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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/17566-h.zip b/17566-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3230984 --- /dev/null +++ b/17566-h.zip diff --git a/17566-h/17566-h.htm b/17566-h/17566-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7fe4920 --- /dev/null +++ b/17566-h/17566-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8451 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Shoulders of Atlas</title> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Shoulders of Atlas, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Shoulders of Atlas + A Novel + +Author: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + +Release Date: January 21, 2006 [EBook #17566] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOULDERS OF ATLAS *** + + + + +Produced by Jeff Kaylin and Andrew Sly + + + + + +</pre> + +<h1>The Shoulders of Atlas</h1> +<h2>A Novel</h2> +<h3>By<br> +Mary E. Wilkins Freeman</h3> + +<p>Author of<br> +"By the Light of the Soul" "The Debtor"<br> +"Jerome" "A New England Nun" etc.</p> + +<p>New York and London<br> +Harper & Brothers Publishers<br> +MCMVIII</p> + +<p>Copyright, 1908, by the New York Herald Co.<br> +All rights reserved.<br> +Published June, 1908.</p> + +<h4 align="center">Chapter I</h4> +<p>Henry Whitman was walking home from the shop in the April +afternoon. The spring was very early that year. The meadows were +quite green, and in the damp hollows the green assumed a violet +tinge—sometimes from violets themselves, sometimes from the +shadows. The trees already showed shadows as of a multitude of bird +wings; the peach-trees stood aloof in rosy nimbuses, and the +cherry-trees were faintly a-flutter with white through an intense +gloss of gold-green.</p> +<p>Henry realized all the glory of it, but it filled him with a +renewal of the sad and bitter resentment, which was his usual mood, +instead of joy. He was past middle-age. He worked in a shoe-shop. +He had worked in a shoe-shop since he was a young man. There was +nothing else in store for him until he was turned out because of +old age. Then the future looked like a lurid sunset of misery. He +earned reasonably good wages for a man of his years, but prices +were so high that he was not able to save a cent. There had been +unusual expenses during the past ten years, too. His wife Sylvia +had not been well, and once he himself had been laid up six weeks +with rheumatism. The doctor charged two dollars for every visit, +and the bill was not quite settled yet.</p> +<p>Then the little house which had come to him from his father, +encumbered with a mortgage as is usual, had all at once seemed to +need repairs at every point. The roof had leaked like a sieve, two +windows had been blown in, the paint had turned a gray-black, the +gutters had been out of order. He had not quite settled the bill +for these repairs. He realized it always as an actual physical +incubus upon his slender, bowed shoulders. He came of a race who +were impatient of debt, and who regarded with proud disdain all +gratuitous benefits from their fellow-men. Henry always walked a +long route from the shop in order to avoid passing the houses of +the doctor and the carpenter whom he owed.</p> +<p>Once he had saved a little money; that was twenty-odd years +before; but he had invested it foolishly, and lost every cent. That +transaction he regarded with hatred, both of himself and of the +people who had advised him to risk and lose his hard-earned +dollars. The small sum which he had lost had come to assume +colossal proportions in his mind. He used, in his bitterest +moments, to reckon up on a scrap of paper what it might have +amounted to, if it had been put out at interest, by this time. He +always came out a rich man, by his calculations, if it had not been +for that unwise investment. He often told his wife Sylvia that they +might have been rich people if it had not been for that; that he +would not have been tied to a shoe-shop, nor she have been obliged +to work so hard.</p> +<p>Sylvia took a boarder—the high-school principal, Horace +Allen—and she also made jellies and cakes, and baked bread +for those in East Westland who could afford to pay for such instead +of doing the work themselves. She was a delicate woman, and Henry +knew that she worked beyond her strength, and the knowledge filled +him with impotent fury. Since the union had come into play he did +not have to work so many hours in the shop, and he got the same +pay, but he worked as hard, because he himself cultivated his bit +of land. He raised vegetables for the table. He also made the place +gay with flowers to please Sylvia and himself. He had a stunted +thirst for beauty.</p> +<p>In the winter he found plenty to do in the extra hours. He sawed +wood in his shed by the light of a lantern hung on a peg. He also +did what odd jobs he could for neighbors. He picked up a little +extra money in that way, but he worked very hard. Sometimes he told +Sylvia that he didn't know but he worked harder than he had done +when the shop time was longer. However, he had been one of the +first to go, heart and soul, with the union, and he had paid his +dues ungrudgingly, even with a fierce satisfaction, as if in some +way the transaction made him even with his millionaire employers. +There were two of them, and they owned houses which appeared like +palaces in the eyes of Henry and his kind. They owned automobiles, +and Henry was aware of a cursing sentiment when one whirred past +him, trudging along, and covered him with dust.</p> +<p>Sometimes it seemed to Henry as if an automobile was the last +straw for the poor man's back: those enormous cars, representing +fortunes, tyrannizing over the whole highway, frightening the poor +old country horses, and endangering the lives of all before them. +Henry read with delight every account of an automobile accident. +“Served them right; served them just right,” he would +say, with fairly a smack of his lips.</p> +<p>Sylvia, who had caught a little of his rebellion, but was +gentler, would regard him with horror. “Why, Henry Whitman, +that is a dreadful wicked spirit!” she would say, and he +would retort stubbornly that he didn't care; that he had to pay a +road tax for these people who would just as soon run him down as +not, if it wouldn't tip their old machines over; for these maniacs +who had gone speed-mad, and were appropriating even the highways of +the common people.</p> +<p>Henry had missed the high-school principal, who was away on his +spring vacation. He liked to talk with him, because he always had a +feeling that he had the best of the argument. Horace would take the +other side for a while, then leave the field, and light another +cigar, and let Henry have the last word, which, although it had a +bitter taste in his mouth, filled him with the satisfaction of +triumph. He loved Horace like a son, although he realized that the +young man properly belonged to the class which he hated, and that, +too, although he was manifestly poor and obliged to work for his +living. Henry was, in his heart of hearts, convinced that Horace +Allen, had he been rich, would have owned automobiles and spent +hours in the profitless work-play of the golf links. As it was, he +played a little after school-hours. How Henry hated golf! “I +wish they had to work,” he would say, savagely, to +Horace.</p> +<p>Horace would laugh, and say that he did work. “I know you +do,” Henry would say, grudgingly, “and I suppose maybe +a little exercise is good for you; but those fellers from Alford +who come over here don't have to work, and as for Guy Lawson, the +boss's son, he's a fool! He couldn't earn his bread and butter to +save his life, except on the road digging like a common laborer. +Playing golf! Playing! H'm!” Then was the time for Horace's +fresh cigar.</p> +<p>When Henry came in sight of the cottage where he lived he +thought with regret that Horace was not there. Being in a more +pessimistic mood than usual, he wished ardently for somebody to +whom he could pour out his heart. Sylvia was no satisfaction at +such a time. If she echoed him for a while, when she was more than +usually worn with her own work, she finally became alarmed, and +took refuge in Scripture quotations, and Henry was convinced that +she offered up prayer for him afterward, and that enraged him.</p> +<p>He struck into the narrow foot-path leading to the side door, +the foot-path which his unwilling and weary feet had helped to +trace more definitely for nearly forty years. The house was a small +cottage of the humblest New England type. It had a little +cobbler's-shop, or what had formerly been a cobbler's-shop, for an +ell. Besides that, there were three rooms on the +ground-floor—the kitchen, the sitting-room, and a little +bedroom which Henry and Sylvia occupied. Sylvia had cooking-stoves +in both the old shop and the kitchen. The kitchen stove was kept +well polished, and seldom used for cooking, except in cold weather. +In warm weather the old shop served as kitchen, and Sylvia, in +deference to the high-school teacher, used to set the table in the +house.</p> +<p>When Henry neared the house he smelled cooking in the shop. He +also had a glimpse of a snowy table-cloth in the kitchen. He +wondered, with a throb of joy, if possibly Horace might have +returned before his vacation was over and Sylvia were setting the +table in the other room in his honor. He opened the door which led +directly into the shop. Sylvia, a pathetic, slim, elderly figure in +rusty black, was bending over the stove, frying flapjacks. +“Has he come home?” whispered Henry.</p> +<p>“No, it's Mr. Meeks. I asked him to stay to supper. I told +him I would make some flapjacks, and he acted tickled to death. He +doesn't get a decent thing to eat once in a dog's age. Hurry and +get washed. The flapjacks are about done, and I don't want them to +get cold.”</p> +<p>Henry's face, which had fallen a little when he learned that +Horace had not returned, still looked brighter than before. While +Sidney Meeks never let him have the last word, yet he was much +better than Sylvia as a safety-valve for pessimism. Meeks was as +pessimistic in his way as Henry, although he handled his pessimism, +as he did everything else, with diplomacy, and the other man had a +secret conviction that when he seemed to be on the opposite side +yet he was in reality pulling with the lawyer.</p> +<p>Sidney Meeks was older than Henry, and as unsuccessful as a +country lawyer can well be. He lived by himself; he had never +married; and the world, although he smiled at it facetiously, was +not a pleasant place in his eyes.</p> +<p>Henry, after he had washed himself at the sink in the shop, +entered the kitchen, where the table was set, and passed through to +the sitting-room, where the lawyer was. Sidney Meeks did not rise. +He extended one large, white hand affably. “How are you +Henry?” said he, giving the other man's lean, brown fingers a +hard shake. “I dropped in here on my way home from the +post-office, and your wife tempted me with flapjacks in a lordly +dish, and I am about to eat.”</p> +<p>“Glad to see you,” returned Henry.</p> +<p>“You get home early, or it seems early, now the days are +getting so long,” said Meeks, as Henry sat down opposite.</p> +<p>“Yes, it's early enough, but I don't get any more +pay.”</p> +<p>Meeks laughed. “Henry, you are the direct outcome of your +day and generation,” said he. “Less time, and more pay +for less time, is our slogan.”</p> +<p>“Well, why not?” returned Henry, surlily, still with +a dawn of delighted opposition in his thin, intelligent face. +“Why not? Look at the money that's spent all around us on +other things that correspond. What's an automobile but less time +and more money, eh?”</p> +<p>Meeks laughed. “Give it up until after supper, +Henry,” he said, as Sylvia's thin, sweet voice was heard from +the next room.</p> +<p>“If you men don't stop talking and come right out, these +flapjacks will be spoiled!” she cried. The men arose and +obeyed her call. “There are compensations for +everything,” said Meeks, laughing, as he settled down heavily +into his chair. He was a large man. “Flapjacks are +compensations. Let us eat our compensations and be thankful. That's +my way of saying grace. You ought always to say grace, Henry, when +you have such a good cook as your wife is to get meals for you. If +you had to shift for yourself, the way I do, you'd feel that it was +a simple act of decency.”</p> +<p>“I don't see much to say grace for,” said Henry, +with a disagreeable sneer.</p> +<p>“Oh, Henry!” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“For compensations in the form of flapjacks, with plenty +of butter and sugar and nutmeg,” said Meeks. “These are +fine, Mrs. Whitman.”</p> +<p>“A good thick beefsteak at twenty-eight cents a pound, +regulated by the beef trust, would be more to my liking after a +hard day's work,” said Henry.</p> +<p>Sylvia exclaimed again, but she was not in reality disturbed. +She was quite well aware that her husband was enjoying himself +after his own peculiar fashion, and that, if he spoke the truth, +the flapjacks were more to his New England taste for supper than +thick beefsteak.</p> +<p>“Well, wait until after supper, and maybe you will change +your mind about having something to say grace for,” Meeks +said, mysteriously.</p> +<p>The husband and wife stared at him. “What do you mean, Mr. +Meeks?” asked Sylvia, a little nervously. Something in the +lawyer's manner agitated her. She was not accustomed to mysteries. +Life had not held many for her, especially of late years.</p> +<p>Henry took another mouthful of flapjacks. “Well, if you +can give me any good reason for saying grace you will do more than +the parson ever has,” he said.</p> +<p>“Oh, Henry!” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“It's the truth,” said Henry. “I've gone to +meeting and heard how thankful I ought to be for things I haven't +got, and things I have got that other folks haven't, and for +forgiveness for breaking commandments, when, so far as I can tell, +commandments are about the only things I've been able to keep +without taxes—till I'm tired of it.”</p> +<p>“Wait till after supper,” repeated the lawyer again, +with smiling mystery. He had a large, smooth face, with gray hair +on the sides of his head and none on top. He had good, placid +features, and an easy expression. He ate two platefuls of the +flapjacks, then two pieces of cake, and a large slice of custard +pie! He was very fond of sweets.</p> +<p>After supper was over Henry and Meeks returned to the +sitting-room, and sat down beside the two front windows. It was a +small, square room furnished with Sylvia's chief household +treasures. There was a hair-cloth sofa, which she and Henry had +always regarded as an extravagance and had always viewed with awe. +There were two rockers, besides one easy-chair, covered with +old-gold plush—also an extravagance. There was a really +beautiful old mahogany table with carved base, of which neither +Henry nor Sylvia thought much. Sylvia meditated selling enough +Calkin's soap to buy a new one, and stow that away in Mr. Allen's +room. Mr. Allen professed great admiration for it, to her +wonderment. There was also a fine, old, gold-framed mirror, and +some china vases on the mantel-shelf. Sylvia was rather ashamed of +them. Mrs. Jim Jones had a mirror which she had earned by selling +Calkin's soap, which Sylvia considered much handsomer. She would +have had ambitions in that direction also, but Henry was firm in +his resolve not to have the mirror displaced, nor the vases, +although Sylvia descanted upon the superior merits of some vases +with gilded pedestals which Mrs. Sam Elliot had in her parlor.</p> +<p>Meeks regarded the superb old table with appreciation as he sat +in the sitting-room after supper. “Fine old piece,” he +said.</p> +<p>Henry looked at it doubtfully. It had been in a woodshed of his +grandfather's house, when he was a boy, and he was not as confident +about that as he was about the mirror and vases, which had always +maintained their parlor estate.</p> +<p>“Sylvia don't think much of it,” he said. +“She's crazy to have one of carved oak like one Mrs. Jim +Jones has.”</p> +<p>“Carved oak fiddlestick!” said Sidney Meeks. +“It's a queer thing that so much virtue and real fineness of +character can exist in a woman without the slightest trace of taste +for art.”</p> +<p>Henry looked resentful. “Sylvia has taste, as much taste +as most women,” he said. “She simply doesn't like to +see the same old things around all the time, and I don't know as I +blame her. The world has grown since that table was made, there's +no doubt about that. It stands to reason furniture has improved, +too.”</p> +<p>“Glad there's something you see in a bright light, +Henry.”</p> +<p>“I must say that I like this new mission furniture, +myself, pretty well,” said Henry, somewhat importantly.</p> +<p>“That's as old as the everlasting hills; but the old +that's new is the newest thing in all creation,” said Meeks. +“Sylvia is a foolish woman if she parts with this magnificent +old piece for any reproduction made in job lots.”</p> +<p>“Oh, she isn't going to part with it. Mr. Allen will like +it in his room. He thinks as much of it as you do.”</p> +<p>“He's right, too,” said Meeks. “There's +carving for you; there's a fine grain of wood.”</p> +<p>“It's very hard to keep clean,” said Sylvia, as she +came in rubbing her moist hands. “Now, that new Flemish oak +is nothing at all to take care of, Mrs. Jones says.”</p> +<p>“This is worth taking care of,” said Meeks. +“Now, Sylvia, sit down. I have something to tell you and +Henry.”</p> +<p>Sylvia sat down. Something in the lawyer's manner aroused hers +and her husband's keenest attention. They looked at him and waited. +Both were slightly pale. Sylvia was a delicate little woman, and +Henry was large-framed and tall, but a similar experience had worn +similar lines in both faces. They looked singularly alike.</p> +<p>Sidney Meeks had the dramatic instinct. He waited for the +silence to gather to its utmost intensity before he spoke. “I +had something to tell you when I came in,” he said, +“but I thought I had better wait till after +supper.”</p> +<p>He paused. There was another silence. Henry's and Sylvia's eyes +seemed to wax luminous.</p> +<p>Sidney Meeks spoke again. He was enjoying himself immensely. +“What relation is Abrahama White to you?” he said.</p> +<p>“She is second cousin to Sylvia. Her mother was Sylvia's +mother's cousin,” said Henry. “What of it?”</p> +<p>“Nothing, except—” Meeks waited again. He +wished to make a coup. He had an instinct for climaxes. +“Abrahama had a shock this morning,” he said, +suddenly.</p> +<p>“A shock?” said Henry.</p> +<p>Sylvia echoed him. “A shock!” she gasped.</p> +<p>“Yes, I thought you hadn't heard of it.”</p> +<p>“I've been in the house all day,” said Sylvia. +“I hadn't seen a soul before you came in.” She rose. +“Who's taking care of her?” she asked. “She ain't +all alone?”</p> +<p>“Sit down,” said Sidney. “She's well cared +for. Miss Babcock is there. She happened to be out of a place, and +Dr. Wallace got her right away.”</p> +<p>“Is she going to get over it?” asked Sylvia, +anxiously. “I must go over there, anyway, this evening. I +always thought a good deal of Abrahama.”</p> +<p>“You might as well go over there,” said the lawyer. +“It isn't quite the thing for me to tell you, but I'm going +to. If Henry here can eat flapjacks like those you make, Sylvia, +and not say grace, his state of mind is dangerous. I am going to +tell you. Dr. Wallace says Abrahama can't live more than a day or +two, and—she has made a will and left you all her +property.”</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter II</h4> +<p>There was another silence. The husband and wife were pale, with +mouths agape like fishes. So little prosperity had come into their +lives that they were rendered almost idiotic by its approach.</p> +<p>“Us?” said Sylvia, at length, with a gasp.</p> +<p>“Us?” said Henry.</p> +<p>“Yes, you,” said Sidney Meeks.</p> +<p>“What about Rose Fletcher, Abrahama's sister Susy's +daughter?” asked Sylvia, presently. “She is her own +niece.”</p> +<p>“You know Abrahama never had anything to do with Susy +after she married John Fletcher,” replied the lawyer. +“She made her will soon afterward, and cut her +off.”</p> +<p>“I remember what they said at the time,” returned +Sylvia. “They all thought John Fletcher was going to marry +Abrahama instead of Susy. She was enough sight more suitable age +for him. He was too old for Susy, and Abrahama, even if she wasn't +young, was a beautiful woman, and smarter than Susy ever thought of +being.”</p> +<p>“Susy had the kind of smartness that catches men,” +said the lawyer, with a slight laugh.</p> +<p>“I always wondered if John Fletcher hadn't really done a +good deal to make Abrahama think he did want her,” said +Sylvia. “He was just that kind of man. I never did think much +of him. He was handsome and glib, but he was all surface. I guess +poor Abrahama had some reason to cut off Susy. I guess there was +some double-dealing. I thought so at the time, and now this will +makes me think so even more.”</p> +<p>Again there was a silence, and again that expression of +bewilderment, almost amounting to idiocy, reigned in the faces of +the husband and wife.</p> +<p>“I never thought old Abraham White should have made the +will he did,” said Henry, articulating with difficulty. +“Susy had just as much right to the property, and there she +was cut off with five hundred dollars, to be paid when she came of +age.”</p> +<p>“I guess she spent that five hundred on her wedding +fix,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“It was a queer will,” stammered Henry.</p> +<p>“I think the old man always looked at Abrahama as his son +and heir,” said the lawyer. “She was named for him, and +his father before him, you know. I always thought the poor old girl +deserved the lion's share for being saddled with such a name, +anyhow.”</p> +<p>“It was a dreadful name, and she was such a beautiful girl +and woman,” said Sylvia. She already spoke of Abrahama in the +past tense. “I wonder where the niece is,” she +added.</p> +<p>“The last I heard of her she was living with some rich +people in New York,” replied Meeks. “I think they took +her in some capacity after her father and mother died.”</p> +<p>“I hope she didn't go out to work as hired girl,” +said Sylvia. “It would have been awful for a granddaughter of +Abraham White's to do that. I wonder if Abrahama never wrote to +her, nor did anything for her.”