than a few feet. But there could be no doubt that the speaker was very near, and the accent was unmistakable. Austin's voice was heavy with anger.
"Eavesdropping, Peter?"
"No—pardon, missus; pardon, Mr. Gray. Frieda is sick. I been lookin' ev'ywhere for Mr. Gray to tell him. At last I hear him speak out here, I come to find. Then I overhear—I cannot help it. I try—vat you say—interrupt—it vas my vish. Beliefe me, please. But somet'ing hold me—here." He put his hand to his throat. "I could not. I ver' sorry. But as it is so I haf heard—I haf also some few words to speak.
"Dere vas vonce a grade lady," he said, coming up closer to them, "who vas so good, and so lofly, and so sveet, that no vone who saw her could help lofing her; and she vas glad to help ev'y vone, and gif to ev'y vone, and she vas so rich and vise dat she could help and gif a great deal.
"And dere vas a poor boy who vas stupid and homely and poor, and he did nodings for any vone. But it happened vone time dat dis boy t'ought dat he and the grade lady could help the same person. So he vent to her and say—but ve'r respectful, like he alvays felt to her, 'Dis is my turn. Please, missus, let me haf it.'"
"What do you mean, Peter?" asked Sylvia gently.
He came closer still. It was not too dark, as he did so, to see the furrows which fresh tears had made on his grimy face, to be conscious of his soiled and stained working clothes, and his clumsiness of manner and carriage; but the earnest voice went on, more doggedly than sadly:
"Vat I heard 'bout Edit' to-night, I guessed dis long time ago. Missus—if you hear that Mr. Gray done som ver' vrong t'ing—evendisver' vrong t'ing—"
"I know," said Sylvia quickly; "it wouldn't make any difference now—I care too much. I'd want him—if he still wanted me—just the same. I'd be hurt—oh, dreadfully hurt—but I wouldn't feel angry—or revengeful—that's what you mean, isn't it, Peter?"
"Ya-as," said Peter gratefully, "dats yust it, missus, only, of course I couldn't say it like dat. I t'ank you, missus. Vell, den, I lof Edit' ever since I come here last fall, ver' much, yust like you lof Mr. Gray—only, of course, you can't believe dat, missus."
"Yes, I can," said Sylvia.
"So I say," went on Peter, looking only at Sylvia now, "Edit' need you, but Mr. Gray, he need you, too. No vone in t'e vorld need me but Edit'. You shall say, 'Peter's fat'er haf sent for him, Peter go back to Holland ver' quick'—vat you say, suddenly. 'Let Edit' marry Peter and go mit.' Ve stay all vinter mit my fat'er and moder—"
"You'll travel," interrupted Sylvia. "Edith will have the same dowry from me that Sally had for a wedding present. She won't be poor. You can take her everywhere—oh, Peter, you can—give her a good time!"
Peter bowed his head. There was a humble grace about the gesture whichSylvia never forgot.
"You ver' yust lady, missus," he said simply; "dat must be for you to say. Vell, den, after my fat'er and moder haf welcomed her, ve shall travel. Dem in de spring if you need me for de cows—Mr. Gray—if you don't t'ink shame to haf boy like me for your broder—ve come back. If nod, ve'll stay in Holland. You need no fear to haf—I vill make Edit' happy—"
Some way, Austin found Peter's hand. He was beyond speech. But Sylvia asked one more question.
"Edith thinks you can't possibly love her any more," she said—"that you won't even be willing to see her again. If she thought you were marrying her out of charity, she'd die before she'd let you. How are you going to convince her that you want to marry her because you love her?"
"Vill you gif me one chance to try?" replied Peter, looking straight into her eyes.
"Well, I declare it's so sudden like, I should think your breath would be took away."
Mrs. Gray smiled at Mrs. Elliott, and went on with her sewing, rocking back and forth placidly in her favorite chair. If the latter had been a woman who talked less and observed more, she would have noticed how drawn and furrowed her old friend's rosy, peaceful face had grown, how much repression there was about the lips which smiled so bravely. But these details escaped her.