</p> +<p>“I don't think she ever had the slightest communication +with Susy after she married, or her husband, or the +daughter,” replied Meeks. “In fact, I practically know +she did not.”</p> +<p>“If the poor girl didn't do well, Abrahama had a good deal +to answer for,” said Sylvia, thoughtfully. She looked +worried. Then again that expression of almost idiotic joy +overspread her face. “That old White homestead is +beautiful—the best house in town,” she said.</p> +<p>“There's fifty acres of land with it, too,” said +Meeks.</p> +<p>Sylvia and Henry looked at each other. Both hesitated. Then +Henry spoke, stammeringly:</p> +<p>“I—never knew—just how much of an income +Abrahama had,” he said.</p> +<p>“Well,” replied the lawyer, “I must say not +much—not as much as I wish, for your sakes. You see, old +Abraham had a lot of that railroad stock that went to smash ten +years ago, and Abrahama lost a good deal. She was a smart woman; +she could work and save; but she didn't know any more about +business than other women. There's an income of about—well, +about six hundred dollars and some odd cents after the taxes and +insurance are paid. And she has enough extra in the Alford Bank to +pay for her last expenses without touching the principal. And the +house is in good repair. She has kept it up well. There won't be +any need to spend a cent on repairs for some years.”</p> +<p>“Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are +paid!” said Sylvia. She gaped horribly. Her expression of +delight was at once mean and infantile.</p> +<p>“Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are +paid, and all that land, and that great house!” repeated +Henry, with precisely the same expression.</p> +<p>“Not much, but enough to keep things going if you're +careful,” said Meeks. He spoke deprecatingly, but in reality +the sum seemed large to him also. “You know there's an income +besides from that fine grass-land,” said he. “There's +more than enough hay for a cow and horse, if you keep one. You can +count on something besides in good hay-years.”</p> +<p>Henry looked reflective. Then his face seemed to expand with an +enormous idea. “I wonder—” he began.</p> +<p>“You wonder what?” asked Sylvia.</p> +<p>“I wonder—if it wouldn't be cheaper in the end to +keep an—automobile and sell all the hay.”</p> +<p>Sylvia gasped, and Meeks burst into a roar of laughter.</p> +<p>“I rather guess you don't get me into one of those things, +butting into stone walls, and running over children, and scaring +horses, with you underneath most of the time, either getting blown +up with gasolene or covering your clothes with mud and grease for +me to clean off,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“I thought automobiles were against your +principles,” said Meeks, still chuckling.</p> +<p>“So they be, the way other folks run 'em,” said +Henry; “but not the way I'd run 'em.”</p> +<p>“We'll have a good, steady horse that won't shy at one, if +we have anything,” said Sylvia, and her voice had weight.</p> +<p>“There's a good buggy in Abrahama's barn,” said +Meeks.</p> +<p>Sylvia made an unexpected start. “I think we are wicked as +we can be!” she declared, violently. “Here we are +talking about that poor woman's things before she's done with them. +I'm going right over there to see if I can't be of some +use.”</p> +<p>“Sit down, Sylvia,” said Henry, soothingly, but he, +too, looked both angry and ashamed.</p> +<p>“You had better keep still where you are to-night,” +said Meeks. “Miss Babcock is doing all that anybody can. +There isn't much to be done, Dr. Wallace says. To-morrow you can go +over there and sit with her, and let Miss Babcock take a +nap.” Meeks rose as he spoke. “I must be going,” +he said. “I needn't charge you again not to let anybody know +what I've told you before the will is read. It is irregular, but I +thought I'd cheer up Henry here a bit.”</p> +<p>“No, we won't speak of it,” declared the husband and +wife, almost in unison.</p> +<p>After Meeks had gone they looked at each other. Both looked +disagreeable to the other. Both felt an unworthy suspicion of the +other.</p> +<p>“I hope she will get well,” Sylvia said, defiantly. +“Maybe she will. This is her first shock.”</p> +<p>“God knows I hope she will,” returned Henry, with +equal defiance.</p> +<p>Each of the two was perfectly good and ungrasping, but each +accused themselves and each other unjustly because of the +possibilities of wrong feeling which they realized. Sylvia did not +understand how, in the face of such prosperity, she could wish +Abrahama to get well, and she did not understand how her husband +could, and Henry's mental attitude was the same.</p> +<p>Sylvia sat down and took some mending. Henry seated himself +opposite, and stared at her with gloomy eyes, which yet held latent +sparks of joy. “I wish Meeks hadn't told us,” he said, +angrily.</p> +<p>“So do I,” said Sylvia. “I keep telling myself +I don't want that poor old woman to die, and I keep telling myself +that you don't; but I'm dreadful suspicious of us both. It means so +much.”</p> +<p>“Just the way I feel,” said Henry. “I wish +he'd kept his news to himself. It wasn't legal, anyhow.”</p> +<p>“You don't suppose it will make the will not stand!” +cried Sylvia, with involuntary eagerness. Then she quailed before +her husband's stern gaze. “Of course I know it won't make any +difference,” she said, feebly, and drew her darning-needle +through the sock she was mending.</p> +<p>Henry took up a copy of the East Westland <cite>Gazette</cite>. +The first thing he saw was the list of deaths, and he seemed to +see, quite plainly, Abrahama White's among them, although she was +still quick, and he loathed himself. He turned the paper with a +rattling jerk to an account of a crime in New York, and the +difficulty the police had experienced in taking the guilty man in +safety to the police station. He read the account aloud.</p> +<p>“Seems to me the principal thing the New York police +protect is the criminals,” he said, bitterly. “If they +would turn a little of their attention to protecting the helpless +women and children, seems to me it would be more to the purpose. +They're awful careful of the criminals.”</p> +<p>Sylvia did not hear. She assented absently. She thought, in +spite of herself, of the good-fortune which was to befall them. She +imagined herself mistress of the old White homestead. They would, +of course, rent their own little cottage and go to live in the big +house. She imagined herself looking through the treasures which +Abrahama would leave behind her—then a monstrous loathing of +herself seized her. She resolved that the very next morning she +would go over and help Miss Babcock, that she would put all +consideration of material benefits from her mind. She brought her +thoughts with an effort to the article which Henry had just read. +She could recall his last words.</p> +<p>“Yes, I think you are right,” said she. “I +think criminals ought not to be protected. You are right, Henry. I +think myself we ought to have a doctor called from Alford +to-morrow, if she is no better, and have a consultation. Dr. +Wallace is good, but he is only one, and sometimes another doctor +has different ideas, and she may get help.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I think there ought to be a consultation,” +said Henry. “I will see about it to-morrow. I will go over +there with you myself to-morrow morning. I think the police ought +not to protect the criminals, but the people who are injured by +them.”</p> +<p>“Then there would be no criminals. They would have no +chance,” said Sylvia, sagely. “Yes, I agree with you, +Henry, there ought to be a consultation.”</p> +<p>She looked at Henry and he at her, and each saw in the other's +face that same ignoble joy, and that same resentment and denial of +it.</p> +<p>Neither slept that night. They were up early the next morning. +Sylvia was getting breakfast and Henry was splitting wood out in +the yard. Presently he came stumbling in. “Come out +here,” he said. Sylvia followed him to the door. They stepped +out in the dewy yard and stood listening. Beneath their feet was +soft, green grass strewn with tiny spheres which reflected +rainbows. Over their heads was a wonderful sky of the clearest +angelic blue. This sky seemed to sing with bell-notes.</p> +<p>“The bell is tolling,” whispered Henry. They counted +from that instant. When the bell stopped they looked at each +other.</p> +<p>“That's her age,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Henry.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter III</h4> +<p>The weather was wonderful on Abrahama White's funeral day. The +air had at once the keen zest of winter and the languor of summer. +One moment one perceived warm breaths of softly undulating pines, +the next it was as if the wind blew over snow. The air at once +stimulated and soothed. One breathing it realized youth and an +endless vista of dreams ahead, and also the peace of age, and of +work well done and deserving the reward of rest. There was +something in this air which gave the inhaler the certainty of +victory, the courage of battle and of unassailable youth. Even old +people, pausing to notice the streamer of crape on Abrahama White's +door, felt triumphant and undaunted. It did not seem conceivable, +upon such a day, that that streamer would soon flaunt for them.</p> +<p>The streamer was rusty. It had served for many such occasions, +and suns and rains had damaged it. People said that Martin Barnes, +the undertaker, ought to buy some new crape. Martin was a very old +man himself, but he had no imagination for his own funeral. It +seemed to him grotesque and impossible that an undertaker should +ever be in need of his own ministrations. His solemn wagon stood +before the door of the great colonial house, and he and his +son-in-law and his daughter, who were his assistants, were engaged +at their solemn tasks within.</p> +<p>The daughter, Flora Barnes, was arraying the dead woman in her +last robe of state, while her father and brother-in-law waited in +the south room across the wide hall. When her task was performed +she entered the south room with a gentle pride evident in her thin, +florid face.</p> +<p>“She makes a beautiful corpse,” she said, in a +hissing whisper.</p> +<p>Henry Whitman and his wife were in the room, with Martin Barnes +and Simeon Capen, his son-in-law. Barnes and Capen rose at once +with pleased interest, Henry and Sylvia more slowly; yet they also +had expressions of pleasure, albeit restrained. Both strove to draw +their faces down, yet that expression of pleasure reigned +triumphant, overcoming the play of the facial muscles. They glanced +at each other, and each saw an angry shame in the other's eyes +because of this joy.</p> +<p>But when they followed Martin Barnes and his assistants into the +parlor, where Abrahama White was laid in state, all the shameful +joy passed from their faces. The old woman in her last bed was +majestic. The dead face was grand, compelling to other than earthly +considerations. Henry and Sylvia forgot the dead woman's little +store which she had left behind her. Sylvia leaned over her and +wept; Henry's face worked. Nobody except himself had ever known it, +but he, although much younger, had had his dreams about the +beautiful Abrahama White. He remembered them as he looked at her, +old and dead and majestic, with something like the light of her +lost beauty in her still face. It was like a rose which has fallen +in such a windless atmosphere that its petals retain the places +which they have held around its heart.</p> +<p>Henry loved his wife, but this before him was associated with +something beyond love, which tended to increase rather than +diminish it. When at last they left the room he did what was very +unusual with him. He was reticent, like the ordinary middle-aged +New-Englander. He took his wife's little, thin, veinous hand and +clasped it tenderly. Her bony fingers clung gratefully to his.</p> +<p>When they were all out in the south room Flora Barnes spoke +again. “I have never seen a more beautiful corpse,” +said she, in exactly the same voice which she had used before. She +began taking off her large, white apron. Something peculiar in her +motion arrested Sylvia's attention. She made a wiry spring at +her.</p> +<p>“Let me see that apron,” said she, in a voice which +corresponded with her action.</p> +<p>Flora recoiled. She turned pale, then she flushed. “What +for?”</p> +<p>“Because I want to.”</p> +<p>“It's just my apron. I—”</p> +<p>But Sylvia had the apron. Out of its folds dropped a thin roll +of black silk. Flora stood before Sylvia. Beads of sweat showed on +her flat forehead. She twitched like one about to have convulsions. +She was very tall, but Sylvia seemed to fairly loom over her. She +held the black silk out stiffly, like a bayonet.</p> +<p>“What is this?” she demanded, in her tense +voice.</p> +<p>Flora twitched.</p> +<p>“What is it? I want to know.”</p> +<p>“The back breadth,” replied Flora in a small, scared +voice, like the squeak of a mouse.</p> +<p>“Whose back breadth?”</p> +<p>“Her back breadth.”</p> +<p>“<em>Her</em> back breadth?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Robbing the dead!” said Sylvia, pitilessly. Her +tense voice was terrible.</p> +<p>Flora tried to make a stand. “She hadn't any use for +it,” she squeaked, plaintively.</p> +<p>“Robbing the dead! Its bad enough to rob the +living.”</p> +<p>“She couldn't have worn that dress without any back +breadth while she was living,” argued Flora, “but now +it don't make any odds. It don't show.”</p> +<p>“What were you going to do with it?”</p> +<p>Flora was scared into a storm of injured confession. “You +'ain't any call to talk to me so, Mrs. Whitman,” she said. +“I've worked hard, and I 'ain't had a decent black silk dress +for ten years.”</p> +<p>“How can you have a dress made out of a back breadth, I'd +like to know?”</p> +<p>“It's just the same quality that Mrs. Hiram Adams's was, +and—” Flora hesitated.</p> +<p>“Flora Barnes, you don't mean to say that you're robbing +the dead of back breadths till you get enough to make you a whole +dress?”</p> +<p>Flora whimpered. “Business has been awful poor +lately,” she said. “It's been so healthy here we've +hardly been able to earn the salt to our porridge. Father won't +join the trust, either, and lots of times the undertaker from +Alford has got our jobs.”</p> +<p>“Business!” cried Sylvia, in horror.</p> +<p>“I can't help it if you do look at it that way,” +Flora replied, and now she was almost defiant. “Our business +is to get our living out of folks' dying. There's no use mincing +matters. It's our business, just as working in a shoe-shop is your +husband's business. Folks have to have shoes and walk when they're +alive, and be laid out nice and buried when they're dead. Our +business has been poor. Either Dr. Wallace gives awful strong +medicine or East Westland is too healthy. We haven't earned but +precious little lately, and I need a whole black silk dress and +they don't.”</p> +<p>Sylvia eyed her in withering scorn. “Need or not,” +said she, “the one that owns this back breadth is going to +have it. I rather think she ain't going to be laid away without a +back breadth to her dress.”</p> +<p>With that Sylvia crossed the room and the hall, and entered the +parlor. She closed the door behind her. When she came out a few +minutes later she was pale but triumphant. “There,” +said she, “it's back with her, and I've got just this much to +say, and no more, Flora Barnes. When you get home you gather up all +the back breadths you've got, and you do them up in a bundle, and +you put them in that barrel the Ladies' Sewing Society is going to +send to the missionaries next week, and don't you ever touch a back +breadth again, or I'll tell it right and left, and you'll see how +much business you'll have left here, I don't care how sickly it +gets.”</p> +<p>“If father would—only have joined the trust I never +would have thought of such a thing, anyway,” muttered Flora. +She was vanquished.</p> +<p>“You do it, Flora Barnes.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I will. Don't speak so, Mrs. Whitman.”</p> +<p>“You had better.”</p> +<p>The undertaker and his son-in-law and Henry had remained quite +silent. Now they moved toward the door, and Flora followed, red and +perspiring. Sylvia heard her say something to her father about the +trust on the way to the gate, between the tall borders of box, and +heard Martin's surly growl in response.</p> +<p>“Laying it onto the trust,” Sylvia said to +Henry—“such an awful thing as that!”</p> +<p>Henry assented. He looked aghast at the whole affair. He seemed +to catch a glimpse of dreadful depths of feminity which daunted his +masculine mind. “To think of women caring enough about dress +to do such a thing as that!” he said to himself. He glanced +at Sylvia, and she, as a woman, seemed entirely beyond his +comprehension.</p> +<p>The whole great house was sweet with flowers. Neighbors had sent +the early spring flowers from their door-yards, and Henry and +Sylvia had bought a magnificent wreath of white roses and +carnations and smilax. They had ordered it from a florist in +Alford, and it seemed to them something stupendous—as if in +some way it must please even the dead woman herself to have her +casket so graced.</p> +<p>“When folks know, they won't think we didn't do all we +could,” Sylvia whispered to Henry, significantly. He nodded. +Both were very busy, even with assistance from the neighbors, and a +woman who worked out by the day, in preparing the house for the +funeral. Everything had to be swept and cleaned and dusted.</p> +<p>When the hour came, and the people began to gather, the house +was veritably set in order and burnished. Sylvia, in the parlor +with the chief mourners, glanced about, and eyed the smooth lap of +her new black gown with a certain complacency which she could not +control. After the funeral was over, and the distant relatives and +neighbors who had assisted had eaten a cold supper and departed, +and she and Henry were alone in the great house, she said, and he +agreed, that everything had gone off beautifully. “Just as +she would have wished it if she could have been here and ordered it +herself,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>They were both hesitating whether to remain in the house that +night or go home. Finally they went home. There was an awe and +strangeness over them; besides, they began to wonder if people +might not think it odd for them to stay there before the will was +read, since they could not be supposed to know it all belonged to +them.</p> +<p>It was about two weeks before they were regularly established in +the great house, and Horace Allen, the high-school teacher, was +expected the next day but one. Henry had pottered about the place, +and attended to some ploughing on the famous White grass-land, +which was supposed to produce more hay than any piece of land of +its size in the county. Henry had been fired with ambition to +produce more than ever before, but that day his spirit had seemed +to fail him. He sat about gloomily all the afternoon; then he went +down for the evening mail, and brought home no letters, but the +local paper. Sylvia was preparing supper in the large, clean +kitchen. She had been looking over her new treasures all day, and +she was radiant. She chattered to her husband like a +school-girl.</p> +<p>“Oh, Henry,” said she, “you don't know what +we've got! I never dreamed poor Abrahama had such beautiful things. +I have been up in the garret looking over things, and there's one +chest up there packed with the most elegant clothes. I never saw +such dresses in my life.”</p> +<p>Henry looked at his wife with eyes which loved her face, yet saw +it as it was, elderly and plain, with all its youthful bloom +faded.</p> +<p>“I don't suppose there is anything that will suit you to +have made over,” he said. “I suppose they are dresses +she had when she was young.”</p> +<p>Sylvia colored. She tossed her head and threw back her round +shoulders. Feminine vanity dies hard; perhaps it never dies at +all.</p> +<p>“I don't know,” she said, defiantly. “Three +are colors I used to wear. I have had to wear black of late years, +because it was more economical, but you know how much I used to +wear pink. It was real becoming to me.”</p> +<p>Henry continued to regard his wife's face with perfect love and +a perfect cognizance of facts. “You couldn't wear it +now,” he said.</p> +<p>“I don't know,” retorted Sylvia. “I dare say I +don't look now as if I could. I have been working hard all day, and +my hair is all out of crimp. I ain't so sure but if I did up my +hair nice, and wasn't all tuckered out, that I couldn't wear a pink +silk dress that's there if I tone it down with black.”</p> +<p>“I don't believe you would feel that you could go to +meeting dressed in pink silk at your time of life,” said +Henry.</p> +<p>“Lots of women older than I be wear bright colors,” +retorted Sylvia, “in places where they are dressy. You don't +know anything about dress, Henry.”</p> +<p>“I suppose I don't,” replied Henry, +indifferently.</p> +<p>“I think that pink silk would be perfectly suitable and +real becoming if I crimped my hair and had a black lace bonnet to +wear with it.”</p> +<p>“I dare say.”</p> +<p>Henry took his place at the supper-table. It was set in the +kitchen. Sylvia was saving herself all the steps possible until +Horace Allen returned.</p> +<p>Henry did not seem to have much appetite that night. His face +was overcast. Along with his scarcely confessed exultation over his +good-fortune he was conscious of an odd indignation. For years he +had cherished a sense of injury at his treatment at the hands of +Providence; now he felt like a child who, pushing hard against +opposition to his desires, has that opposition suddenly removed, +and tumbles over backward. Henry had an odd sensation of having +ignominiously tumbled over backward, and he missed, with ridiculous +rancor, his sense of injury which he had cherished for so many +years. After kicking against the pricks for so long, he had come to +feel a certain self-righteous pleasure in it which he was now +forced to forego.</p> +<p>Sylvia regarded her husband uneasily. Her state of mind had +formerly been the female complement of his, but the sense of +possession swerved her more easily. “What on earth ails you, +Henry Whitman?” she said. “You look awful +down-in-the-mouth. Only to think of our having enough to be +comfortable for life. I should think you'd be real thankful and +pleased.”</p> +<p>“I don't know whether I'm thankful and pleased or +not,” rejoined Henry, morosely.</p> +<p>“Why, Henry Whitman!”</p> +<p>“If it had only come earlier, when we had time and +strength to enjoy it,” said Henry, with sudden relish. He +felt that he had discovered a new and legitimate ground of injury +which might console him for the loss of the old.</p> +<p>“We may live a good many years to enjoy it now,” +said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“I sha'n't; maybe you will,” returned Henry, with +malignant joy.</p> +<p>Sylvia regarded him with swift anxiety. “Why, Henry, don't +you feel well?” she gasped.</p> +<p>“No, I don't, and I haven't for some time.”</p> +<p>“Oh, Henry, and you never told me! What is the matter? +Hadn't you better see the doctor?”</p> +<p>“Doctor!” retorted Henry, scornfully.</p> +<p>“Maybe he could give you something to help you. +Whereabouts do you feel bad, Henry?”</p> +<p>“All over,” replied Henry, comprehensively, and he +smiled like a satirical martyr.</p> +<p>“All over?”</p> +<p>“Yes, all over—body and soul and spirit. I know just +as well as any doctor can tell me that I haven't many years to +enjoy anything. When a man has worked as long as I have in a +shoe-shop, and worried as much and as long as I have, good-luck +finds him with his earthworks about worn out and his wings hitched +on.”</p> +<p>“Oh, Henry, maybe Dr. Wallace—”</p> +<p>“Maybe he can unhitch the wings?” inquired Henry, +with grotesque irony. “No, Sylvia, no doctor living can give +medicine strong enough to cure a man of a lifetime of +worry.”</p> +<p>“But the worry's all over now, Henry.”</p> +<p>“What the worry's done ain't over.”</p> +<p>Sylvia began whimpering softly. “Oh, Henry, if you talk +that way it will take away all my comfort! What do you suppose the +property would mean to me without you?”</p> +<p>Then Henry felt ashamed. “Lord, don't worry,” he +said, roughly. “A man can't say anything to you without +upsetting you. I can't tell how long I'll live. Sometimes a man +lives through everything. All I meant was, sometimes when good-luck +comes to a man it comes so darned late it might just as well not +come at all.”</p> +<p>“Henry, you don't mean to be wicked and +ungrateful?”</p> +<p>“If I am I can't help it. I ain't a hypocrite, anyway. +We've got some good-fortune, and I'm glad of it, but I'd been +enough sight gladder if it had come sooner, before bad fortune had +taken away my rightful taste for it.”</p> +<p>“You won't have to work in the shop any longer, +Henry.”</p> +<p>“I don't know whether I shall or not. What in creation do +you suppose I'm going to do all day—sit still and suck my +thumbs?”</p> +<p>“You can work around the place.”</p> +<p>“Of course I can; but there'll be lots of time when there +won't be any work to be done—then what? To tell you the truth +of it, Sylvia, I've had my nose held to the grindstone so long I +don't know as it's in me to keep away from it and live, +now.”</p> +<p>Henry had not been at work since Abrahama White's death. He had +been often in Sidney Meeks's office; only Sidney Meeks saw through +Henry Whitman. One day he laughed in his face, as the two men sat +in his office, and Henry had been complaining of the lateness of +his good-fortune.</p> +<p>“If your property has come too late, Henry,” said +he, “what's the use in keeping it? What's the sense of +keeping property that only aggravates you because it didn't come in +your time instead of the Lord's? I'll draw up a deed of gift on the +spot, and Sylvia can sign it when you go home, and you can give the +whole biling thing to foreign missions. The Lord knows there's no +need for any mortal man to keep anything he doesn't +want—unless it's taxes, or a quick consumption, or a wife and +children. And as for those last, there doesn't seem to be much need +of that lately. I have never seen the time since I came into the +world when it was quite so hard to get things, or quite so easy to +get rid of them, as it is now. Say the word, Henry, and I'll draw +up the deed of gift.”</p> +<p>Henry looked confused. His eyes fell before the lawyer's +sarcastic glance. “You are talking tomfool nonsense,” +he said, scowling. “The property isn't mine; it's my +wife's.”</p> +<p>“Sylvia never crossed you in anything. She'd give it up +fast enough if she got it through her head how downright miserable +it was making you,” returned the lawyer, maliciously. Then +Sidney relented. There was something pathetic, even tragic, about +Henry Whitman's sheer inability to enjoy as he might once have done +the good things of life, and his desperate clutch of them in flat +contradiction to his words. “Let's drop it,” said the +lawyer. “I'm glad you have the property and can have a little +ease, even if it doesn't mean to you what it once would. Let's have +a glass of that grape wine.”</p> +<p>Sidney Meeks had his own small amusement in the world. He was +one of those who cannot exist without one, and in lieu of anything +else he had turned early in life toward making wines from many +things which his native soil produced. He had become reasonably +sure, at an early age, that he should achieve no great success in +his profession. Indeed, he was lazily conscious that he had no +fierce ambition to do so. Sidney Meeks was not an ambitious man in +large matters. But he had taken immense comfort in toiling in a +little vineyard behind his house, and also in making curious wines +and cordials from many unusual ingredients. Sidney had stored in +his cellar wines from elder flowers, from elderberries, from +daisies, from rhubarb, from clover, and currants, and many other +fruits and flowers, besides grapes. He was wont to dispense these +curious brews to his callers with great pride. But he took especial +pride in a grape wine which he had made from selected grapes thirty +years ago. This wine had a peculiar bouquet due to something which +Sidney had added to the grape-juice, the secret of which he would +never divulge.</p> +<p>It was some of this golden wine which Sidney now produced. Henry +drank two glasses, and the tense muscles around his mouth relaxed. +Sidney smiled. “Don't know what gives it that scent and +taste, do you?” asked Sidney. “Well, I know. It's +simple enough, but nobody except Sidney Meeks has ever found it +out. I tell you, Henry, if a man hasn't set the river on fire, +realized his youthful dreams, and all that, it is something to have +found out something that nobody else has, no matter how little it +is, if you have got nerve enough to keep it to yourself.”</p> +<p>Henry fairly laughed. His long, hollow cheeks were slightly +flushed. When he got home that night he looked pleasantly at +Sylvia, preparing supper. But Sylvia did not look as radiant as she +had done since her good-fortune. She said nothing ailed her, in +response to his inquiry as to whether she felt well or not, but she +continued gloomy and taciturn, which was most unusual with her, +especially of late.</p> +<p>“What in the world is the matter with you, Sylvia?” +Henry asked. The influence of Sidney Meeks's wine had not yet +departed from him. His cheeks were still flushed, his eyes +brilliant.</p> +<p>Then Sylvia roused herself. “Nothing is the matter,” +she replied, irritably, and immediately she became so gay that had +Henry himself been in his usual mood he would have been as much +astonished as by her depression. Sylvia began talking and laughing, +relating long stories of new discoveries which she had made in the +house, planning for Horace Allen's return.</p> +<p>“He's going to have that big southwest room and the little +one out of it,” Sylvia said. “To-morrow you must get +the bed moved into the little one, and I'll get the big room fixed +up for a study. He'll be tickled to pieces. There's beautiful +furniture in the room now. I suppose he'll think it's beautiful. +It's terrible old-fashioned. I'd rather have a nice new set of +bird's-eye maple to my taste, and a brass bedstead, but I know +he'll like this better. It's solid old mahogany.”</p> +<p>“Yes, he'll be sure to like it,” assented Henry.</p> +<p>After supper, although Sylvia did not relapse into her taciturn +mood, Henry went and sat by himself on the square colonial porch on +the west side of the house. He sat gazing at the sky and the broad +acres of grass-land. Presently he heard feminine voices in the +house, and knew that two of the neighbors, Mrs. Jim Jones and Mrs. +Sam Elliot, had called to see Sylvia. He resolved that he would +stay where he was until they were gone. He loved Sylvia, but women +in the aggregate disturbed and irritated him; and for him three +women were sufficient to constitute an aggregate.</p> +<p>Henry sat on the fine old porch with its symmetrical pillars. He +had an arm-chair which he tilted back against the house wall, and +he was exceedingly comfortable. The air was neither warm nor cold. +There was a clear red in the west and only one rose-tinged cloud +the shape of a bird's wing. He could hear the sunset calls of birds +and the laughter of children. Once a cow lowed. A moist sense of +growing things, the breath of spring, came into his nostrils. Henry +realized that he was very happy. He realized for the first time, +with peaceful content, not with joy so turbulent that it was +painful and rebellious, that he and his wife owned this grand old +house and all those fair acres. He was filled with that great peace +of possession which causes a man to feel that he is safe from the +ills of life. Henry felt fenced in and guarded. Then suddenly the +sense of possession upon earth filled his whole soul with the hope +of possession after death. Henry felt, for the first time in his +life, as if he had a firm standing-ground for faith. For the first +time he looked at the sunset sky, he listened to the birds and +children, he smelled the perfume of the earth, and there was no +bitterness in his soul. He smiled a smile of utter peace which +harmonized with it all, and the conviction of endless happiness and +a hereafter seemed to expand all his consciousness.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter IV</h4> +<p>The dining-room in the White homestead was a large, low room +whose southward windows were shaded at this season with a cloud of +gold-green young grape leaves. The paper was a nondescript pattern, +a large satin scroll on white. The room was wainscoted in white, +and the panel-work around the great chimney was beautiful. A +Franklin stove with a pattern of grape-vines was built into the +chimney under the high mantel. Sylvia regarded this dubiously.</p> +<p>“I don't think much of that old-fashioned Franklin +stove,” she told Henry. “Why Abrahama had it left in, +after she had her nice furnace, beats me. Seems to me we had better +have it taken out, and have a nice board, covered with paper to +match this on the room, put there instead. There's a big roll of +the paper up garret, and it ain't faded a mite.”</p> +<p>“Mr. Allen will like it just the way it is,” said +Henry, regarding the old stove with a sneaking admiration of which +he was ashamed. It had always seemed to him that Sylvia's taste +must be better than his. He had always thought vaguely of women as +creatures of taste.</p> +<p>“I think maybe he'll like a fire in it sometimes,” +he said, timidly.</p> +<p>“A fire, when there's a furnace?”</p> +<p>“I mean chilly days in the fall, before we start the +furnace.”</p> +<p>“Then we could have that nice air-tight that we had in the +other house put up. If we had a fire in this old thing the heat +would all go up chimney.”</p> +<p>“But it would look kind of pretty.”</p> +<p>“I was brought up to think a fire was for warmth, not for +looks,” said Sylvia, tartly. She had lost the odd expression +which Henry had dimly perceived several days before, or she was +able to successfully keep it in abeyance; still, there was no doubt +that a strange and subtle change had occurred within the woman. +Henry was constantly looking at her when she spoke, because he +vaguely detected unwonted tones in her familiar voice; that voice +which had come to seem almost as his own. He was constantly +surprised at a look in the familiar eyes, which had seemed +heretofore to gaze at life in entire unison with his own.</p> +<p>He often turned upon Sylvia and asked her abruptly if she did +not feel well, and what was the matter; and when she replied, as +she always did, that nothing whatever was the matter, continued to +regard her with a frown of perplexity, from which she turned with a +switch of her skirts and a hitch of her slender shoulders. Sylvia, +while she still evinced exultation over her new possessions, seemed +to do so fiercely and defiantly.</p> +<p>When Horace Allen arrived she greeted him, and ushered him into +her new domain with a pride which had in it something almost +repellent. At supper-time she led him into the dining-room and +glanced around, then at him.</p> +<p>“Well,” said she, “don't you think it was +about time we had something nice like this, after we had pulled and +tugged for nothing all our lives? Don't you think we deserve it if +anybody does?”</p> +<p>“I certainly do,” replied Horace Allen, warmly; yet +he regarded her with somewhat the same look of astonishment as +Henry. It did not seem to him that it could be Sylvia Whitman who +was speaking. The thought crossed his mind, as he took his place at +the table, that possibly coming late in life, after so many +deprivations, good-fortune had disturbed temporarily the even +balance of her good New England sense.</p> +<p>Then he looked about him with delight. “I say, this is +great!” he cried, boyishly. There was something incurably +boyish about Horace Allen, although he was long past thirty. +“By George, that Chippendale sideboard is a beauty,” he +said, gazing across at a fine old piece full of dull high lights +across its graceful surfaces.</p> +<p>Sylvia colored with pleasure, but she had been brought up to +disclaim her possessions to others than her own family. “Mrs. +Jim Jones has got a beautiful one she bought selling Calkin's +soap,” she said. “She thinks it's prettier than this, +and I must say it's real handsome. It's solid oak and has a +looking-glass on it. This hasn't got any glass.”</p> +<p>Horace laughed. He gazed at a corner-closet with diamond-paned +doors.</p> +<p>“That is a perfectly jolly closet, too,” he said; +“and those are perfect treasures of old dishes.”</p> +<p>“I think they are rather pretty,” said Henry. He was +conscious of an admiration for the old blue-and-white ware with its +graceful shapes and quaint decorations savoring of mystery and the +Far East, but he realized that his view was directly opposed to his +wife's. This time Sylvia spoke quite in earnest. As far as the +Indian china was concerned, she had her convictions. She was a +cheap realist to the bone.</p> +<p>She sniffed. “I suppose there's those that likes +it,” said she, “but as for me, I can't see how anybody +with eyes in their heads can look twice at old, cloudy, blue stuff +like that when they can have nice, clear, white ware, with flowers +on it that <em>are</em> flowers, like this Calkin's soap set. There +ain't a thing on the china in that closet that's natural. Whoever +saw a prospect all in blue, the trees and plants, and heathen +houses, and the heathen, all blue? I like things to be natural, +myself.”</p> +<p>Horace laughed, and extended his plate for another piece of +pie.</p> +<p>“It's an acquired taste,” he said.</p> +<p>“I never had any time to acquire tastes. I kept what the +Lord gave me,” said Sylvia, but she smiled. She was delighted +because Horace had taken a second piece of pie.</p> +<p>“I didn't know as you'd relish our fare after living in a +Boston hotel all your vacation,” said she.</p> +<p>“People can talk about hotel tables all they want +to,” declared Horace. “Give me home cooking like yours +every time. I haven't eaten a blessed thing that tasted good since +I went away.”</p> +<p>Henry and Sylvia looked lovingly at Horace. He was a large man, +blond, with a thick shock of fair hair, and he wore gray tweeds +rather loose for him, which had always distressed Sylvia. She had +often told Henry that it seemed to her if he would wear a nice suit +of black broadcloth it would be more in keeping with his position +as high-school principal. He wore a red tie, too, and Sylvia had an +inborn conviction that red was not to be worn by fair people, male +or female.</p> +<p>However, she loved and admired Horace in spite of these minor +drawbacks, and had a fiercely maternal impulse of protection +towards him. She was convinced that every mother in East Westland, +with a marriageable daughter, and every daughter, had matrimonial +designs upon him; and she considered that none of them were good +enough for him. She did not wish him to marry in any case. She had +suspicions about young women whom he might have met while on his +vacation.</p> +<p>After supper, when the dishes had been cleared away, and they +sat in the large south room, and Horace had admired that and its +furnishings, Sylvia led up to the subject.</p> +<p>“I suppose you know a good many people in Boston,” +she remarked.</p> +<p>“Yes,” replied Horace. “You know, I was born +and brought up and educated there, and lived there until my people +died.”</p> +<p>“I suppose you know a good many young ladies.”</p> +<p>“Thousands,” said Horace; “but none of them +will look at me.”</p> +<p>“You didn't ask them?”</p> +<p>“Not all, only a few, but they wouldn't.”</p> +<p>“I'd like to know why not?”</p> +<p>Then Henry spoke. “Sylvia,” he said, “Mr. +Allen is only joking.”</p> +<p>“I hope he is,” Sylvia said, severely. “He's +too young to think of getting married. It makes me sick, though, to +see the way girls chase any man, and their mothers, too, for that +matter. Mrs. Jim Jones and Mrs. Sam Elliot both came while you were +gone, Mr. Allen. They said they thought maybe we wouldn't take a +boarder now we have come into property, and maybe you would like to +go there, and I knew just as well as if they had spoken what they +had in their minds. There's Minnie Jones as homely as a broom, and +there's Carrie Elliot getting older, and—”</p> +<p>“Sylvia!” said Henry.</p> +<p>“I don't care. Mr. Allen knows what's going on just as +well as I do. Neither of those women can cook fit for a cat to eat, +let alone anything else. Lucy Ayres came here twice on errands, +too, and—”</p> +<p>But Horace colored, and spoke suddenly. “I didn't know +that you would take me back,” he said. “I was afraid—”</p> +<p>“We don't need to, as far as money goes,” said +Sylvia, “but Mr. Whitman and I like to have the company, and +you never make a mite of trouble. That's what I told Mrs. Jim Jones +and Mrs. Sam Elliot.”</p> +<p>“I'm glad he's got back,” Henry said, after Horace +had gone up-stairs for the night and the couple were in their own +room, a large one out of the sitting-room.</p> +<p>“So am I,” assented Sylvia. “It seems real +good to have him here again, and he's dreadful tickled with his new +rooms. I guess he's glad he wasn't shoved off onto Mrs. Jim Jones +or Mrs. Sam Elliot. I don't believe he has an idea of getting +married to any girl alive. He ain't a mite silly over the girls, if +they are all setting their caps at him. I'm sort of sorry for Lucy +Ayres. She's a pretty girl, and real ladylike, and I believe she'd +give all her old shoes to get him.”</p> +<p>“Look out, he'll hear you,” charged Henry. Their +room was directly under the one occupied by Horace.</p> +<p>Presently the odor of a cigar floated into their open +window.</p> +<p>“I should know he'd got home. Smoking is an awful +habit,” Sylvia said, with a happy chuckle.</p> +<p>“He'd do better if he smoked a pipe,” said Henry. +Henry smoked a pipe.</p> +<p>“If a man is going to smoke at all, I think he had better +smoke something besides a smelly old pipe,” said Sylvia. +“It seems to me, with all our means, you might smoke cigars +now, Henry. I saw real nice ones advertised two for five cents the +other day, and you needn't smoke more than two a day.”</p> +<p>Henry sniffed slightly.</p> +<p>“I suppose you think women don't know anything about +cigars,” said Sylvia; “but I can smell, anyhow, and I +know Mr. Allen is smoking a real good cigar.”</p> +<p>“Yes, he is,” assented Henry.</p> +<p>“And I don't believe he pays more than a cent apiece. His +cigars have gilt papers around them, and I know as well as I want +to they're cheap; I know a cent apiece is a much as he pays. He +smokes so many he can't pay more than that.”</p> +<p>Henry sniffed again, but Sylvia did not hear. She had one deaf +ear, and she was lying on her sound one. Then they fell asleep, and +it was some time before both woke suddenly. A sound had wakened +Henry, an odor Sylvia. Henry had heard a door open, forcing him +into wakefulness; Sylvia had smelled the cigar again. She nudged +her husband. Just then the tall clock in the sitting-room struck +ten deliberately.</p> +<p>“It's late, and he's awake, smoking, now,” whispered +Sylvia.</p> +<p>Henry said nothing. He only grunted.</p> +<p>“Don't you think it's queer?”</p> +<p>“Oh no. I guess he's only reading,” replied Henry. +He had a strong masculine loyalty towards Horace, as another man. +He waited until he heard Sylvia's heavy, regular breathing again. +Then he slipped out of bed and stole to the window. It was a +strange night, very foggy, but the fog was shot through with shafts +of full moonlight. The air was heavy and damp and sweet. Henry +listened a moment at the bedroom window, then he tiptoed out into +the sitting-room. He stole across the hall into the best parlor. He +raised a window in there noiselessly, looked out, and listened. +There was a grove of pines and spruces on that side of the house. +There was a bench under a pine. Upon this bench Henry gradually +perceived a whiteness more opaque than that of the fog. He heard a +voice, then a responsive murmur. Then the fragrant smoke of a cigar +came directly in his face. Henry shook his head. He remained +motionless a moment. Then he left the room, and going into the hall +stole up-stairs. The door of the southwest chamber stood wide open. +Henry entered. He was trembling like a woman. He loved the young +man, and suspicions, like dreadful, misshapen monsters, filled his +fancy. He peeped into the little room which he and Sylvia had +fitted up as a bedroom for Horace, and it was vacant.</p> +<p>Henry went noiselessly back down-stairs and into his own room. +He lay down without disturbing his wife, but he did not fall +asleep. After what seemed to him a long time he heard a stealthy +footstep on the stair, and again smelled the aroma of a cigar which +floated down from overhead.