"'Course it does look that way to an outsider," said Mrs. Gray, slowly, as if rehearsing a part which had been carefully taught her, "but when you come to know the facts, it ain't so strange, after all."
"Would you feel to tell them?" asked Mrs. Elliott eagerly.
"Why, sure. Edith an' Peter's been sort of engaged this long time back, but they was so young we urged 'em to wait. Then Peter's father wrote sayin' he was so poorly, he wished Peter could fix it so's to come home, through the cold weather, an' Edith took on terrible at bein' separated from him, an' Peter declared he wouldn't leave without her; an' then—well, Sylvia sided with 'em, an' that settled it."
Mrs. Elliott nodded. "You'd never think that little soft-lookin' creature could be so set an' determined, now, would you?" she asked. "I never see any one to beat her. An' mum! She shuts her mouth tighter'n a steel trap!"
"If any family ever had a livin' blessin' showered on 'em right out of heaven," said Mrs. Gray, "we did, the day Sylvia come here. Funny, Austin's the only one of us can see's she's got a single fault. He says she's got lots of 'em, just like any other woman—but I bet he'd cut the tongue out of any one else who said so. Seems as if I couldn't wait for the third of September to come so's she'll really be my daughter, though I haven't got one that seems any dearer to me, even now."
"Speakin' of weddin's," said Mrs. Elliott, "why didn't you have a regular one for Edith, same as for Sally?"
"Land! I can't spend my whole time workin' up weddin's! Seems like they was some kind of contagious disease in this family. James was married only last December, an' even if we wasn't to that, we got all het up over it just the same. An' now we've hardly got our breath since Sally's, an' Austin's is starin' us in the face! I couldn't see my way clear to house-cleanin' this whole great ark in dog-days for nobody, an' Edith an' Peter's got to leave the very day after Sylvia 'n Austin get married. Peter was hangin' round outside Edith's door the whole blessed time, after her fall—"
"Strange she should be so sick, just from a fall, ain't it?"
"Yes, 't is, but the doctor says they're often more serious than you'd think for. Well, as I was sayin', Sylvia come out of Edith's room an' found Peter settin' on the top of the stairs for the third time that day, an' she flared right up, an' says, 'For Heaven's sake, why don't you get married right off—now—to-day—then you can go in an' out as you like!' And before we half knew what she was up to she had telephoned the new minister. Austin said he wished she'd shown more of that haste about gettin' married herself, an' she answered him right back, if she'd been lucky enough to get as good a feller as Peter, maybe she might have. It's real fun to hear 'em tease each other. Sylvia likes the new minister. She says the best thing about the Methodist Church that she knows of is the way it shifts its pastors around—nothin' like variety, she says—an' a new one once in three years keeps things hummin'. She says as long as so many Methodists don't believe in cards an' dancin' an' such, they deserve to have a little fun some way, an'—"
"You was talkin' about Edith," interrupted Mrs. Elliott, rather tartly, "you've got kinder switched off."
"Excuse me, Eliza—so I have. Well, Sylvia got Edith up onto the couch (the doctor had said she might get up for a little while that day, anyhow) an' give her one of her prettiest wrappers—"
"What color? White?"
"No, Sylvia thought she was too pale. It was a lovely yellow, like the dress she wore to the Graduation Ball. We all scurried 'round an' changed our clothes—Austin's the most stunnin'-lookin' thing in that white flannel suit of his, Sylvia wants he should wear it to his own weddin', 'stead of a dress-suit—an' I wore my gray—Well, it was all over before you could say 'Jack Robinson' an' I never sweat a drop gettin' ready for it, either! I shall miss Edith somethin' terrible this winter, but she'll have an elegant trip, same as she's always wanted to, an' Peter says he knows his parents'll be tickled to death to have such a pretty daughter-in-law!"
"Don't you feel disappointed any," Mrs. Elliott could not help asking, "to have a feller like Peter in the family?"
Mrs. Gray bit her thread. "I don't know what you got against Peter," she said; "I look to like him the best of my son-in-laws, so far."