</p> +<p>That awoke Sylvia. “I declare, he's smoking again,” +she murmured, sleepily. “It's a dreadful habit.”</p> +<p>Henry made no reply. He breathed evenly, pretending to be +asleep.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter V</h4> +<p>Although it was easy for a man, especially for a young +marriageable man, to obtain board in East Westland, it was not so +easy for a woman; and the facts of her youth and good looks, and +presumably marriageable estate, rendered it still more difficult. +There was in the little village a hotel, so-called, which had +formerly been the tavern. It was now the East Westland House. Once +it had been the Sign of the Horse. The old sign-board upon which a +steed in flaming red, rampant upon a crude green field against a +crude blue sky, had been painted by some local artist, all unknown +to fame, and long since at rest in the village graveyard, still +remained in the hotel attic, tilted under the dusty eaves.</p> +<p>The Sign of the Horse had been in former days a flourishing +hostelry, before which, twice a day, the Boston and the Alford +stages had drawn up with mighty flourishes of horns and gallant +rearings of jaded steeds. Scarcely a night but it had been crowded +by travellers who stayed overnight for the sake of the good beds +and the good table and good bar. Now there was no bar. East +Westland was a strictly temperance village, and all the liquor to +be obtained was exceedingly bad, and some declared diluted by the +waters of the village pond.</p> +<p>There was a very small stock of rum, gin, and whiskey, and very +young and morbid California wines, kept at the village drug store, +and dispensed by Albion Bennet. Albion required a deal of red-tape +before he would sell even these doubtful beverages for strictly +medicinal purposes. He was in mortal terror of being arrested and +taken to the county-seat at Newholm for violation of the liquor +law. Albion, although a young and sturdy man not past his youth, +was exceedingly afraid of everything. He was unmarried, and boarded +at the hotel. There he was divided between fear of burglars, if he +slept on the first floor, and of fire if he slept on the second. He +compromised by sleeping on the second, with a sufficient length of +stout, knotted muslin stowed away in his trunk, to be attached to +the bed-post and reach the ground in case of a conflagration.</p> +<p>There was no bank in East Westland, none nearer than Alford, six +miles away, and poor Albion was at his wit's end to keep his daily +receipts with safety to them and himself. He had finally hit upon +the expedient of leaving them every night with Sidney Meeks, who +was afraid of nothing. “If anything happens to your money, +Albion,” said Sidney, “I'll make it good, even if I +have to sell my wine-cellar.” Albion was afraid even to keep +a revolver. His state of terror was pitiable, and the more so +because he had a fear of betraying it, which was to some extent the +most cruel fear of all. Sidney Meeks was probably the only person +in East Westland who understood how it was with him, and he kept +his knowledge to himself. Sidney was astute on a diagnosis of his +fellow-men's mentalities, and he had an almost womanly compassion +even for those weaknesses of which he himself was incapable.</p> +<p>“Good; I'll keep what you have in your till every night +for you, and welcome, Albion,” he had said. “I +understand how you feel, living in the hotel the way you +do.”</p> +<p>“Nobody knows who is coming and going,” said Albion, +blinking violently.</p> +<p>“Of course one doesn't, and nobody would dream of coming +to my house. Everybody knows I am as poor as Job's off ox. You +might get a revolver, but I wouldn't recommend it. You look to me +as if you might sleep too sound to make it altogether +safe.”</p> +<p>“I do sleep pretty sound,” admitted Albion, although +he did not quite see the force of the other man's argument.</p> +<p>“Just so. Any man who sleeps very sound has no right to +keep a loaded revolver by him. He seldom, if ever, wakes up +thoroughly if he hears a noise, and he's mighty apt to blaze away +at the first one he sees, even if it's his best friend. No, it is +not safe.”</p> +<p>“I don't think it's very safe myself,” said Albion, +in a relieved tone. “Miss Hart is always prowling around the +house. She doesn't sleep very well, and she's always smelling smoke +or hearing burglars. She's timid, like most women. I might shoot +her if I was only half awake and she came opposite my +door.”</p> +<p>“Exactly,” said Sidney Meeks. When Albion went away +he stared after his bulky, retreating back with a puzzled +expression. He shook his head. Fear was the hardest thing in the +world for him to understand. “That great, able-bodied man +must feel mighty queer,” he muttered, as he stowed away the +pile of greasy bank-notes and the nickels collected at the +soda-fountain in a pile of disordered linen in a bureau drawer. He +chuckled to himself at the eagerness with which Albion had seized +upon the fancy of his shooting Miss Hart.</p> +<p>Lucinda Hart kept the hotel. She had succeeded to its +proprietorship when her father died. She was a middle-aged woman +who had been pretty in a tense, nervous fashion. Now the prettiness +had disappeared under the strain of her daily life. It was a hard +struggle to keep the East Westland House and make both ends meet. +She had very few regular boarders, and transients were not as +numerous as they had been in the days of the stage-coaches. Now +commercial travellers and business men went to Alford overnight +instead of remaining at East Westland. Miss Hart used the same +feather-beds which had once been esteemed so luxurious. She kept +them clean, well aired, and shaken, and she would not have a +spring-bed or a hair mattress in the house. She was conservatism +itself. She could no more change and be correct to her own +understanding than the multiplication table.</p> +<p>“Feather-beds are good enough for anybody who stays in +this hotel, I don't care who it is,” she said. She would not +make an exception, even for Miss Eliza Farrel, the assistant +teacher in the high school, although she had, with a distrust of +the teacher's personality, a great respect for her position. She +was inexorable even when the teacher proposed furnishing a +spring-bed and mattress at her own expense. “I'd be willing +to accommodate, and buy them myself, but it is a bad +example,” she said, firmly. “Things that were good +enough for our fathers and mothers are good enough for us. Good +land! people ain't any different from what they used to be. We +haven't any different flesh nor any different bones.”</p> +<p>Miss Hart had a theory that many of the modern diseases might be +traced directly to the eschewing of feather-beds. “Never +heard of appendicitis in my father's time, when folks slept on +good, soft feather-beds, and got their bones and in'ards +rested,” she said.</p> +<p>Miss Hart was as timid in her way as Albion Bennet. She never +got enough control of her nervous fears to secure many hours of +sound sleep. She never was able to wholly rid herself of the +conviction that her own wakefulness and watchfulness was essential +to the right running of all the wheels of the universe, although +she would have been shocked had she fairly known her own attitude. +She patrolled the house by night, moving about the low, uneven +corridors with a flickering candle—for she was afraid to +carry a kerosene lamp—like a wandering spirit.</p> +<p>She was suspicious, too. She never lodged a stranger overnight +but she had grave doubts of his moral status. She imagined him a +murderer escaped from justice, and compared his face with the +pictures of criminals in the newspapers, or she was reasonably sure +that he was dishonest, although she had little to tempt him. She +employed one chambermaid and a stable-boy, and did the cooking +herself. Miss Hart was not a good cook. She used her thin, tense +hands too quickly. She was prone to over-measures of saleratus, to +under-measures of sugar and coffee. She erred both from economy and +from the haste which makes waste. Miss Eliza Farrel often turned +from the scanty, poorly cooked food which was place before her with +disgust, but she never seemed to lose an ounce of her firm, fair +flesh, nor a shade of her sweet color.</p> +<p>Miss Eliza Farrel was an anomaly. She was so beautiful that her +beauty detracted from her charm for both sexes. It was so perfect +as to awaken suspicion in a world where nothing is perfect from the +hand of nature. Then, too, she was manifestly, in spite of her +beauty, not in the first flush of youth, and had, it seemed, no +right to such perfection of body. Also her beauty was of a type +which people invariably associate with things which are undesirable +to the rigidly particular, and East Westland was largely inhabited +by the rigidly particular.</p> +<p>East Westland was not ignorant. It read of the crimes and +follies of the times, but it read of them with a distinct and +complacent sense of superiority. It was as if East Westland said: +“It is desirable to read of these things, of these doings +among the vicious and the worldly, that we may understand what +<em>we</em> are.” East Westland looked upon itself in its day +and generation as a lot among the cities of the plain.</p> +<p>It seemed inconceivable that East Westland people should have +recognized the fact that Miss Farrel's beauty was of a suspicious +type, but they must have had an instinctive knowledge of it. From +the moment that Miss Farrel appeared in the village, although she +had the best of references, not a woman would admit her into her +house as a boarder, and the hotel, with its feather-beds and poor +table, was her only resource. Women said of her that she was made +up, that no woman of her age ever looked as she did and had a +perfectly irreproachable moral character.</p> +<p>As for the men, they admired her timidly, sheepishly, and also a +trifle contemptuously. They did not admit openly the same opinion +as the women with regard to the legitimacy of her charms, but they +did maintain it secretly. It did not seem possible to many of them +that a woman could look just as Eliza Farrel did and be altogether +natural. As for her character, they also agreed with the feminine +element secretly, although they openly declared the women were +jealous of such beauty. It did not seem that such a type could be +anything except a dangerous one.</p> +<p>Miss Eliza Farrel was a pure blonde, as blond as a baby. There +was not a line nor blemish in her pure, fine skin. The flush on her +rounded cheeks and her full lips was like a baby's. Her dimples +were like a baby's. Her blond hair was thick and soft with a +pristine softness and thickness which is always associated with the +hair of a child. Her eyebrows were pencilled by nature, as if +nature had been art. Her smile was as fixedly radiant as a painted +cherub's. Her figure had that exuberance and slenderness at various +portions which no woman really believes in. She looked like a +beautiful doll, with an unvarying loveliness of manner and +disposition under all vicissitudes of life, but she was undoubtedly +something more than a doll.</p> +<p>Even the women listened dubiously and incredulously when she +talked. They had never heard a woman talk about such things in the +way she did. She had a fine education, being a graduate of one of +the women's colleges. She was an accomplished musician and a very +successful teacher. Her pupils undoubtedly progressed, although +they did not have the blind love and admiration which pupils +usually have for a beautiful teacher. To this there was one +exception.</p> +<p>Miss Farrel always smiled, never frowned or reprimanded. It was +said that Miss Farrel had better government than Miss Florence +Dean, the other assistant. Miss Dean was plain and saturnine, and +had no difficulty in obtaining a good boarding-place, even with the +mother of a marriageable daughter, who had taken her in with +far-sighted alacrity. She dreamed of business calls concerning +school matters, which Mr. Horace Allen, the principal, might be +obliged to make, and she planned to have her daughter, who was a +very pretty girl, in evidence. But poor Miss Farrel was thrown back +upon the mercies of Miss Hart and the feather-beds and the +hotel.</p> +<p>There were other considerations besides the feather-beds and the +poor fare which conspired to render the hotel an undesirable +boarding-place. Miss Farrel might as well have been under the +espionage of a private detective as with Miss Hart. If Miss Hart +was suspicious of dire mischief in the cases of her other boarders, +she was certain in the case of Eliza Farrel. She would not have +admitted her under her roof at all had she not been forced thereto +by the necessity for money. Miss Hart herself took care of Miss +Farrel's room sometimes. She had no hesitation whatever in looking +through her bureau drawers; indeed, she considered it a duty which +she owed herself and the character of her house. She had taken away +the keys on purpose, and had told miss Farrel, without the +slightest compunction, that they were lost. The trunks were locked, +and she had never been able to possess herself of the keys, but she +felt sure that they contained, if not entire skeletons, at least +scattered bones.</p> +<p>She discovered once, quite in open evidence on Miss Farrel's +wash-stand, a little porcelain box of pink-tinted salve, and she +did not hesitate about telling Hannah, her chambermaid, the +daughter of a farmer in the vicinity, and a girl who was quite in +her confidence. She called Hannah into the room and displayed the +box. “This is what she uses,” she said, solemnly.</p> +<p>Hannah, who was young, but had a thick, colorless skin, nodded +with an inscrutable expression.</p> +<p>“I have always thought she used something on her +face,” said Miss Hart. “You can't cheat +<em>me</em>.”</p> +<p>Hannah took up a little, ivory-backed nail-polisher which was +also on the wash-stand. “What do you suppose this is?” +she asked, timidly, in an awed whisper.</p> +<p>“How do I know? I never use such things myself, and I +never knew women who did before,” said Miss Hart, severely. +“I dare say, after she puts the paint on, she has to use +something to smooth it down where the natural color of the skin +begins. How do I know?”</p> +<p>Hannah laid the nail-polisher beside the box of salve. She was +very much in love with the son of the farmer who lived next to her +father's. The next Thursday afternoon was her afternoon off. She +watched her chance, and stole into Miss Farrel's room, applied with +trembling fingers a little of the nail-salve to her cheeks, then +carefully rubbed it all off with the polisher. She then went to her +own room, put on a hat and thick veil, and succeeded in getting out +of the hotel without meeting Miss Hart. She was firmly convinced +that she was painted, and that her cheeks had the lovely +peach-bloom of Miss Farrel's.</p> +<p>It seems sometimes as if one's own conviction concerning one's +self goes a long way towards establishing that of other people. +Hannah, that evening, when she met the young man whom she loved, +felt that she was a beauty like Miss Eliza Farrel, and before she +went home he had told her how pretty she was and asked her to marry +him, and Hannah had consented, reserving the right to work enough +longer to earn a little more money. She wished to be married in a +white lace gown like one in Miss Farrel's closet. Miss Hart had +called Hannah in to look at it one morning when Miss Farrel was at +school.</p> +<p>“What do you suppose a school-teacher can want of a dress +like this here in East Westland?” Miss Hart had asked, +severely. “She can't wear it to meeting, or a Sunday-school +picnic, or a church sociable, or even to a wedding in this place. +Look at it. It's cut low-neck.”</p> +<p>Hannah had looked. That night she had, in the secrecy of her own +room, examined her own shoulders, and decided that although they +might not be as white as Miss Farrel's, they were presumably as +well shaped. She had resolved then and there to be married in a +dress like that. Along with her love-raptures came the fairy dream +of the lace gown. For once in her life she would be dressed like a +princess.</p> +<p>When she told Miss Hart she was going to be married, her +mistress sniffed. “You can do just as you like, and you will +do just as you like, whether or no,” she said; “but you +are a poor fool. Here you are getting good wages, and having it all +to spend on yourself; and you ain't overworked, and you'll find out +you'll be overworked and have a whole raft of young ones, and not a +cent of wages, except enough to keep soul and body together, and +just enough to wear so you won't be took up for going round +indecent. I've seen enough of such kind of work.”</p> +<p>“Amos will make a real good husband; everybody says he's +the best match anywhere around,” replied Hannah, crimson with +blushes and half crying.</p> +<p>Miss Hart sniffed again. “Jump into the fire if you want +to,” said she. “I hope you ain't going before fall, and +leave me in the lurch in hot weather, and preserves to be put +up.”</p> +<p>Hannah said she would not think of getting married before +November. She did not say a word about the white lace gown, but +that evening the desire to look at it again waxed so strong within +her that she could not resist it. She was sitting in her own room, +after lighting the kerosene lamp in the corridor opposite Miss +Farrel's room, which was No. 20, and she was thinking hard about +the lace gown, and wondering how much it cost, when she started +suddenly. As she sat beside her window, her own lamp not yet lit, +she had seen a figure flit past in the misty moonlight, and she was +sure it was Miss Farrel. She reflected quickly that it was Thursday +evening, when Miss Hart always went to prayer-meeting. Hannah had a +cold and had stayed at home, although it was her day off. Miss Hart +cherished the belief that her voice was necessary to sustain the +singing at any church meeting. She had, in her youth, possessed a +fine contralto voice. She possessed only the remnant of one now, +but she still sang in the choir, because nobody had the strength of +mind to request her to resign. Sunday after Sunday she stood in her +place and raised her voice, which was horribly hoarse and hollow, +in the sacred tunes, and people shivered and endured. Miss Hart +never missed a Sunday service, a choir rehearsal, or a Thursday +prayer-meeting, and she did not on that Thursday evening.</p> +<p>Hannah went to her door and listened. She heard laughter down in +the room which had been the bar but was now the office. A cloud of +tobacco smoke floated from there through the corridor. Hannah drew +it in with a sense of delicious peace. Her lover smoked, and +somehow the odor seemed to typify to her domestic happiness and +mystery. She listened long, looking often at the clock on the wall. +“She must be gone,” she thought, meaning Miss Hart. She +was almost sure that the figure which she had seen flitting under +her window in the moonlight was that of the school-teacher. Finally +she could not resist the temptation any longer. She hurried down +the corridor until she reached No. 20. She tapped and waited, then +she tapped and waited again. There was no response. Hannah tried +the door. It was locked. She took her chambermaid's key and +unlocked the door, looking around her fearfully. Then she opened +the door and slid in. She locked the door behind her. Then straight +to the closet she went, and that beautiful lace robe seemed to +float out towards her. Hannah slipped off her own gown, and in a +few moments she stood before the looking-glass, transformed.</p> +<p>She was so radiant, so pleased, that a flush came out on her +thick skin; her eyes gleamed blue. The lace gown fitted her very +well. She turned this way and that. After all, her neck was not +bad, not as white, perhaps, as Miss Farrel's, but quite lovely in +shape. She walked glidingly across the room, looking over her +shoulder at the trail of lace. She was unspeakably happy. She had a +lover, and she was a woman in a fine gown for the first time in her +life. The gown was not her own, but she would have one like it. She +did not realize that this gown was not hers. She was fairly radiant +with the possession of her woman's birthright, this poor farmer's +daughter, in whom the instincts of her kind were strong. She glided +across the room many times. She surveyed herself in the glass. +Every time she looked she seemed to herself more beautiful, and +there was something good and touching in this estimation of +herself, for she seemed to see herself with her lover's eyes as +well as her own.</p> +<p>Finally she sat down in Miss Farrel's rocker; she crossed her +knees and viewed with delight the fleecy fall of lace to the floor. +Then she fell to dreaming, and her dreams were good. In that gown +of fashion she dreamed the dreams of the life to which the women of +her race were born. She dreamed of her good housewifery; she +dreamed of the butter she would make; she dreamed of her husband +coming home to meals all ready and well cooked. She dreamed, +underneath the other dreams, of children coming home. She had no +realization of the time she sat there. At last she started and +turned white. She had heard a key turn in the lock. Then Miss +Farrel entered the room—Miss Eliza Farrel, magnificent in +pale gray, with a hat trimmed with roses crowning her blond head. +Hannah cowered. She tried to speak, but only succeeded in making a +sound as if she were deaf and dumb.</p> +<p>Then Miss Farrel spoke. There was a weary astonishment and +amusement in her tone, but nothing whatever disturbed or harsh. +“Oh, is it you, Hannah?” she said.</p> +<p>Hannah murmured something unintelligible.</p> +<p>Miss Farrel went on, sweetly: “So you thought you would +try on my lace gown, Hannah?” she said. “It fits you +very well. I see your hands are clean. I am glad of that. Now +please take it off and put on your own dress.”</p> +<p>Hannah stood up. She was abject.</p> +<p>“There is nothing for you to be afraid of,” said +Miss Farrel. “Only take off the gown and put on your own, or +I am afraid Miss Hart—”</p> +<p>Miss Hart's name acted like a terrible stimulus. Hannah +unfastened the lace gown with fingers trembling with haste. She +stepped out of the shimmering circle which it made; she was in her +own costume in an incredibly short space of time, and the lace gown +was in its accustomed place in the closet. Then suddenly Miss Hart +opened the door.</p> +<p>“I thought I saw a light,” said she. She looked from +one to the other. “It is after eleven o'clock,” she +said, further.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Miss Farrel, sweetly. “I have been +working. I had to look over some exercises. I think I am not quite +well. Have you any digitalis in the house, Miss Hart? Hannah here +does not know. I was sorry to disturb her, and she does not know. I +have an irritable heart, and digitalis helps it.”</p> +<p>“No, I have not got any digitalis,” replied Miss +Hart, shortly. She gave the hard sound to the <em>g</em>, and she +looked suspiciously at both women. However, Miss Farrel was +undoubtedly pale, and Miss Hart's face relaxed.</p> +<p>“Go back to your room,” she said to Hannah. +“You won't be fit for a thing to-morrow.” Then she said +to Miss Farrel: “I don't know what you mean by digitalis. I +haven't got any, but I'll mix you up some hot essence of +peppermint, and that's the best thing I know of for +anything.”</p> +<p>“Thank you,” said Miss Farrel. She had sank into a +chair, and had her hand over her heart.</p> +<p>“I'll have it here in a minute,” said Miss Hart. She +went out, and Hannah followed her, but not before she and Miss +Eliza Farrel had exchanged looks which meant that each had a secret +of the other to keep as a precious stolen jewel.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter VI</h4> +<p>The next morning Henry was very quiet at the breakfast-table. He +said good-morning to Horace in almost a surly manner, and Sylvia +glanced from one to the other of the two men. After Horace had gone +to school she went out in the front yard to interview Henry, who +was pottering about the shrubs which grew on either side of the +gravel walk.</p> +<p>“What on earth ailed you and Mr. Allen this +morning?” she began, abruptly.</p> +<p>Henry continued digging around the roots of a peony. “I +don't know as anything ailed us. I don't know what you are driving +at,” he replied, lying unhesitatingly.</p> +<p>“Something did ail you. You can't cheat me.”</p> +<p>“I don't know what you are driving at.”</p> +<p>“Something did ail you. You'll spoil that peony. You've +got all the weeds out. What on earth are you digging round it that +way for? What ailed you?”</p> +<p>“I don't know what you are driving at.”</p> +<p>“You can't cheat me. Something is to pay. For the land's +sake, leave that peony alone, and get the weeds out from around +that syringa bush. You act as if you were possessed. What ailed you +and Mr. Allen this morning? I want to know.”</p> +<p>“I don't know what you are driving at,” Henry said +again, but he obediently turned his attention to the syringa bush. +He always obeyed a woman in small matters, and reserved his +masculine prerogatives for large ones.</p> +<p>Sylvia returned to the house. Her mouth was set hard. Nobody +knew how on occasions Sylvia longed for another woman to whom to +speak her mind. She loved her husband, but no man was capable of +entirely satisfying all her moods. She started to go to the attic +on another exploring expedition; then she stopped suddenly, +reflecting. The end of her reflection was that she took off her +gingham apron, tied on a nice white one trimmed with knitted lace, +and went down the street to Mrs. Thomas P. Ayres's. Thomas P. Ayres +had been dead for the last ten years, but everybody called his +widow Mrs. T. P. Ayres. Mrs. Ayres kept no maid. She had barely +enough income to support herself and her daughter. She came to the +door herself. She was a small, delicate, pretty woman, and her +little thin hands were red with dish-water.</p> +<p>“Good-morning,” she said, in a weary, gentle +fashion. “Come in, Mrs. Whitman, won't you?” As she +spoke she wrinkled her forehead between her curves of gray hair. +She had always wrinkled her forehead, but in some inscrutable +fashion the wrinkles had always smoothed out. Her forehead was +smooth as a girl's. She smiled, and the smile was exactly in accord +with her voice; it was weary and gentle. There was not the +slightest joy in it, only a submission and patience which might +evince a slight hope of joy to come.</p> +<p>“I've got so much to do I ought not to stop long,” +said Sylvia, “but I thought I'd run in a minute.”</p> +<p>“Walk right in,” said Mrs. Ayres, and Sylvia +followed her into the sitting-room, which was quite charming, with +a delicate flowered paper and a net-work of green vines growing in +bracket-pots, which stood all about. There were also palms and +ferns. The small room looked like a bower, although it was very +humbly furnished. Sylvia sat down.</p> +<p>“You always look so cool in here,” she said, +“and it's a warm morning for so early in the +season.”</p> +<p>“It's the plants and vines, I guess,” replied Mrs. +Ayres, sitting down opposite Mrs. Whitman. “Lucy has real +good luck with them.”</p> +<p>“How is Lucy this morning?”</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres wrinkled her forehead again. “She's in bed with +a sick headache,” she said. “She has an awful lot of +them lately. I'm afraid she's kind of run down.”</p> +<p>“Why don't you get a tonic?”</p> +<p>“Well, I have been thinking of it, but Dr. Wallace gives +such dreadful strong medicines, and Lucy is so delicate, that I +have hesitated. I don't know but I ought to take her to Alford to +Dr. Gilbert, but she doesn't want to go. She says it is too +expensive, and she says there's nothing the matter with her; but +she has these terrible headaches almost every other day, and she +doesn't eat enough to keep a sparrow alive, and I can't help being +worried about her.”</p> +<p>“It doesn't seem right,” agreed Mrs. Whitman. +“Last time I was here I thought she didn't look real well. +She's got color, a real pretty color, but it isn't the right +kind.”</p> +<p>“That's just it,” said Mrs. Ayres, wrinkling her +forehead. “The color's pretty, but you can see too plain +where the red leaves off and where the white begins.”</p> +<p>“Speaking about color,” said Mrs. Whitman, “I +am going to ask you something.”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“Do you really think Miss Farrel's color is +natural?”</p> +<p>“I don't know. It looks so.”</p> +<p>“I know it does, but I had it real straight that she keeps +some pink stuff that she uses in a box as bold as can be, right in +sight on her wash-stand.”</p> +<p>“I don't know anything about it,” said Mrs. Ayres, +in her weary, gentle fashion. “I have heard, of course, that +some women do use such things, but none of my folks ever did, and I +never knew anybody else who did.”</p> +<p>Then Sylvia opened upon the subject which had brought her there. +She had reached it by a process as natural as nature itself.</p> +<p>“I know one thing,” said she: “I have no +opinion of that woman. I can't have. When I hear a woman saying +such things as I have heard of her saying about a girl, when I know +it isn't true, I make up my mind those things are true about the +woman herself, and she's talking about herself, because she's got +to let it out, and she makes believe it's somebody else.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres's face took on a strange expression. Her sweet eyes +hardened and narrowed. “What do you mean?” she asked, +sharply.</p> +<p>“I guess I had better not tell you what I mean. Miss +Farrel gives herself clean away just by her looks. No living woman +was ever made so there wasn't a flaw in her face but that there was +a flaw in her soul. We're none of us perfect. If there ain't a flaw +outside, there's a flaw inside; you mark my words.”</p> +<p>“What was it she said?” asked Mrs. Ayres.</p> +<p>“I don't mean to make trouble. I never did, and I ain't +going to begin now,” said Sylvia. Her face took on a sweet, +hypocritical expression.</p> +<p>“What did she say?”</p> +<p>Sylvia fidgeted. She was in reality afraid to speak, and yet her +very soul itched to do so. She answered, evasively. “When a +woman talks about a girl running after a man, I think myself she +lives in a glass house and can't afford to throw stones,” +said she. She nodded her head unpleasantly.</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres reddened. “I suppose you mean she has been +talking about my Lucy,” said she. “Well, I can tell you +one thing, and I can tell Miss Farrel, too. Lucy has never run +after Mr. Allen or any man. When she went on those errands to your +house I had to fairly make her go. She said that folks would think +she was running after Mr. Allen, even if he wasn't there, and she +has never been, to my knowledge, more than three times when he was +there, and then I made her. I told her folks wouldn't be so silly +as to think such things of a girl like her.”</p> +<p>“Folks are silly enough for anything. Of course, I knew +better; you know that, Mrs. Ayres.”</p> +<p>“I don't know what I know,” replied Mrs. Ayres, with +that forceful indignation of which a gentle nature is capable when +aroused.</p> +<p>Mrs. Whitman looked frightened. She opened her lips to speak, +when a boy came running into the yard. “Why, who is +that?” she cried, nervously.</p> +<p>“It's Tommy Smith from Gray & Snow's with some +groceries I ordered,” said Mrs. Ayres, tersely. She left the +room to admit the boy at the side door. Then Sylvia Whitman heard +voices in excited conversation. At the same time she began to +notice that the road was filled with children running and +exclaiming. She herself hurried to the kitchen door, and Mrs. Ayres +turned an ashy face in her direction. At the same time Lucy Ayres, +with her fair hair dishevelled, appeared at the top of the back +stairs listening. “Oh, it is awful!” gasped Mrs. Ayres. +“It is awful! Miss Eliza Farrel is dead, and—”</p> +<p>Sylvia grasped the other woman nervously by the arm. “And +what?” she cried.</p> +<p>Lucy gave an hysterical sob and sank down in a slender huddle on +the stairs. The grocer's boy looked at them. He had a happy, +important expression. “They say—” he began, but +Mrs. Ayres forestalled him.</p> +<p>“They say Lucinda Hart murdered her,” she screamed +out.</p> +<p>“Good land!” said Sylvia. Lucy sobbed again.</p> +<p>The boy gazed at them with intense relish. He realized the joy +of a coup. He had never been very important in his own estimation +nor that of others. Now he knew what it was to be important. +“Yes,” he said, gayly; “they say she give her rat +poison. They've sent for the sheriff from Alford.”</p> +<p>“She never did it in the world. Why, I went to school with +her,” gasped Mrs. Ayres.</p> +<p>Sylvia had the same conviction, but she backed it with logic. +“What should she do it for?” she demanded. “Miss +Farrel was a steady boarder, and Lucinda ain't had many steady +boarders lately, and she needed the money. Folks don't commit +murder without reason. What reason was there?”</p> +<p>“School ain't going to keep to-day,” remarked the +boy, with glee.</p> +<p>“Of course it ain't,” said Sylvia, angrily. +“What reason do they give?”</p> +<p>“I 'ain't heard of none,” said the boy. +“S'pose that will come out at the trial. Hannah Simmons is +going to be arrested, too. They think she knowed something about +it.”</p> +<p>“Hannah Simmons wouldn't hurt a fly,” said Sylvia. +“What makes them think she knew anything about it?”</p> +<p>“Johnny Soule, that works at the hotel stable, says she +did,” said the boy. “They think he knows a good +deal.”</p> +<p>Sylvia sniffed contemptuously. “That Johnny Soule!” +said she. “He's half Canadian. Father was French. I wouldn't +take any stock in what he said.”</p> +<p>“Lucinda never did it,” said Mrs. Ayres. “I +went to school with her.”</p> +<p>Lucy sobbed again wildly, then she laughed loudly. Her mother +turned and looked at her. “Lucy,” said she, “you +go straight back up-stairs and put this out of your mind, or you'll +be down sick. Go straight up-stairs and lie down, and I'll bring +you up some of that nerve medicine Dr. Wallace put up for you. +Maybe you can get to sleep.”</p> +<p>Lucy sobbed and laughed again. “Stop right where you +are,” said her mother, with a wonderful, firm +gentleness—“right where you are. Put this thing right +out of your mind. It's nothing you can help.”</p> +<p>Lucy sobbed and laughed again, and this time her laugh rang so +wildly that the grocer's boy looked at her with rising alarm. He +admired Lucy. “I say,” he said. “Maybe she ain't +dead, after all. I heard all this, but you never can tell anything +by what folks say. You had better mind your ma and put it all out +of your head.” The grocer's boy and Lucy had been in the same +class at school. She had never noticed him, but he had loved her as +from an immeasurable distance. Both were very young.</p> +<p>Lucy lifted a beautiful, frightened face, and stared at him. +“Isn't it so?” she cried.</p> +<p>“I dare say it ain't. You had better mind your +ma.”</p> +<p>“I dare say it's all a rumor,” said Sylvia, +soothingly.</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres echoed her. “All a made-up story, I +think,” said she. “Go right up-stairs, Lucy, and put it +out of your head.”</p> +<p>Lucy crept up-stairs with soft sobs, and they heard a door +close. Then the boy spoke again. “It's so, fast +enough,” he said, in a whisper, “but there ain't any +need for her to know it yet.”</p> +<p>“No, there isn't, poor child,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“She's dreadful nervous,” said Mrs. Ayres, +“and she thought a lot of Miss Farrel—more, I guess, +than most. The poor woman never was a favorite here. I never knew +why, and I guess nobody else ever did. I don't care what she may +have intimated—I mean what you were talking about, Sylvia. +That's all over. Lucy always seemed to like her, and the poor child +is so sensitive and nervous.”</p> +<p>“Yes, she is dreadful nervous,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“And I think she ate too much candy yesterday, too,” +said Mrs. Ayres. “She made some candy from a recipe she found +in the paper. I think her stomach is sort of upset, too. I mean to +make her think it's all talk about Miss Farrel until she's more +herself.”</p> +<p>“I would,” said Sylvia. “Poor +child.”</p> +<p>The grocer's boy made a motion to go. “I wonder if they'll +hang her,” he said, cheerfully.</p> +<p>“Hang her!” gasped Mrs. Ayres. “She never did +it any more than I did. I went to school with Lucinda +Hart.”</p> +<p>“Why should she kill a steady boarder, when the hotel has +run down so and she's been so hard up for money?” demanded +Sylvia. “Hang her! You'd better run along, sonny; the other +customers will be waiting; and you had better not talk too much +till you are sure what you are talking about.”</p> +<p>The boy went out and closed the door, and they heard his merry +whistle as he raced out of the yard.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter VII</h4> +<p>Sylvia Whitman, walking home along the familiar village street, +felt like a stranger exploring it for the first time. She had never +before seen it under the glare of tragedy which her own +consciousness threw before her eyes. No tragedy had ever been known +in East Westland since she could remember. It had been a peaceful +little community, with every day much like the one before and +after, except for the happenings of birth and death, which are the +most common happenings of nature.</p> +<p>But now came death by violence, and even the wayside weeds +seemed to wave in a lurid light. Now and then Sylvia unconsciously +brushed her eyes, as if to sweep away a cobweb which obstructed her +vision. When she reached home, that also looked strange to her, and +even her husband's face in the window had an expression which she +had never seen before. So also had Horace Allen's. Both men were in +the south room. There was in their faces no expression which seemed +to denote a cessation of conversation. In fact, nothing had passed +between the two men except the simple statement to each other of +the news which both had heard. Henry had made no comment, neither +had Horace. Both had set, with gloomy, shocked faces, entirely +still. But Sylvia, when she entered, forced the situation.</p> +<p>“Why should she kill a steady boarder, much as she needed +one?” she queried.</p> +<p>And Horace responded at once. “There is no possible +motive,” he said. “The arrest is a mere farce. It will +surely prove so.”</p> +<p>Then Henry spoke. “I don't understand, for my part, why +she is arrested at all,” he said, grimly.</p> +<p>Horace laughed as grimly. “Because there is no one else to +arrest, and the situation seems to call for some action,” he +replied.</p> +<p>“But they must have some reason.”</p> +<p>“All the reason was the girl's (Hannah Simmons, I believe +her name is) seeming to be keeping something back, and saying that +Miss Hart gave Miss Farrel some essence of peppermint last night, +and the fact that the stable-boy seems to be in love with Hannah, +and jealous and eager to do her mistress some mischief, and has +hinted at knowing something, which I don't believe, for my part, he +does.”</p> +<p>“It is all nonsense,” said Sylvia. “Whatever +Hannah Simmons is keeping to herself, it isn't killing another +woman, or knowing that Lucinda Hart did it. There was no reason for +either of those women to kill Miss Farrel, and folks don't do such +awful things without reason, unless they're crazy, and it isn't +likely that Lucinda and Hannah have both come down crazy together, +and I know it ain't in the Hart family, or the Simmons. What if +poor Lucinda did give Miss Farrel some essence of peppermint? I +gave some to Henry night before last, when he had gas in his +stomach, and it didn't kill him.”</p> +<p>“What they claim is that arsenic was in the +peppermint,” said Horace, in an odd, almost indifferent +voice.</p> +<p>“Arsenic in the peppermint!” repeated Sylvia. +“You needn't tell me Lucinda Hart put arsenic in the +peppermint, though I dare say she had some in the house to kill +rats. It's likely that old tavern was overrun with them, and I know +she lost her cat a few weeks ago. She told me herself. He was shot +when he was out hunting. Lucinda thought somebody mistook him for a +skunk. She felt real bad about it. I feel kind of guilty myself. I +can't help thinking if I'd just looked round then and hunted up a +kitten for poor Lucinda, she never would have had any need to keep +rat poison, and nobody would have suspected her of such an awful +thing. I suppose Albion Bennet right up and told she'd bought it, +first thing. I think he might have kept still, as long as he'd +boarded with Lucinda, and as many favors as she'd showed him. He +knew as well as anybody that she never gave it to Miss +Farrel.”</p> +<p>“Now, Sylvia, he had to tell if he was asked,” Henry +said, soothingly, for Sylvia was beginning to show signs of +hysterical excitement. “He couldn't do anything +else.”</p> +<p>“He could have forgot,” Sylvia returned, shrilly. +“Men ain't so awful conscientious about forgetting. He could +have forgot.”</p> +<p>“He had to tell,” repeated Henry. “Don't get +all wrought up over it, Sylvia.”</p> +<p>“I can't help it. I begin to feel guilty myself. I know I +might have found a kitten. I had a lot on my mind, with moving and +everything, but I might have done it. Albion Bennet never had the +spunk to do anything but tell all he knew. I suppose he was afraid +of his own precious neck.”</p> +<p>“Ain't it most time to see about dinner?” asked +Henry.</p> +<p>Then Sylvia went out of the room with a little hysterical +twitter like a scared bird, and the two men were left alone. +Silence came over them again. Both men looked moodily at nothing. +Finally Henry spoke.</p> +<p>“One of the worst features of any terrible thing like this +is that burdens innumerable are either heaped upon the shoulders of +the innocent, or they assume them. There's my poor wife actually +trying to make out that she is in some way to blame.”</p> +<p>“Women are a queer lot,” said Horace, in a miserable +tone.</p> +<p>Then the door opened suddenly, and Sylvia's think, excited face +appeared.</p> +<p>“You don't suppose they'll send them to prison?” she +said.</p> +<p>“They'll both be acquitted,” said Horace. +“Don't worry, Mrs. Whitman.”</p> +<p>“I've got to worry. How can I help worrying? Even if poor +Lucinda is acquitted, lots of folks will always believe it, and her +boarders will drop away, and as for Hannah Simmons, I shouldn't be +a mite surprised if it broke her match off.”</p> +<p>“It's a dreadful thing,” said Henry; “but +don't you fret too much over it, Sylvia. Maybe she killed herself, +and if they think that Lucinda won't have any trouble +afterwards.”</p> +<p>“I think some have that opinion now,” said +Horace.</p> +<p>Sylvia sniffed. “A woman don't kill herself as long as +she's got spirit enough to fix herself up,” she said. +“I saw her only yesterday in a brand-new dress, and her hair +was crimped tight enough to last a week, and her cheeks—”</p> +<p>“Come, Sylvia,” said Henry, admonishingly.</p> +<p>“You needn't be afraid. I ain't going to talk about them +that's dead and gone, and especially when they've gone in such a +dreadful way; and maybe it wasn't true,” said Sylvia. +“But it's just as I say: when a woman is fixed up the way +Miss Eliza Farrel was yesterday, she ain't within a week of making +way with herself. Seems as if I might have had forethought enough +to have got that kitten for poor Lucinda.”</p> +<p>Sylvia went out again. The men heard the rattle of dishes. +Horace rose with a heavy sigh, which was almost a sob, and went out +by the hall door, and Henry heard his retreating steps on the +stair. He frowned deeply as he sat by the window. He, too, was +bearing in some measure the burden of which he had spoken. It +seemed to him very strange that under the circumstances Horace had +not explained his mysterious meeting with the woman in the grove +north of the house the night before. Henry had a certainty as to +her identity—a certainty which he could not explain to +himself, but which was none the less fixed.</p> +<p>No suspicion of Horace, as far as the murder was +concerned—if murder it was—was in his mind, but he did +entertain a suspicion of another sort: of some possibly guilty +secret which might have led to the tragedy. “I couldn't feel +worse if he was my own son,” he thought. He wished +desperately that he had gone out in the grove and interrupted the +interview. “I'm old enough to be his father,” he told +himself, “and I know what young men are. I'm to blame +myself.”</p> +<p>When he heard Horace's approaching footsteps on the stair he +turned his face stiffly towards the window, and did not look up +when the young man entered the room. But Horace sat down opposite +and began speaking rapidly in a low voice.