But that evening, as she sat with her husband beside the old reading-lamp which all the electricity that Sylvia had installed had not caused them to give up, her courage deserted her. Howard, sensing that something was wrong, looked up from "Hoard's Dairyman," which he was eagerly devouring, to see that theWallacetown Buglehad slipped to her knees, and that she sat staring straight ahead of her, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Why, Mary," he said in amazement—"Mary—"
The old-fashioned New Englander is as unemotional as he is undemonstrative. For a moment Howard, always slow of speech and action, was too nonplussed to know what to do, deeply sorry as he felt for his wife. Then he leaned over and patted her hand—the hand that was scarcely less rough and scarred than his own—with his big calloused one.
"You must stop grieving over Edith," he said gently, "and blaming yourself for what's happened. You've been a wonderful mother—there aren't many like you in the world. Think how well the other seven children are coming along, instead of how the eighth slipped up. Think how blessed we've been never to lose a single one of them by death. Think—"
"I do think, Howard." Mrs. Gray pressed his hand in return, smiling bravely through her tears. "I'm an old fool to give way like this, an' a worse one to let you catch me at it. But it ain't wholly Edith I'm cryin' about. Land, every time I start to curse the devil for Jack Weston, I get interrupted because I have to stop an' thank the Lord for Peter. An' all the angels in heaven together singin' Halleluia led by Gabriel for choir-master, couldn't half express my feelin's for Sylvia! I guess 'twould always be that way if we'd stop to think. Our blessin's is so much thicker than our troubles, that the troubles don't show up no more than a little yellow mustard growin' up in a fine piece of oats—unless we're bound to look at the mustard instead of the oats. As it happens, I wasn't thinkin' of Edith at all at that moment, or really grievin' either. It was just—"
"Yes?" asked Howard.
"This room," said Mrs. Gray, gulping a little, "is about the only one in the house that ain't changed a mite. The others are improved somethin' wonderful, but I'm kinder glad we've kept this just as it was. There's the braided rugs on the floor that I made when you was courtin' me, Howard, an' we used to set out on the doorstep together. An' the fringed tidies over the chairs an' sofa that Eliza give me for a weddin' present—they're faded considerable, but that good red wool never wears out. There's the crayon portraits we had done when we was on our honeymoon, an' the ones of James an' Sally when they was babies. Do you remember how I took it to heart because we couldn't scrape together the money no way to get one of Austin when he come along? He was the prettiest baby we ever had, too, except—except Edith, of course. An' after Austin we didn't even bring up the subject again—we was pretty well occupied wonderin' how we was goin' to feed an' clothe 'em all, let alone havin' pictures of 'em. Then there's the wax flowers on the mantelpiece. I always trembled for fear one of the youngsters would knock 'em off an' break the glass shade to smithereens, but they never did. An' there's your Grandfather Gray's clock. I was a little disappointed at first because it had a brass face, 'stead o' bein' white with scenes on it, like they usually was—an' then it was such a chore, with everything else there was to do, to keep it shinin' like it ought to. But now I think I like it better than the other kind, an' it's tickin' away, same as it has this last hundred years an' more. Do you remember when we began to wind it up, Saturday nights, 'together?—All this is the same, praise be, but—"
"Yes?" asked Howard Gray again.