</p> +<p>“I don't know but I ought to go to Mr. Meeks with this +instead of you,” he said; “and I don't know that I +ought to go to anybody, but, hang it, I can't keep the little I +know to myself any longer—that is, I can't keep the whole of +it. Some I never will tell. Mr. Whitman, I don't know the exact +minute Miss Hart gave her that confounded peppermint, and Miss Hart +seems rather misty about it, and if the girl knows she won't tell; +but I suspect I may be the last person who saw that poor woman +alive. I found a note waiting for me from her when I arrived +yesterday, and—well, she wanted to see me alone about +something very particular, and she—” Horace paused and +reddened. “Well, you know what women are, and of course there +was really no place at the hotel where I could have been sure of a +private interview with her. I couldn't go to her room, and one +might as well talk in a trolley-car as that hotel parlor; and she +didn't want to come here to the house and be closeted with me, and +she didn't want to linger after school, for those school-girls are +the very devil when it comes to seeing anything; and though I will +admit it does sound ridiculous and romantic, I don't see myself +what else she could have done. She asked me in her note to step out +in the grove about ten o'clock, when the house was quiet. She wrote +she had something very important to say to me. So I felt like a +fool, but I didn't go to bed, and I stole down the front stairs, +and she was out there in the grove waiting for me, and we sat down +on the bench there and she told me some things.”</p> +<p>Henry nodded gravely. He now looked at Horace, and there was +relief in his frowning face.</p> +<p>“I can tell you some of the things that she said to +me,” continued Horace, “and I am going to. You are +connected with it—that is, you are through your wife. Miss +Farrel wasn't Miss at all. She was a married woman.” Henry +nodded again. “She had not lived with her husband long, +however, and she had been married some twenty years ago. She was +older than she looked. For some reason she did not get on with him, +and he left her. I don't myself feel that I know what the reason +was, although she pretended to tell me. She seemed to have a +feeling, poor soul, that, beautiful as she was, she excited +repulsion rather than affection in everybody with whom she came in +contact. ‘I might as well be a snake as a woman.’ Those +were just her words, and, God help her, I do believe there was +something true about them, although for the life of me I don't know +why it was.”</p> +<p>Henry looked at Horace with the eyes of a philosopher. +“Maybe it was because she wanted to charm,” he +said.</p> +<p>Horace shot a surprised glance at him. He had not expected +anything like that from Henry, even though he had long said to +himself that there were depths below the commonplace surface.</p> +<p>“Perhaps you are right,” he said, reflectively. +“I don't know but you are. She was a great beauty, and +possibly the knowledge of it made her demand too much, long for too +much, so that people dimly realized it and were repelled instead of +being attracted. I think she loved her husband for a long time +after he left her. I think she loved many others, men and women. I +think she loved women better than a woman usually does, and women +could not abide her. That I know; even the school-girls fought shy +of her.”</p> +<p>“I have seen the Ayres girl with her,” said +Henry.</p> +<p>Horace changed color. “She is not one of the +school-girls,” he replied, hastily.</p> +<p>“I think I have heard Sylvia say that Mrs. Ayres had asked +her there to tea.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I believe she has. I think perhaps the Ayres family +have paid some attention to her,” Horace said, +constrainedly.</p> +<p>“I have seen the Ayres girl with her a good deal, I +know,” said Henry.</p> +<p>“Very possibly, I dare say. Well, Miss Farrel did not +think she or any one else cared about her very much. She told me +that none of her pupils did, and I could not gainsay her, and then +she told me what I feel that I must tell you.” Horace paused. +Henry waited.</p> +<p>Then Horace resumed. He spoke briefly and to the purpose.</p> +<p>“Miss Abrahama White, who left her property to your wife, +had a sister,” he said. “The sister went away and +married, and there was a daughter. First the father died, then the +mother. The daughter, a mere child at the time, was left entirely +destitute. Miss Farrel took charge of her. She did not tell her the +truth. She wished to establish if possible some claim upon her +affection. She considered that to claim a relationship would be the +best way to further her purpose. The girl was told that Miss Farrel +was her mother's cousin. She was further told that she had +inherited a very considerable property from her mother, whereas she +had not inherited one cent. Miss Farrel gave up her entire fortune +to the child. She then, with the nervous dread of awakening dislike +instead of love which filled her very soul, managed to have the +child, in her character of an heiress, established in a family +moving in the best circles, but sadly in need of money. Then she +left her, and began supporting herself by teaching. The girl is now +grown to be a young woman, and Miss Farrel has not dared see her +more than twice since she heaped such benefits upon her. It has +been her dream that some day she might reveal the truth, and that +gratitude might induce love, but she has never dared put it to the +test. Lately she has not been very well, and the thought has +evidently come to her more than once that she might die and never +accomplish her purpose. I almost think the poor woman had a +premonition. She gave me last night the girl's address, and she +made me promise that in case of her death she should be sent for. +‘I can't bear to think that nobody will come,’ she +said. Of course I laughed at her. I thought her very morbid, +but—well, I have telegraphed to the girl to come in time for +the funeral. She is in New York. She and the people with whom she +lives have just returned from the South.”</p> +<p>“She must come here,” Henry said.</p> +<p>“I could think of no other place,” said Horace. +“You think Mrs. Whitman—”</p> +<p>“Of course,” Henry said. He started up to speak to +Sylvia, but Horace stopped him.</p> +<p>“I forgot,” he said, quickly. “Miss Farrel +asked me to promise that I should not tell the girl, in case of her +death before she had an opportunity of doing so, of what she had +done for her. ‘Let her come just because she thinks I am her +relative,’ she said, ‘and because she may possibly feel +kindly towards me. If I can have no comfort from it while I am +alive, there is no need for her to know her +obligation.’”</p> +<p>“It sounds like a mighty queer story to tell +Sylvia,” Henry said. Then he opened the door and called, and +Mrs. Whitman immediately responded. Her hands were white with +flour. She had been making biscuits. She still looked nervous and +excited.</p> +<p>“What is to pay now?” said she.</p> +<p>Henry told her in few words.</p> +<p>“You mean that Abrahama's niece was taken care of by Miss +Farrel when her mother died, and Miss Farrel got a place for her to +live with some New York folks, and you mean Miss Farrel was related +to her mother?” said Sylvia. She looked sharply at Henry.</p> +<p>“Yes,” he replied, feebly. Horace stood looking out +of the window.</p> +<p>“She wa'n't,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Now, Sylvia.”</p> +<p>“If that poor woman that's gone wanted the girl to think +she was her relation enough to lie about it I sha'n't tell her, you +can depend on that; but it's a lie,” said Sylvia. “Miss +Farrel wa'n't no relation at all to Susy White. She couldn't have +been unless she was related to me, too, on my mother's side, and +she wa'n't. I know all about my mother's family. But I sha'n't tell +her. I'm glad Miss Farrel got a home for her. It was awful that the +child was left without a cent. Of course she must come here, and +stay, too. She ought to live with her folks. We've got enough to +take care of her. If we can't do as much as rich folks, I guess it +will be full as well for the girl.”</p> +<p>Henry opened his lips to speak, but a glance from Horace checked +him. Sylvia went on talking nervously. The odd manner and tone +which Henry had noticed lately in everything she said and did +seemed intensified. She talked about what room she should make +ready for the girl. She made plan after plan. She was very pale, +then she flushed. She walked aimlessly about gesturing with her +floury hands.</p> +<p>Finally Henry took her firmly by the shoulder. “Come, +Sylvia,” he said, “she won't be here until night. Now +you had better get dinner. It's past twelve.” Sylvia gave a +quick, frightened glance at him. Then she went silently out of the +room.</p> +<p>“Mrs. Whitman does not seem well,” Horace said, +softly.</p> +<p>“I think her nerves are all out of order with what she has +gone through with lately,” said Henry. “It has been a +great change that has come to us both, Mr. Allen. When a man and +woman have lived past their youth, and made up their minds to bread +and butter, and nothing else, and be thankful if you get that much, +it seems more like a slap than a gift of Providence to have +mince-pie thrust into their mouths. It has been too much for +Sylvia, and now, of course, this awful thing that has happened has +upset her, and—”</p> +<p>He stopped, for Sylvia opened the door suddenly. “If she +wa'n't dead and gone, I wouldn't believe one word of such a tomfool +story,” said she, with vicious energy. Then she shut the door +again.</p> +<p>At dinner Sylvia ate nothing, and did not talk. Neither Henry +nor Horace said much. In the afternoon Horace went out to make some +arrangements which he had taken upon himself with regard to the +dead woman, and presently Henry followed him. Sylvia worked with +feverish energy all the afternoon setting a room in order for her +expected guest. It was a pretty room, with an old-fashioned +paper—a sprawling rose pattern on a tarnished satin ground. +The room overlooked the grove, and green branches pressed close +against two windows. There was a pretty, old-fashioned +dressing-table between the front windows, and Sylvia picked a bunch +of flowers and put them in a china vase, and set it under the +glass, and thought of the girl's face which it would presently +reflect.</p> +<p>“I wonder if she looks like her mother,” she +thought. She stood gazing at the glass, and shivered as though with +cold. Then she started at a sound of wheels outside. In front of +the house was Leander Willard, who kept the livery-stable of East +Westland. He was descending in shambling fashion over the front +wheels, steadying at the same time a trunk on the front seat; and +Horace Allen sprang out of the back of the carriage and assisted a +girl in a flutter of dark-blue skirts and veil. “She's +come!” said Sylvia.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter VIII</h4> +<p>Sylvia gave a hurried glance at her hair in the glass. It shone +like satin with a gray-gold lustre, folded back smoothly from her +temples. She eyed with a little surprise the red spots of +excitement which still remained on her cheeks. The changelessness +of her elderly visage had been evident to her so long that she was +startled to see anything else. “I look as if I had been +pulled through a knot-hole,” she muttered.</p> +<p>She took off her gingham apron, thrust it hastily into a bureau +drawer in the next room, and tied on a clean white one with a +hemstitched border. Then she went down-stairs, the starched white +bow of the apron-strings covering her slim back like a Japanese +sash. She heard voices in the south room, and entered with a little +cough. Horace and the new-comer were standing there talking. The +moment Sylvia entered, Horace stepped forward. “I hardly know +how to introduce you,” he said; “I hardly know the +relationship. But, Mrs. Whitman, here is Miss Fletcher—Miss +Rose Fletcher.”</p> +<p>“Who accepts your hospitality with the utmost +gratitude,” said Miss Rose Fletcher, extending a little hand +in a wonderful loose gray travelling glove. Mrs. Whitman took the +offered hand and let it drop. She was rigid and prim. She smiled, +but the smile was merely a widening of her thin, pale, compressed +lips. She looked at the girl with gray eyes, which had a curious +blank sharpness in them. Rose Fletcher was so very well dressed, so +very redolent of good breeding and style, that it was difficult at +first to comprehend if that was all. Finally one perceived that she +was a very pretty girl, of a sweet, childish type, in spite of her +finished manners and her very sophisticated clothes. Sylvia at +first saw nothing except the clothes, and realized nothing except +the finished manner. She immediately called to the front her own +manners, which were as finished as the girl's, albeit of a +provincial type. Extreme manners in East Westland required a wholly +artificial voice and an expression wholly foreign to the usual one. +Horace had never before seen Sylvia when all her manners were in +evidence, and he gazed at her now in astonishment and some +dismay.</p> +<p>“Her mother was own sister to Miss Abrahama White, and +Abrahama White's mother and my mother were own cousins on the +mother's side. My mother was a White,” she said. The voice +came like a slender, reedy whistle from between her moveless, +widened lips. She stood as if encased in armor. Her apron-strings +stood out fiercely and were quite evident over each hip. She held +her head very high, and the cords on her long, thin neck stood +out.</p> +<p>Poor Rose Fletcher looked a little scared and a little amused. +She cast a glance at Horace, as if for help. He did not know what +to say, but tried manfully to say it. “I have never fully +known, in such a case,” he remarked, “whether the +relationship is second cousin or first cousin once removed.” +It really seemed to him that he had never known. He looked up with +relief as Henry entered the room, and Sylvia turned to him, still +with her manners fully in evidence.</p> +<p>“Mr. Whitman, this is Miss Abrahama White's niece,” +said she.</p> +<p>She bowed stiffly herself as Henry bowed. He was accustomed to +Sylvia's company manners, but still he was not himself. He had +never seen a girl like this, and he was secretly both angry and +alarmed to note the difference between her and Sylvia, and all +women to which he had been used. However, his expression changed +directly before the quick look of pretty, childish appeal which the +girl gave him. It was Rose's first advance to all men whom she met, +her little feeler put out to determine their dispositions towards +her. It was quite involuntary. She was unconscious of it, but it +was as if she said in so many words, “Do you mean to be kind +to me? Don't you like the look of me? I mean entirely well. There +is no harm in me. Please don't dislike me.”</p> +<p>Sylvia saw the glance and interpreted it. “She looks like +her mother,” she announced, harshly. It was part of Sylvia's +extreme manners to address a guest in the third person. However, in +this case, it was in reality the clothes which had occasioned so +much formality. She immediately, after she had spoken and Henry had +awkwardly murmured his assent to her opinion, noticed how tired the +girl looked. She was a slender little thing, and looked delicate in +spite of a babyish roundness of face, which was due to +bone-formation rather than flesh.</p> +<p>Sylvia gave an impression of shoving the men aside as she +approached the girl. “You look tired to death,” said +she, and there was a sweet tone in her force voice.</p> +<p>Rose brightened, and smiled at her like a pleased child. +“Oh, I am very tired!” she cried. “I must confess +to being very tired, indeed. The train was so fast. I came on the +limited from New York, you know, and the soft-coal smoke made me +ill, and I couldn't eat anything, even if there had been anything +to eat which wasn't all full of cinders. I shall be so very glad of +a bath and an opportunity to change my gown. I shall have to beg +you to allow your maid to assist me a little. My own maid got +married last week, unexpectedly, and I have not yet replaced +her.”</p> +<p>“I don't keep a hired girl,” said Sylvia. She +looked, as Henry had, both angry and abashed. “I will fasten +up your dress in the neck if that is what you want,” said +she.</p> +<p>“Oh, that is all,” Rose assured her, and she looked +abashed, too. Even sophistication is capable of being daunted +before utterly unknown conditions. She followed Sylvia meekly +up-stairs, and Henry and Horace carried the trunk, which had been +left on the front walk, up after them.</p> +<p>Leander Willard was a man of exceeding dignity. He was never +willing to carry a trunk even into a house. “If the folks +that the trunk belongs to can't heft it in after I've brought it up +from the depot, let it set out,” he said. “I drive a +carriage to accommodate, but I ain't no porter.”</p> +<p>Therefore, Henry and Horace carried up the trunk and unstrapped +it. Rose looked around her with delight. “Oh, what a lovely +room!” she cried.</p> +<p>“It gets the morning sun,” said Sylvia. “The +paper is a little mite faded, but otherwise it's just as good as it +ever was.”</p> +<p>“It is perfectly charming,” said Rose. She tugged at +the jewelled pins in her hat. Sylvia stood watching her. When she +had succeeded in removing the hat, she thrust her slender fingers +through her fluff of blond hair and looked in the glass. Her face +appeared over the bunch of flowers, as Sylvia had thought of its +doing. Rose began to laugh. “Good gracious!” she said. +“For all I took such pains to wash my face in the lavatory, +there is a great black streak on my left cheek. Sometimes I think +the Pullmans are dirtier than the common coaches—that more +soft-coal smoke comes in those large windows; don't you think +so?”</p> +<p>Sylvia colored, but her honesty was fearless. “I don't +know what a Pullman is,” she said.</p> +<p>Rose stared for a second. “Oh, a parlor-car,” she +said. “A great many people always say parlor-car.” Rose +was almost apologetic.</p> +<p>“Did you come in a parlor-car?” asked Sylvia. Rose +wondered why her voice was so amazed, even aggressive.</p> +<p>“Why, of course; I always do,” said Rose.</p> +<p>“I've seen them go through here,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Do you mind telling me where my bath-room is?” +asked Rose, looking vaguely at the doors. She opened one. +“Oh, this is a closet!” she cried. “What a lovely +large one!”</p> +<p>“There ain't such a thing as a bath-room in this +house,” replied Sylvia. “Abrahama White, your aunt, had +means, but she always thought she had better ways for her money +than putting in bath-rooms to freeze up in winter and run up +plumbers' bills. There ain't any bath-room, but there's plenty of +good, soft rain-water from the cistern in your pitcher on the +wash-stand there, and there's a new cake of soap and plenty of +clean towels.”</p> +<p>Rose reddened. Again sophistication felt abashed before +dauntless ignorance. She ran to the wash-stand. “Oh, I beg +your pardon!” she cried. “Of course this will do +beautifully. What a charming old wash-stand!—and the water is +delightfully soft.” Rose began splashing water over her face. +She had taken off her blue travelling-gown and flung it in a heap +over a chair. Sylvia straightened it out carefully, noting with a +little awe the rustle of its silk linings; then she hung it in the +closet. “I'll hang it here, where it won't get all of a +muss,” said she. Already she began to feel a pleasure which +she had never known—the pleasure of chiding a young creature +from the heights of her own experience. She began harshly, but +before she had finished her voice had a tender cadence.</p> +<p>“Oh, thank you,” said the girl, still bending over +the wash-basin. “I know I am careless with my things. You +see, I have always been so dependent upon my maid to straighten out +everything for me. You will do me good. You will teach me to be +careful.”</p> +<p>She turned around, wiping her face, and smiling at Sylvia, who +felt her very soul melt within her, although she still remained +rigidly prim, with her stiff apron-strings standing out at right +angles. She looked at the girl's slender arms and thin neck, which +was pretty though thin. “You don't weigh much, do you?” +she said.</p> +<p>“A little over a hundred, I think.”</p> +<p>“You must eat lots of fresh vegetables and eggs, and drink +milk, and get more flesh on your bones,” said Sylvia, and her +voice was full of delight, although now—as always, +lately—a vague uneasiness lurked in her eyes. Rose, regarding +her, thought, with a simple shrewdness which was inborn, that her +new cousin must have something on her mind. She wondered if it was +her aunt's death. “I suppose you thought a good deal of my +aunt who died,” she ventured, timidly.</p> +<p>Sylvia regarded her with quick suspicion. She paled a little. +“I thought enough of her,” she replied. “She had +always lived here. We were distant-related, and we never had any +words, but I didn't see much of her. She kept herself to herself, +especially of late years. Of course, I thought enough of her, and +it makes me feel real bad sometimes—although I own I can't +help being glad to have so many nice things—to think she had +to go away and leave them.”</p> +<p>“I know you must feel so,” said Rose. “I +suppose you feel sometimes as if they weren't yours at +all.”</p> +<p>Sylvia turned so pale that Rose started. “Why, what is the +matter? Are you ill?” she cried, running to her. “Let +me get some water for you. You are so white.”</p> +<p>Sylvia pushed her away. “There's nothing the matter with +me,” she said. “Folks can't always be the same color +unless they're painted.” She gave her head a shake as if to +set herself right, and turned resolutely towards Rose's trunk. +“Can you unpack, yourself, or do you want me to help +you?” she asked.</p> +<p>Rose eyed the trunk helplessly, then she looked doubtfully at +Sylvia. A woman who was a relative of hers, and who lived in a +really grand old house, and was presumably well-to-do, and had no +maids at command, but volunteered to do the service herself, was an +anomaly to her.</p> +<p>“I'm afraid it will be too much trouble,” she said, +hesitatingly. “Marie always unpacked my trunk, but you have +no—”</p> +<p>“I guess if I had a girl I wouldn't set her to unpacking +your trunk,” said Sylvia, vigorously. “Where is your +key?”