"For years, evenin's," went on Mrs. Gray, "this room was full of kids. There was generally a baby sleepin'—or refusin', rather loud, to sleep!—in the cradle over in the corner. The older ones was settin' around doin' sums on their slates, or playin' checkers an' cat's-cradle. They quarrelled considerable, an' they was pretty shabby, an' I never had a chance to set down an' read theBuglequiet-like, after supper, because the mendin'-basket was always waitin' for me, piled right up to the brim. Saturday nights, what a job it was all winter to get enough water het to fill the hat-tub over an' over again, an' fetch in front of the air-tight. Often I was tempted to wash two or three of 'em in the same water, but, as you know, I never done it. Thank goodness, we'd never heard of such a thing as takin' a bath every day then! I don't deny it's a comfort, with all the elegant plumbin' we've got now, not to feel you've got to wait for a certain day to come 'round to take a good soak when you're hot or dirty, but it would have been an awful strain on my conscience an' my back both in them days. I used to think sometimes, 'Oh, how glad I shall be when this pack of unruly youngsters is grown up an' out of the way, an' Howard an' I can have a little peace.' An' now that time's come, an' I set here feelin' lonely, an' thinkin' the old roomain'tthe same, in spite of the fact, as I said before, that it ain't changed a mite, because we haven't got the whole eight tumblin' 'round under our heels. I know they're doin' well—they're doin' mosttoowell. I'm scared the time's comin' when they'll look down on us, Howard, me especially. Not that they'll mean to—but they're all gettin' so—so different. You had a good education, an' talk right, but I can't even do that. I found an old grammar the other day, an' set down an' tried to learn somethin' out of it, but it warn't no use—I couldn't make head or tail of it. An' then they're all away—an' they're goin' to keep on bein' away. James is South, an' Thomas is at college, an' Molly's studyin' music in Boston, an' before we know it Katherine'll be at college too, an' Edith an' Austin in Europe. That leaves just Ruth an' Sally near us, an' they're both married. I don't begrudge it to 'em one bit. I'm glad an' thankful they're all havin' a better chance than we did. If I could just feel that some day they'd all come back to the Homestead, an' to us—an' come because theywantedto—"
Howard put his arm around his wife, and drew her down beside him on the old horsehair sofa. One of the precious red wool tidies slipped to the floor, and lay there unnoticed. Slowly, while Mrs. Gray had been talking, the full depth of her trouble became clear to him, and the words to comfort her rose to his lips.
"They will, Mary," he said; "they will; you wait and see. How could you think for one moment that our children could look down on their mother? It's mighty seldom, let me tell you, that any boy or girl does that, and only with pretty good reason then—never when they've been blessed with one like you. I haven't been able to do what I wanted for ours, but at least I gave them the best thing they possibly could have—a good mother—and with that I don't think the hardships have hurt them much! Have you forgotten—you mustn't think I'm sacrilegious, dear—that the greatest mother we know anything about was just a poor carpenter's wife—and how much her Great Son loved her? Her name was Mary, too—I'm glad we gave Molly that name—she's a good girl—somehow it seems to me it always carries a halo of sacredness with it, even now!—Then, besides—Thomas and Austin are both going to be farmers, and live right here on the old place. Austin's so smart, he may do other things besides, but this will always be his home and Sylvia's. Peter and Edith'll be here, too, and Sally and Ruth aren't more than a stone's-throw off, as you might say. That makes four out of the eight—more than most parents get. The others will come back, fast enough, to visit, with us and them here! And think of the grandchildren coming along! Why, in the next generation, there'll be more kids piling in and out of this living-room than you could lug water and mend socks for if you never turned your hand to another thing! And, thank God, you won't have to do that now—you can just sit back and take solid comfort with them. You had to work so hard when our own children were babies, Mary, that you never could do that. But with Ruth's and Austin's and Sally's—"
He paused, smiling, as he looked into the future. Then he kissed her, almost as shyly as he had first done more than thirty years before.
"Besides," he said, "I'm disappointed if you're lonely here with me, just for a little while, because I'm enjoying it a whole lot. Haven't you ever noticed that when two people that love each other first get married, there's a kind ofglowto their happiness, like the glow of a sunrise? It's mighty beautiful and splendid. Then the burden and heat of the day, as the Bible says, comes along. It doesn't mean that they don't care for each other any more. But they're so tired and so pressed and so worried that they don't say much about their feelings, and sometimes they even avoid talking to each other, or quarrel. But when the hard hours are over, and the sun's gone down—not so bright as it was in the morning, maybe, but softer, and spreading its color over the whole sky—the stars come out—and they know the best part of the day's ahead of them still. They can take time then to sit down, and take each other's hands, and thank God for all his blessings, but most of all for the life of a man and a woman together. Austin and Sylvia think they're going to have the best part now, in the little brick cottage. But they're not. They'll be having it thirty years from now, just as you and I are, in the Old Gray Homestead."
Mary Gray wiped her eyes. "Why, Howard," she said, "you used to say you wanted to be a poet, but I never knew till now that youwasone! I'd rather you'd ha' said all that to me than—than to have been married to Shakespeare!" she ended with a happy sob, and put her white head down on his shoulder.
Uncle Mat, whose long-postponed visit was at last taking place, sat talking in front of the fire in Sylvia's living-room with the "new minister." The room was bright with many candles, and early fall flowers from her own garden stood about in clear glass vases. In the dining-room beyond, they could see the two servants moving around the table, laid for supper. A man's voice, whistling, and the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, came up the footpath from the Homestead. And at the same moment, the door of Sylvia's own room opened and shut and there was the rustle of silk and the scent of roses in the hall.
A moment later she came in, her arm on Austin's. Her neck and arms were bare, as he loved to see them, and her white silk dress, brocaded in tiny pink rosebuds, swept soft and full about her. A single string of great pearls fell over the lace on her breast, and almost down to her waist, and there was a high, jewelled comb in her low-dressed hair. She leaned over her uncle's chair.
"Austin says the others are on their way. Am I all right, do you think,Uncle Mat?"
"You look to me as if you had stepped out of an old French painting," he said, pinching her rosy cheek; "I'm satisfied with you. But the question arises, is Austin? He's so fussy."
Austin laughed, straightening his tie. "I can't fuss about this dress," he said, "for I chose it myself. But I'm not half the tyrant you all make me out—I'm wearing white flannel to please her. Is there plenty of supper, Sylvia? I'm almost starved."
"I know enough to expect a man to be hungry, even if he's going to be hanged—or married," she retorted, "but I'll run out to the kitchen once more, just to make sure that everything is all right."
The third of September had come at last. There was no question, this time, of a wedding in St. Bartholomew's Church, with twelve bridesmaids and a breakfast at Sherry's; no wonderful jewels, no press notices, almost no trousseau. Austin's family, Uncle Mat, and a few close friends came to Sylvia's own little house, and when the small circle was complete, she took her uncle's arm and stood by Austin's side, while the "new minister" married them. Thomas was best man; Molly, for the second time that summer, maid-of-honor. Sadie and James were missing, but as "a wedding present" came a telegram, announcing the safe arrival of a nine-pound baby-girl. Edith was not there, either, and the date of sailing for Holland had been postponed. She had gained less rapidly than they had hoped, and still lay, very pale and quiet, on the sofa between the big windows in her room. But she was not left alone when the rest of the family departed for Sylvia's house; for Peter sat beside her in the twilight, his big rough fingers clasping her thin white ones.
There proved to be "plenty of supper," and soon after it was finished the guests began to leave, Uncle Mat with many imprecations at Sylvia's "lack of hospitality in turning them out, such a cold night." Even the two capable servants, having removed all traces of the feast, came to her with many expressions of good-will, and the assurance of "comin' back next season if they was wanted," and departed to take the night train from Wallacetown for New York. By ten o'clock the white-panelled front door with its brass knocker had opened and shut for the last time, and Austin bolted it, and turned to Sylvia, smiling.
"Well,Mrs. Gray," he said, "you're locked in now—far from all the sights and sounds that made your youth happy—shop-windows, and hotel dining-rooms, the slamming of limousine doors, and the clinking of ice in cocktail-shakers. Your last chance of escape is gone—you've signed and sealed your own death-warrant."
"Austin! don't joke—to-night!"
"My dear," he asked, lifting her face in his hands, "did you never joke because you were afraid—to show how much you really felt?"
"Yes," she replied, "very often. But there's nothing in the whole world for me to be afraid of now."
"So you're really ready for me at last?" he whispered.
* * * * *
Whatever she answered—or even if she did not answer at all—to all appearances, Austin was satisfied. His mother, seeing him for the first time three days later, was almost startled at the radiance in his face. It was, perhaps, a strange honeymoon. But those who thought so had felt, and rightly, that it was a strange marriage. After the first few days, Austin spent every day at the farm, as usual, walking back to the little brick cottage for his noonday dinner, and leaving after the milking was done at night; and Sylvia, dressed in blue gingham, cooked and cleaned and sewed, and put her garden in shape for the winter. In spite of her year's training at Mrs. Gray's capable hands, she made mistakes; she burnt the grape jelly, and forgot to put the brown sugar into the sweet pickle, and took the varnish off the dining-room table by polishing it with raw linseed oil, and boiled the color out of her sheerest chiffon blouse; and they laughed together over her blunders. Then, when evening came, she was all in white again, and there was the simple supper served by candle-light in the little dining-room, and the quiet hours in front of the glowing fire afterwards, and the long, still nights with the soft stars shining in, and the cool air blowing through the open windows of their room.