</p> +<p>“In my bag,” replied Rose, and she searched for the +key in her dark-blue, gold-trimmed bag. “Mrs. Wilton's maid, +Anne, packed my trunk for me,” she said. “Anne packs +very nicely. Mr. Wilton and her sister, Miss Pamela Mack, did not +know whether I ought to put on mourning or not for Cousin Eliza, +but they said it would be only proper for me to wear black to the +funeral. So I have a ready-made black gown and hat in the trunk. I +hardly knew how much to bring. I did not know—” She +stopped. She had intended to say—“how long I should +stay,” but she was afraid.</p> +<p>Sylvia finished for her. “You can stay just as long as you +are a mind to,” said she. “You can live here all the +rest of your life, as far as that is concerned. You are welcome. It +would suit me, and it would suit Mr. Whitman.”</p> +<p>Rose looked at Sylvia in amazement as she knelt stiffly on the +floor unlocking her trunk. “Thank you, you are very +kind,” she said, feebly. She had a slight sensation of fear +at such a wealth of hospitality offered her from a stranger, +although she was a distant relative.</p> +<p>“You know this was your own aunt's house and your own +aunt's things,” said Sylvia, beginning to remove articles +from the trunk, “and I want you to feel at home +here—just as if you had a right here.” The words were +cordial, but there was a curious effect as if she were repeating a +well-rehearsed lesson.</p> +<p>“Thank you,” Rose said again, more feebly than +before. She watched Sylvia lifting out gingerly a fluffy white +gown, which trailed over her lean arm to the floor. “That is +a tea-gown; I think I will put it on now,” said Rose. +“It will be so comfortable, and you are not formal here, are +you?”</p> +<p>“Eh?”</p> +<p>“You are not formal here in East Westland, are +you?”</p> +<p>“No,” replied Sylvia, “we ain't formal. So you +want to put on—this?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I think I will.”</p> +<p>Sylvia laid the tea-gown on the bed, and turned to the trunk +again.</p> +<p>“You know, of course, that Aunt Abrahama and mamma were +estranged for years before mamma died,” said Rose. She sat +before the white dressing-table watching Sylvia, and the lovely +turn of her neck and her blond head were reflected in the glass +above the vase of flowers.</p> +<p>“Yes, I knew something about it.”</p> +<p>“I never did know much, except that Aunt Abrahama did not +approve of mamma's marriage, and we never saw her nor heard of her. +Wasn't it strange,” she went on, confidentially, “how +soon after poor mamma's death all my money came to me?”</p> +<p>Sylvia turned on her. “Have you got money?” said +she. “I thought you were poor.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I think I have a great deal of money. I don't know +how much. My lawyers take care of it, and there is a trustee, who +is very kind. He is a lawyer, too. He was a friend of poor Cousin +Eliza's. His name is McAllister. He lives in Chicago, but he comes +to New York quite often. He is quite an old gentleman, but very +nice indeed. Oh yes, I have plenty of money. I always have had ever +since mamma died—at least, since a short time after. But we +were very poor, I think, after papa died. I think we must have +been. I was only a little girl when mamma died, but I seem to +remember living in a very little, shabby place in New +York—very little and shabby—and I seem to remember a +great deal of noise. Sometimes I wonder if we could have lived +beside the elevated road. It does not seem possible that we could +have been as poor as that, but sometimes I do wonder. And I seem to +remember a close smell about our rooms, and that they were very +hot, and I remember when poor mamma died, although I was so young. +I remember a great many people, who seemed very kind, came in, and +after that I was in a place with a good many other little girls. I +suppose it was a school. And then—” Rose stopped and +turned white, and a look of horror came over her face.</p> +<p>“What then?” asked Sylvia. “Don't you feel +well, child?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I feel well—as well as I ever feel when I +almost remember something terrible and never quite do. Oh, I hope I +never shall quite remember. I think I should die if I +did.”</p> +<p>Sylvia stared at her. Rose's face was fairly convulsed. Sylvia +rose and hesitated a moment, then she stepped close to the girl and +pulled the fair head to her lean shoulder. “Don't; you +mustn't take on so,” she said. “Don't try to remember +anything if it makes you feel like that. You'll be down +sick.”</p> +<p>“I am trying not to remember, and always the awful dread +lest I shall comes over me,” sobbed the girl. “Mr. +McAllister says not to try to remember, too, but I am so horribly +afraid that I shall try in spite of me. Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela +don't know anything about it. I never said anything about it to +them. I did once to Mr. McAllister, and I did to Cousin Eliza, and +she said not to try, and now I am telling you, I suppose because +you are related to me. It came over me all of a sudden.”</p> +<p>Rose sobbed again. Sylvia smoothed her hair, then she shook her +by the slender, soft shoulders, and again that overpowering delight +seized her. “Come, now,” she said, “don't you cry +another minute. You get up and lay your underclothes away in the +bureau drawers. It's almost time to get supper, and I can't spend +much more time here.”</p> +<p>Rose obeyed. She packed away piles of laced and embroidered +things in the bureau drawers, and under Sylvia's directions hung up +her gowns in the closet. As she did this she volunteered further +information.</p> +<p>“I do remember one thing,” she said, with a shudder, +“and I always know if I could remember back of that the +dreadful thing would come to me.” She paused for a moment, +then she said, in a shocked voice: “Mrs. Whitman.”</p> +<p>“What is it?”</p> +<p>“I really do remember that I was in a hospital once when I +was little. I remember the nurses and the little white beds. That +was not dreadful at all. Everybody petted me, but that was when the +trying not to remember began.”</p> +<p>“Don't you think of it another minute,” Sylvia said, +sternly.</p> +<p>“I won't; I won't, really. I—”</p> +<p>“For goodness' sake, child, don't hang that heavy coat +over that lace waist—you'll ruin it!” cried Sylvia.</p> +<p>Rose removed the coat hurriedly, and resumed, as Sylvia took it +out of her hand: “It was right after that Cousin Eliza Farrel +came, and then all that money was left to me by a cousin of +father's, who died. Then I went to live with Mrs. Wilton and Miss +Pamela, and I went to school, and I went abroad, and I always had +plenty, and never any trouble, except once in a while being afraid +I should remember something dreadful. Poor Cousin Eliza Farrel +taught school all the time. I never saw her but twice after the +first time. When I grew older I tried to have her come and live +with me. Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela have always been very nice to +me, but I have never loved them. I could never seem to get at +enough of them to love.”</p> +<p>“You had better put on that now,” said Sylvia, +indicating the fluffy mass on the bed. “I'll help +you.”</p> +<p>“I don't like to trouble you,” Rose said, almost +pitifully, but she stood still while Sylvia, again with that odd +sensation of delight, slipped over the young head a lace-trimmed +petticoat, and fastened it, and then the tea-gown. The older woman +dressed the girl with exactly the same sensations that she might +have experienced in dressing her own baby for the first time. When +the toilet was completed she viewed the result, however, with +something that savored of disapproval.</p> +<p>Rose, after looking in the glass at her young beauty in its +setting of lace and silk, looked into Sylvia's face for the +admiration which she felt sure of seeing there, and shrank. +“What is the matter? Don't I look nice?” she +faltered.</p> +<p>Sylvia looked critically at the sleeves of the tea-gown, which +were mere puffs of snowy lace, streaming with narrow ribbons, +reaching to the elbow. “Do they wear sleeves like that now in +New York?” asked she.</p> +<p>“Why, yes!” replied Rose. “This tea-gown came +home only last week from Madame Felix.”</p> +<p>“They wear sleeves puffed at the bottom instead of the +top, and a good deal longer, in East Westland,” said +Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Why, this was made from a Paris model,” said Rose, +meekly. Again sophistication was abashed before the confidence of +conservatism.</p> +<p>“I don't know anything about Paris models,” said +Sylvia. “Mrs. Greenaway gets all her patterns right from +Boston.”</p> +<p>“I hardly think madame would have made the sleeves this +way unless it was the latest,” said Rose.</p> +<p>“I don't know anything about the latest,” said +Sylvia. “We folks here in East Westland try to get the +<em>best</em>.” Sylvia felt as if she were chiding her own +daughter. She spoke sternly, but her eyes beamed with pleasure. The +young girl's discomfiture seemed to sweeten her very soul.</p> +<p>“For mercy's sake, hold up your dress going +down-stairs,” she admonished. “I swept the stairs this +morning, but the dust gathers before you can say boo, and that +dress won't do up.”</p> +<p>Rose gathered up the tail of her gown obediently, and she also +experienced a certain odd pleasure. New England blood was in her +veins. It was something new and precious to be admonished as a New +England girl might be admonished by a fond mother.</p> +<p>When she went into the south room, still clinging timidly to her +lace train, Horace rose. Henry sat still. He looked at her with +pleased interest, but it did not occur to him to rise. Horace +always rose when Sylvia entered a room, and Henry always rather +resented it. “Putting on society airs,” he thought to +himself, with a sneer.</p> +<p>However, he smiled involuntarily; the girl was so very pretty +and so very unlike anything which he had ever seen. “Dressed +up as if she were going to a ball, in a dress made like a +night-gown,” he thought, but he smiled. As for Horace, he +felt dazzled. He had scarcely realized how pretty Rose was under +the dark-blue mist of her veil. He placed a chair for her, and +began talking about the journey and the weather while Sylvia got +supper. Henry was reading the local paper. Rose's eyes kept +wandering to that. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, was across the +room in a white swirl, and snatched the paper from Henry's +hands.</p> +<p>“What is this, oh, what is this?” she cried out.</p> +<p>She had read before Horace could stop her. She turned upon him, +then upon Henry. Her face was very pale and working with +emotion.</p> +<p>“Oh,” she cried, “you only telegraphed me that +poor Cousin Eliza was dead! You did not either of you tell me she +was murdered. I loved her, although I had not seen her for years, +because I have so few to whom my love seemed to belong. I was sorry +because she was dead, but murdered!”</p> +<p>Rose threw herself on a chair, and sobbed and sobbed.</p> +<p>“I loved her; I did love her,” she kept repeating, +like a distressed child. “I did love her, poor Cousin Eliza, +and she was murdered. I did love her.”</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter IX</h4> +<p>Horace was right in his assumption that the case against Lucinda +Hart and Hannah Simmons would never be pressed. Although it was +proved beyond a doubt that Eliza Farrel had swallowed arsenic in a +sufficiently large quantity to cause death, the utter absence of +motive was in the favor of the accused, and then the suspicion that +the poison might have been self-administered, if not with suicidal +intent, with another, steadily gained ground. Many thought Miss +Farrel's wonderful complexion might easily have been induced by the +use of arsenic.</p> +<p>At all events, the evidence against Lucinda and Hannah, when +sifted, was so exceedingly flimsy, and the lack of motive grew so +evident, that there was no further question of bringing them to +trial. Still the suspicion, once raised, grew like a weed, as +suspicion does grow in the ready soil of the human heart. For a +month after the tragedy it seemed as if Sylvia Whitman's prophecy +concerning the falling off of the hotel guests was destined to +fail. The old hostelry was crowded. Newspaper men and women from +all parts of the country flocked there, and also many not connected +with the press, who were morbidly curious and revelled in the +sickly excitement of thinking they might be living in the house of +a poisoner. Lucinda Hart sent in her resignation from the church +choir. Her experience, the first time she had sung after Eliza +Farrel's death, did not exactly daunt her; she was not easily +daunted. But she had raised her husky contralto, and lifted her +elderly head in its flowered bonnet before that watchful audience +of old friends and neighbors, and had gone home and written her +stiffly worded note of resignation.</p> +<p>She attended church the following Sunday. She said to herself +that her absence might lead people to think there was some ground +for the awful charge which had been brought against her. She bought +a smart new bonnet and sat among the audience, and heard Lucy +Ayres, who had a beautiful contralto, sing in her place. Lucy sang +well, and looked very pretty in her lace blouse and white hat, but +she was so pale that people commented on it. Sylvia, who showed a +fairly antagonistic partisanship for Lucinda, spoke to her as she +came out of church, and walked with her until their roads divided. +Sylvia left Henry to follow with Rose Fletcher, who was still +staying in East Westland, and pressed close to Lucinda.</p> +<p>“How are you?” she said.</p> +<p>“Well enough; why shouldn't I be?” retorted +Lucinda.</p> +<p>It was impossible to tell from her manner whether she was +grateful for, or resented, friendly advances. She held her head +very high. There was a stiff, jetted ornament on her new bonnet, +and it stood up like a crest. She shot a suspicious glance at +Sylvia. Lucinda in those days entertained that suspicion of +suspicion which poisons the very soul.</p> +<p>“I don't know why you shouldn't be,” replied Sylvia. +She herself cast an angry glance at the people around them, and +that angry glance was like honey to Lucinda. “You were a fool +to give up your place in the choir,” said Sylvia, still with +that angry, wandering gaze. “I'd sung. I'd shown 'em; and I'd +sung out of tune if I'd wanted to.”</p> +<p>“You don't know what it was like last Sunday,” said +Lucinda then. She did not speak complainingly or piteously. There +was proud strength in her voice, but it was emphatic.</p> +<p>“I guess I do know,” said Sylvia. “I saw +everybody craning their necks, and all them strangers. You've got a +lot of strangers at the hotel, haven't you, Lucinda?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Lucinda, and there was an echo in her +monosyllable like an expletive.</p> +<p>Sylvia nodded sympathizingly. “Some of them write for the +papers, I suppose?” said she.</p> +<p>“Some of them. I know it's my bread-and-butter to have +them, but I never saw such a parcel of folks. Talk about eyes in +the backs of heads, they're all eyes and all ears. Sometimes I +think they ain't nothing except eyes and ears and tongue. But +there's a lot besides who like to think maybe they're eating +poison. I know I'm watched every time I stir up a mite of cake, but +I stir away.”</p> +<p>“You must have your hands full.”</p> +<p>“Yes; I had to get Abby Smith to come in and +help.”</p> +<p>“She ain't good for much.”</p> +<p>“No, she ain't. She's thinkin' all the time of how she +looks, instead of what she's doing. She waits on table, though, and +helps wash dishes. She generally forgets to pass the vegetables +till the meat is all et up, and they're lucky if they get any +butter; but I can't help it. They only pay five dollars a week, and +get a lot of enjoyment out of watching me and Hannah, and they +can't expect everything.”</p> +<p>The two women walked along the country road. There were many +other people besides the church-going throng in their Sunday best, +but they seemed isolated, although closely watched. Presently, +however, a young man, well dressed in light gray, with a white +waistcoat, approached them.</p> +<p>“Why, good-day, Miss Hart!” he said, raising his +hat.</p> +<p>Lucinda nodded stiffly and walked on. She did not speak to him, +but to Sylvia. “He is staying at the hotel. He writes for a +New York paper,” she informed Sylvia, distinctly.</p> +<p>The young man laughed. “And Miss Hart is going to write +for it, too,” he said, pleasantly and insinuatingly. +“She is going to write an article upon how it feels to be +suspected of a crime when one is innocent, and it will be the +leading feature in next Sunday's paper. She is to have her picture +appear with it, too, and photographs of her famous hotel and the +room in which the murder was said to have been committed, aren't +you, Miss Hart?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” replied Lucinda, with stolidity.</p> +<p>Sylvia stared with amazement. “Why, Lucinda!” she +gasped.</p> +<p>“When I find out folks won't take no, I give 'em +yes,” said Lucinda, grimly.</p> +<p>“I knew I could finally persuade Miss Hart,” said +the young man, affably. He was really very much of a gentleman. He +touched his hat, striking into a pleasant by-path across a field to +a wood beyond.</p> +<p>“He's crazy over the country,” remarked Lucinda; and +then she was accosted again, by another gentleman. This time he was +older and stouter, and somewhat tired in his aspect, but every whit +as genially persuasive.</p> +<p>“He writes for a New York paper,” said Lucinda to +Sylvia, in exactly the same tone which she had used previously. +“He wants me to write a piece for his paper on my first +twenty-four hours under suspicion of crime.”</p> +<p>“And you are going to write it, aren't you, Miss +Hart?” asked the gentleman.</p> +<p>“Yes,” replied Lucinda, with alacrity.</p> +<p>This time the gentleman looked a trifle suspicious. He pressed +his inquiry. “Can you let us have the copy by +Wednesday?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Lucinda. Her “yes” had the +effect of a snap.</p> +<p>The gentleman talked a little more at length with regard to his +article, and Lucinda never failed with her ready +“yes.”</p> +<p>They were almost at the turn of the road, where Sylvia would +leave Lucinda, when a woman appeared. She was young, but she looked +old, and her expression was one of spiritual hunger.</p> +<p>“This lady writes for a Boston paper,” said Lucinda. +“She came yesterday. She wants me to write a piece for her +paper upon women's unfairness to women.”</p> +<p>“Based upon the late unfortunate occurrence at Miss Hart's +hotel,” said the woman.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Lucinda, “of course; everything is +based on that. She wants me to write a piece upon how ready women +are to accuse other women of doing things they didn't +do.”</p> +<p>“And you are going to write it?” said the woman, +eagerly.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Lucinda.</p> +<p>“Oh, thank you! you are a perfect dear,” said the +woman. “I am so much pleased, and so will Mr. Evans be when +he hears the news. Now I must ask you to excuse me if I hurry past, +for I ought to wire him at once. I can get back to Boston +to-night.”</p> +<p>The woman had left them, with a swish of a frilled silk +petticoat under a tailored skirt, when Sylvia looked at Lucinda. +“You ain't goin' to?” said she.</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“But you said so.”</p> +<p>“You'd say anything to get rid of them. I've said no till +I found out they wouldn't take it, so then I began to say yes. I +guess I've said yes, in all, to about seventeen.”</p> +<p>“And you don't mean to write a thing?”</p> +<p>“I guess I ain't going to begin writing for the papers at +my time of life.”</p> +<p>“But what will they do?”</p> +<p>“They won't get the pieces.”</p> +<p>“Can't they sue you, or anything?”</p> +<p>“Let them sue if they want to. After what I've been +through lately I guess I sha'n't mind that.”</p> +<p>“And you are telling every one of them you'll write a +piece?”</p> +<p>“Of course I am. It's the only thing they'll let me tell +them. I want to get rid of them somehow.”</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at Lucinda anxiously. “Is it true that +Albion Bennet has left?” she said.</p> +<p>“Yes; he was afraid of getting poisoned. Mrs. Jim Jones +has taken him. I reckon I sha'n't have many steady boarders after +this has quieted down.”</p> +<p>“But how are you going to get along, Lucinda?”</p> +<p>“I shall get along. Everybody gets along. What's heaped on +you you have to get along with. I own the hotel, and I shall keep +more hens and raise more garden truck, and let Hannah go if I can't +pay her. I shall have some business, enough to keep me alive, I +guess.”</p> +<p>“Is it true that Amos Quimby has jilted Hannah on account +of—?”</p> +<p>“Guess so. He hasn't been near her since.”</p> +<p>“Ain't it a shame?”</p> +<p>“Hannah's got to live with what's heaped on her shoulders, +too,” said Lucinda. “Folks had ought to be thankful +when the loads come from other people's hands, instead of their +own, and make the best of it. Hannah has got a good appetite. It +ain't going to kill her. She can go away from East Westland +by-and-by if she wants to, and get another beau. Folks didn't +suspect her much, anyway. I've got the brunt of it.”</p> +<p>“Lucinda,” said Sylvia, earnestly. “Folks +can't really believe you'd go and do such a thing.”</p> +<p>“It's like flies after molasses,” said Lucinda. +“I never felt I was so sweet before in my life.”</p> +<p>“What can they think you'd go and poison a good, steady +boarder like that for?”</p> +<p>“She paid a dollar a day,” said Lucinda.</p> +<p>“I know she did.”</p> +<p>“And I liked her,” said Lucinda. “I know lots +of folks didn't, but I did. I know what folks said, and I'll own I +found things in her room, but I don't care what folks do to their +outsides as long as their insides are right. Miss Farrel was a real +good woman, and she had a kind of hard time, too.”</p> +<p>“Why, I thought she had a real good place in the +high-school; and teachers earn their money dreadful +easy.”</p> +<p>“It wasn't that.”</p> +<p>“What was it?”</p> +<p>Lucinda hesitated. “Well,” she said, finally, +“it can't do her any harm, now she's dead and gone, and I +don't know as it was anything against her, anyway. She just set her +eyes by your boarder.”