Then, when the Old Gray Homestead had settled down to the blessed peacefulness and security which, the harvest safely in, the snows still a long way off, comes to every New England farm in the late fall, they closed their white-panelled front door behind them, and sailed away together, as Austin had wished to do. There were a few gay weeks in London and Paris, The Hague and Rome—"enough," wrote Sylvia, "so that we won't forget thereisany one else in the world, and use the wrong fork when we go out to dine." There was a fortnight at the little Dutch house where by this time Peter and Edith were spending the winter with Peter's parents—"where our bed," wrote Sylvia, "was a great big box built into the wall, but, oh! so soft and comfortable; with another box for the very best cow just around the corner from it, and the music of Peter's mother's scrubbing-brush for our morning hymn." And then there were several months of wandering—"without undue haste, but otherwise just like any other tourists," wrote Sylvia. They went leisurely from place to place, as the weather dictated and their own inclinations advised. Part of the time Edith and Peter were with them, but even then they were nearly always alone, for Edith was not strong enough to keep up, even with their moderate pace. They revisited places dear to both of them, they sought out many new ones; early spring found them in Paris; and it was here that there finally came an evening when Austin put his arms around his wife's shoulders—they had made a longer day of sight-seeing than usual, and she looked pale and tired, as having finished dressing earlier than he she sat in the window, looking down at the brilliant street beneath them, waiting for him to take her down to dinner—and spoke in the unmistakably firm tone that he so seldom used.
"It's time you were at home, Sylvia—we're overstaying our holiday. I'll make sailing arrangements to-morrow."
So, by the end of May, they were back in the little brick cottage again, and the two capable servants were there, too, for there must be no danger, now, of Sylvia's getting over-tired. Those were days when Austin seldom left his wife for long if he could help it; found it hard, indeed, not to watch her constantly, and to keep the expression of anxiety and dread from his eyes. He had not proved to be among those men, who, as some French cynic, more clever than wise, has expressed it, find "the chase the best part of the game." His engagement had been a period containing much joy, it is true, but also, much doubt, much self-adjusting and repression—his marriage had not held one imperfect hour. Sylvia, as his wife, with all the petty barriers which social inequality and money and restraint had reared between them broken down by the very weight of their love, was a being even much more desired and hallowed than the pale, black-robed, unattainable lady of his first worship had been; that Sylvia should suffer, because of him, was horrible; that he might possibly lose her altogether was a fear which grew as the days went on. It fell to her to dispel that, as she had so many others.
"Why do you look at me so?" she asked, very quietly, as, according to their old custom, they sat by the riverbank watching the sun go down.
"I don't mean to. But sometimes it seems as if I couldn't bear all this that's coming. Nothing on earth can be worth it."
"You don't know," said Sylvia softly. "You won't feel that way—after you've seen him. You'll know then—that whatever price we pay—our life wouldn't have been complete without this."
"I can't understand why men should have all the pleasure—and women all the pain."
"My darling boy, they don't! That's only an old false theory, that exploded years ago, along with the one about everlasting damnation, and several other abominable ones of like ilk. Do you honestly believe—if you will think sanely for a moment—that you have had more joy than I? Or that you are not suffering twice as much as I am, or ever shall?"
"You say all that to comfort me, because you're twice as brave as I am."
"I say it to make you realize the truth, because I'm honest."
Molly and Katherine were busy at the Homestead in those days, Sally and Ruth in their own little houses; but Edith was at the brick cottage a great deal. In spite of all Peter's loving care, and the treatment of a great doctor whom Sylvia had insisted she should see in London, she was not very strong, and found that she must still let the long days slip by quietly, while the white hands, that had once been so plump and brown, grew steadily whiter and slimmer. She came upon Sylvia one sultry afternoon, folding and sorting little clothes, arranging them in neat, tiny piles in the scented, silk-lined drawers of a new bureau, and after she had helped her put them all in order, with hardly a word, she leaned her head against Sylvia's and whispered:
"I do wish there were some for me."
"I know, dear; but you're very young yet. Many wives are glad when this doesn't happen right away. Sally is."
"I know. But, you see, I feel that perhaps there never will be any for me—and that seems really only fair—doesn't it?"
Sylvia was silent. Her sympathy would not allow her to tell all the London doctor had said to her about her young sister-in-law; neither would it allow her to be untruthful. But certain phrases he had used came back to her with tragic intensity.
"Many a woman who can recuperate almost miraculously from organic disease fails to rally from shock—we've been overlooking that too long."—"Every sleepless night undoes the good that the sunshine during the daytime has wrought, and after many sleepless nights the days become simply horrible preludes to more terrors."—"I can't drug a child like that to a long life of uselessness—make her as happy as you can, but let her have it over with as quickly as Nature will allow it—or take her to some other man—I can't in charity to her tell you anything else."
So Sylvia and Peter made her "as happy as they could," and that they hoped at times was very happy, indeed; but the look of dread never left her eyes for long, and the tired smile which had replaced her ringing laugh came less and less often to her pale lips.
There was another faithful visitor at the brick cottage that summer, for after the end of June, Thomas, who came home from college at that time, seemed to be on hand a good deal. He, as well as Austin, had proved false to Uncle Mat's prophecy; for far from falling in love with another girl within a year, he showed not the slightest indication of doing so, but seemed to find perfect satisfaction in the society of his own family, especially that portion of it in which Sylvia was, for the moment, to be found. Austin at first marvelled at the ease with which he had accepted her for a sister; but the boy's perfect transparency of behavior made it impossible to feel that the new and totally different affection which he now felt for her was a pose. Gradually he grew to depend on Thomas to "look after Sylvia" when, for one reason or another, he was called away. His interests at the bank took him more and more frequently to Wallacetown; there were cattle auctions, too important to neglect, a day's journey from home; there was even a tiny opening beginning to loom up on the political horizon. Austin was too bound by every tie of blood and affection to the Homestead ever to build his hearth-fire permanently elsewhere; but he was also rapidly growing too big to be confined by it to the exclusion of the new opportunities which seemed to be offering themselves to him in such rapid succession in every direction.
Coming in very late one evening in August after one of these necessary absences, he found Sylvia already in bed, their room dark. She had never failed to wait up for him before. He felt a sudden pang of anxiety and contrition.
"Are you ill, darling? I didn't mean to be so late."
"No, not ill—just a little more tired than usual." She drew his head down to her breast, and for some minutes they held each other so, silently, their hearts beating together. "But I think it would be better if we sent for the doctor now—I didn't want to until you came home."
She slipped out of bed, and walked over to the open window, his arm still around her. The river shone like a ribbon of silver in the moonlight; the green meadows lay in soft shadows for miles around it; in the distance the Homestead stood silhouetted against the starlit sky.
"What a year it's been!" she whispered, "for you and me alone together!And how many years there are before us—and our children—and theHomestead—and all that we stand for—as long as the New England farmsand the Great Glorious Spirit which watches over them shall endure!"
A cloud passed over the moon dimming its brightness. It brought them to the realization that the long, hard hours of the night were before them both, to be faced and conquered. The New York doctor, whom Sylvia had once before refused to send for, and the fresh-faced, rosy nurse, who had both been staying at the brick cottage for the last few days, were called, the servants roused to activity. There came a time when Austin, impotent to serve Sylvia, marvelling at her bravery, wrung by her suffering, felt that such agony was beyond endurance, beyond hope, beyond anything in life worth gaining. But when the breathless, horrible night had dragged its interminable black length up to the skirts of the radiant dawn, the mist rose slowly from the quiet river and still more quiet mountains, the first singing of the birds broke the heavy stillness, and Austin and Sylvia kissed each other and their first-born son in the glory of the golden morning.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Old Gray Homestead, by Frances Parkinson Keyes