</p> +<p>“Not Mr. Allen? You don't mean Mr. Allen, +Lucinda?”</p> +<p>“What other boarder have you had? I've known about it for +a long time. Hannah and me both have known, but we never opened our +lips, and I don't want it to go any further now.”</p> +<p>“How did you find out?”</p> +<p>“By keeping my eyes and ears open. How does anybody find +out anything?”</p> +<p>“I don't believe Mr. Allen ever once thought of +her,” said Sylvia, and there was resentment in her voice.</p> +<p>“Of course he didn't. Maybe he'll take a shine to that +girl you've got with you now.”</p> +<p>“Neither one of them has even thought of such a +thing,” declared Sylvia, and her voice was almost +violent.</p> +<p>“Well, I don't know,” Lucinda said, indifferently. +“I have had too much to look out for of my own affairs since +the girl came to know anything about that. I only thought of their +being in the same house. I always had sort of an idea myself that +maybe Lucy Ayres would be the one.”</p> +<p>“I hadn't,” said Sylvia. “Not but +she—well, she looked real sick to-day. She didn't look fit to +stand up there and sing. I should think her mother would be worried +about her. And she don't sing half as well as you do.”</p> +<p>“Yes, she does,” replied Lucinda. “She sings +enough sight better than I do.”</p> +<p>“Well, I don't know much about music,” admitted +Sylvia. “I can't tell if anybody gets off the key.”</p> +<p>“I can,” said Lucinda, firmly. “She sings +enough sight better than I can, but I sang plenty well enough for +them, and if I hadn't been so mad at the way I've been treated I'd +kept on. Now they can get on without me. Lucy Ayres does look +miserable. There's consumption in her family, too. Well, it's good +for her lungs to sing, if she don't overdo it. Good-bye, +Sylvia.”</p> +<p>“Good-bye,” said Sylvia. She hesitated a moment, +then she said: “Don't you mind, Lucinda. Henry and I think +just the same of you as we've always thought, and there's a good +many besides us. You haven't any call to feel bad.”</p> +<p>“I don't feel bad,” said Lucinda. “I've got +spunk enough and grit enough to bear any load that I 'ain't heaped +on my own shoulders, and the Lord knows I 'ain't heaped this. Don't +you worry about me, Sylvia. Good-bye.”</p> +<p>Lucinda went her way. She held her nice black skirt high, but +her plodding feet raised quite a cloud of dust. Her shoulders were +thrown back, her head was very erect, the jetted ornament on her +bonnet shone like a warrior's crest. She stepped evenly out of +sight, as evenly as if she had been a soldier walking in line and +saying to himself, “Left, right; left, right.”</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter X</h4> +<p>When Sylvia reached home she found Rose Fletcher and Horace +Allen sitting on the bench under the oak-trees of the grove north +of the house. She marched out there and stood before them, holding +her fringed parasol in such a way that it made a concave frame for +her stern, elderly face and thin shoulders. “Rose,” +said she, “you had better go into the house and lay down till +dinner-time. You have been walking in the sun, and it is warm, and +you look tired.”</p> +<p>She spoke at once affectionately and severely. It seemed almost +inconceivable that this elderly country woman could speak in such +wise to the city-bred girl in her fashionable attire, with her air +of self-possession.</p> +<p>But the girl looked up at her as if she loved her, and answered, +in just the way in which Sylvia liked her to answer, with a sort of +pretty, childish petulance, defiant, yet yielding. “I am not +in the least tired,” said she, “and it did not hurt me +to walk in the sun, and I like to sit here under the +trees.”</p> +<p>Rose was charming that morning. Her thick, fair hair was rolled +back from her temples, which had at once something noble and +childlike about them. Her face was as clear as a cameo. She was +dressed in mourning for her aunt, but her black robe was thin and +the fine curves of her shoulders and arms were revealed, and the +black lace of her wide hat threw her fairness into relief like a +setting of onyx.</p> +<p>“You had better go into the house,” said Sylvia, her +eyes stern, her mouth smiling. A maternal instinct which dominated +her had awakened suddenly in the older woman's heart. She adored +the girl to such an extent that the adoration fairly pained her. +Rose herself might easily have found this exacting affection, this +constant watchfulness, irritating, but she found it sweet. She +could scarcely remember her mother, but the memory had always been +as one of lost love. Now she seemed to have found it again. She +fairly coquetted with this older woman who loved her, and whom she +loved, with that charming coquettishness sometimes seen in a +daughter towards her mother. She presumed upon this affection which +she felt to be so staple. She affronted Sylvia with a delicious +sense of her own power over her and an underlying affection, which +had in it the protective instinct of youth which dovetailed with +the protective instinct of age.</p> +<p>It had been planned that she was to return to New York +immediately after Miss Farrel's funeral. In fact, her ticket had +been bought and her trunk packed, when a telegram arrived rather +late at night. Rose had gone to bed when Sylvia brought it up to +her room. “Don't be scared,” she said, holding the +yellow envelope behind her. Rose stared at her, round-eyed, from +her white nest. She turned pale.</p> +<p>“What is it?” she said, tremulously.</p> +<p>“There's no need for you to go and think anything has +happened until you read it,” Sylvia said. “You must be +calm.”</p> +<p>“Oh, what is it?”</p> +<p>“A telegram,” replied Sylvia, solemnly. “You +must be calm.”</p> +<p>Rose laughed. “Oh, Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela are forever +sending telegrams,” she said. “Very likely it is only +to say somebody will meet me at the Grand Central.”</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at the girl in amazement, as she coolly opened and +read the telegram. Rose's face changed expression. She regarded the +yellow paper thoughtfully a moment before she spoke.</p> +<p>“If anything has happened, you must be calm,” said +Sylvia, looking at her anxiously. “Of course you have lived +with those people so many years you have learned to think a good +deal of them; that is only natural; but, after all, they ain't your +own.”</p> +<p>Rose laughed again, but in rather a perplexed fashion. +“Nothing has happened,” she said—“at least, +nothing that you are thinking of—but—”</p> +<p>“But what?”</p> +<p>“Why, Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela are going to sail for +Genoa to-morrow, and that puts an end to my going to New York to +them.”</p> +<p>A great brightness overspread Sylvia's face. “Well, you +ain't left stranded,” she said. “You've got your home +here.”</p> +<p>Rose looked gratefully at her. “You do make me feel as if +I had, and I don't know what I should do if you did not, +but”—she frowned perplexedly—“all the same, +one would not have thought they would have gone off in this way +without giving me a moment's notice,” she said, in rather an +injured fashion, “after I have lived with them so long. I +never thought they really cared much about me. Mrs. Wilton and Miss +Pamela look too hard at their own tracks to get much interest in +anybody or anything outside; but starting off in this way! They +might have thought that I would like to go—at least they +might have told me.”</p> +<p>Suddenly her frown of perplexity cleared away. “I know +what has happened,” she said, with a nod to Sylvia. “I +know exactly what has happened.”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“Mrs. Wilton's and Miss Pamela's aunt Susan has died, and +they've got the money. They have been waiting for it ever since I +have been with them. Their aunt was over ninety, and it did begin +to seem as if she would never die.”</p> +<p>“Was she very rich?”</p> +<p>“Oh, very; millions; and she never gave a cent to Mrs. +Wilton and Miss Pamela. She has died, and they have just made up +their minds to go away. They have always said they should live +abroad as soon as they were able.” Rose looked a little +troubled for a moment, then she laughed. “They kept me as +long as they needed me,” said she, with a pleasant cynicism, +“and I don't know but I had lived with them long enough to +suit myself. Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela were always nice to me, +but sometimes—well, sometimes I felt so outside them that I +was awfully lonesome. And Mrs. Wilton always did just what you knew +she would, and so did Miss Pamela, and it was a little like living +with machines that were wound up to do the right thing by you, but +didn't do it of their own accord. Now they have run down, just like +machines. I know as well as I want to that Aunt Susan has died and +left them her money. I shall get a letter to-morrow telling me +about it. I think myself that Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela will get +married now. They never gave up, you know. Mrs. Wilton's husband +died ages ago, and she was as much of an old maid as Miss Pamela, +and neither of them would give up. They will be countesses or +duchesses or something within a year.”</p> +<p>Rose laughed, and Sylvia beamed upon her. “If you feel +that you can stay here,” she said, timidly.</p> +<p>“<em>If</em> I feel that I can,” said Rose. She +stretched out her slender arms, from which the lace-trimmed sleeves +of her night-gown fell away to the shoulder, and Sylvia let them +close around her thin neck and felt the young cheek upon her own +with a rapture like a lover's.</p> +<p>“Those folks she lived with in New York are going to +Europe to-morrow,” she told Henry, when she was down-stairs +again, “and they have treated that poor child mean. They have +never told her a word about it until now. She says she thinks their +rich aunt has died and left them her money, and they have just +cleared out and left her.”</p> +<p>“Well, she can stay with us as long as she is +contented,” said Henry.</p> +<p>“I rather guess she can,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>Henry regarded her with the wondering expression which was often +on his face nowadays. He had glimpses of the maternal depths of his +wife's heart, which, while not understanding, he acquiesced in; but +there was something else which baffled him.</p> +<p>But now for Sylvia came a time of contentment, apparently beyond +anything which had ever come into her life. She fairly revelled in +her possession of Rose, and the girl in her turn seemed to +reciprocate. Although the life in East Westland was utterly at +variance with the life she had known, she settled down in it, of +course with sundry hitches of adjustment. For instance, she could +not rid herself at first of the conviction that she must have, as +she had always had, a maid.</p> +<p>“I don't know how to go to work,” she said to Sylvia +one day. “Of course I must have a maid, but I wonder if I had +better advertise or write some of my friends. Betty Morrison may +know of some one, or Sally Maclean. Betty and Sally always seem to +be able to find ways out of difficulties. Perhaps I had better +write them. Maybe it would be safer than to advertise.”</p> +<p>Sylvia and Rose were sitting together in the south room that +afternoon. Sylvia looked pathetically and wistfully at the girl. +“What do you want a maid for?” she asked, timidly.</p> +<p>Rose stared. “What for? Why, what I always want a maid +for: to attend to my wardrobe and assist me in dressing, to brush +my hair, and—everything,” ended Rose, +comprehensively.</p> +<p>Sylvia continued to regard her with that wistful, pathetic +look.</p> +<p>“I can sew braid on your dresses, and darn your stockings, +and button up your dresses, and brush your hair, too, just as well +as anybody,” she said.</p> +<p>Rose ran over to her and went down on her knees beside her. +“You dear,” she said, “as if you didn't have +enough to do now!”</p> +<p>“This is a very convenient house to do work in,” +said Sylvia, “and now I have my washing and ironing done, +I've got time on my hands. I like to sew braid on and darn +stockings, and always did, and it's nothing at all to fasten up +your waists in the back; you know that.”</p> +<p>“You dear,” said Rose again. She nestled her fair +head against Sylvia's slim knees. Sylvia thrilled. She touched the +soft puff of blond hair timidly with her bony fingers. “But I +have always had a maid,” Rose persisted, in a somewhat +puzzled way. Rose could hardly conceive of continued existence +without a maid. She had managed very well for a few days, but to +contemplate life without one altogether seemed like contemplating +the possibility of living without a comb and hair-brush. Sylvia's +face took on a crafty expression.</p> +<p>“Well,” said she, “if you must have a maid, +write your friends, and I will have another leaf put in the +dining-table.”</p> +<p>Rose raised her head and stared at her. “Another leaf in +the dining-table?” said she, vaguely.</p> +<p>“Yes. I don't think there's room for more than four +without another leaf.”</p> +<p>“But—my maid would not eat at the table with +us.”</p> +<p>“Would she be willing to eat in the kitchen—cold +victuals—after we had finished?”</p> +<p>Rose looked exceedingly puzzled. “No, she would not; at +least, no maid I ever had would have,” she admitted.</p> +<p>“Where is she going to eat, then? Would she wait till +after we were through and eat in the dining-room?”</p> +<p>“I don't believe she would like that, either.”</p> +<p>“Where is she going to eat?” demanded Sylvia, +inexorably.</p> +<p>Rose gazed at her.</p> +<p>“She could have a little table in here, or in the +parlor,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>Rose laughed. “Oh, that would never do!” said she. +“Of course there was a servants' dining-room at Mrs. +Wilton's, and there always is in a hotel, you know. I never thought +of that.”</p> +<p>“She has got to eat somewhere. Where is she going to +eat?” asked Sylvia, pressing the question.</p> +<p>Rose got up and kissed her. “Oh, well, I won't bother +about it for a while, anyway,” said she. “Now I think +of it, Betty is sure to be off to Newport by now, and Sally must be +about to sail for Paris to buy her trousseau. She is going to marry +Dicky van Snyde in the autumn (whatever she sees in him)! So I +doubt if either of them could do anything about a maid for me. I +won't bother at all now, but I am not going to let you wait upon +me. I am going to help you.”</p> +<p>Sylvia took one of Rose's little hands and looked at it. +“I guess you can't do much with hands like yours,” said +she, admiringly, and with an odd tone of resentment, as if she were +indignant at the mere suggestion of life's demanding service from +this dainty little creature, for whom she was ready to immolate +herself.</p> +<p>However, Rose had in her a vein of persistency. She insisted +upon wiping the dishes and dusting. She did it all very badly, but +Sylvia found the oddest amusement in chiding her for her mistakes +and in setting them right herself. She would not have been nearly +as well pleased had Rose been handy about the house. One evening +Henry caught Sylvia wiping over all the dishes which Rose had +wiped, and which were still damp, the while she was fairly doubled +up with suppressed mirth.</p> +<p>“What in creation ails you, Sylvia?” asked +Henry.</p> +<p>She extended towards him a plate on which the water stood in +drops. “Just see this plate that dear child thinks she has +wiped,” she chuckled.</p> +<p>“You women do beat the Dutch,” said Henry.</p> +<p>However, Rose did prove herself an adept in one respect. She had +never sewed much, but she had an inventive genius in dress, and, +when she once took up her needle, used it deftly.</p> +<p>When Sylvia confided to her her aspiration concerning the pink +silk which she had found among Abrahama's possessions, Rose did not +laugh at all, but she looked at her thoughtfully.</p> +<p>“Don't you think it would be suitable if I had it made +with some black lace?” asked Sylvia, wistfully. “Henry +thinks it is too young for me, but—”</p> +<p>“Not black,” Rose said, decisively. The two were up +in the attic beside the old chest of finery. Rose took out an old +barege of an ashes-of-roses color. She laid a fold of the barege +over the pink silk, then she looked radiantly at Sylvia.</p> +<p>“It will make a perfectly lovely gown for you if you use +the pink for a petticoat,” said she, “and have the gown +made of this delicious old stuff.”</p> +<p>“The pink for a petticoat?” gasped Sylvia.</p> +<p>“It is the only way,” said Rose; “and you must +have gray gloves, and a bonnet of gray with just one pale-pink rose +in it. Don't you understand? Then you will harmonize with your +dress. Your hair is gray, and there is pink in your cheeks. You +will be lovely in it. There must be a very high collar and some +soft creamy lace, because there is still some yellow left in your +hair.”</p> +<p>Rose nodded delightedly at Sylvia, and the dressmaker came and +made the gown according to Rose's directions. Sylvia wore it for +the first time when she walked from church with Lucinda Hart and +found Rose and Horace sitting in the grove. After Rose had replied +to Sylvia's advice that she should go into the house, she looked at +her with the pride of proprietorship. “Doesn't she look +simply lovely?” she asked Horace.</p> +<p>“She certainly does,” replied the young man. He +really gazed admiringly at the older woman, who made, under the +glimmering shadows of the oaks, a charming nocturne of elderly +womanhood. The faint pink on her cheeks seemed enhanced by the pink +seen dimly through the ashen shimmer of her gown; the creamy lace +harmonized with her yellow-gray hair. She was in her own way as +charming as Rose in hers.</p> +<p>Sylvia actually blushed, and hung her head with a graceful +sidewise motion. “I'm too old to be made a fool of,” +said she, “and I've got a good looking-glass.” But she +smiled the smile of a pretty woman conscious of her own prettiness. +Then all three laughed, although Horace but a moment before had +looked very grave, and now he was quite white. Sylvia noticed it. +“Why, what ails you, Mr. Allen?” she said. “Don't +you feel well?”</p> +<p>“Perfectly well.”</p> +<p>“You look pale.”</p> +<p>“It is the shadow of the oaks.”</p> +<p>Sylvia noticed a dainty little white box in Rose's lap. +“What is that?” she asked.</p> +<p>“It is a box of candy that dear, sweet Lucy Ayres who sang +to-day made her own self and gave to me,” replied Rose. +“She came up to me on the way home from church and slipped it +into my hand, and I hardly know her at all. I do think it is too +dear of her for anything. She is such a lovely girl, and her voice +is beautiful.” Rose looked defiantly at Horace. “Mr. +Allen has been trying to make me promise not to eat this nice +candy,” she said.</p> +<p>“I don't think candy is good for anybody, and girls eat +altogether too much of it,” said Horace, with a strange +fervor which the occasion hardly seemed to warrant.</p> +<p>“Wouldn't I know he was a school-teacher when I heard him +speak like that, even if nobody had ever told me?” said Rose. +“Of course I am going to eat this candy that dear Lucy made +her own self and gave me. I should be very ungrateful not to, and I +love candy, too.”</p> +<p>“I will send for some to Boston to-morrow,” cried +Horace, eagerly.</p> +<p>Rose regarded him with amazement. “Why, Mr. Allen, you +just said you did not approve of candy at all, and here you are +proposing to send for some for me,” she said, “when I +have this nice home-made candy, a great deal purer, because one +knows exactly what is in it, and you say I must not eat +this.”</p> +<p>Rose took up a sugared almond daintily and put it to her lips, +but Horace was too quick for her. Before she knew what he was about +he had dashed it from her hand, and in the tumult the whole box of +candy was scattered. Horace trampled on it, it was impossible to +say whether purposely or accidentally, in the struggle.</p> +<p>Both Rose and Sylvia regarded him with amazement, mixed with +indignation.</p> +<p>“Why, Mr. Allen!” said Rose. Then she added, +haughtily: “Mr. Allen, you take altogether too much upon +yourself. You have spoiled my candy, and you forget that you have +not the least right to dictate to me what I shall or shall not +eat.”</p> +<p>Sylvia also turned upon Horace. “Home-made candy wouldn't +hurt her,” she said. “Why, Mr. Allen, what do you +mean?”</p> +<p>“Nothing. I am very sorry,” said Horace. Then he +walked away without another word, and entered the house. The girl +and the woman stood looking at each other.</p> +<p>“What did he do such a thing for?” asked Rose.</p> +<p>“Goodness knows,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>Rose was quite pale. She began to look alarmed. “You don't +suppose he's taken suddenly insane or anything?” said +she.</p> +<p>“My land! no,” said Sylvia. “Men do act queer +sometimes.”</p> +<p>“I should think so, if this is a sample of it,” said +Rose, eying the trampled candy. “Why, he ground his heel into +it! What right had he to tell me I should or should not eat +it?” she said, indignantly, again.</p> +<p>“None at all. Men are queer. Even Mr. Whitman is queer +sometimes.”</p> +<p>“If he is as queer as that, I don't see how you have lived +with him so long. Did he ever make you drop a nice box of candy +somebody had given you, and trample on it, and then walk +off?”</p> +<p>“No, I don't know as he ever did; but men do queer +things.”</p> +<p>“I don't like Mr. Allen at all,” said Rose, walking +beside Sylvia towards the house. “Not at all. I don't like +him as well as Mr. James Duncan.”</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at her with quick alarm. “The man who wrote +you last week?”</p> +<p>“Yes, and wanted to know if there was a hotel here so he +could come.”</p> +<p>“I thought—” began Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Yes, I had begun the letter, telling him the hotel wasn't +any good, because I knew he would know what that meant—that +there was no use in his asking me to marry him again, because I +never would; but now I think I shall tell him the hotel is not so +bad, after all,” said Rose.</p> +<p>“But you don't mean—”</p> +<p>“I don't know what I do mean,” said Rose, nervously. +“Yes, I do know what I mean. I always know what I mean, but I +don't know what men mean making me drop candy I have had given me, +and trampling on it, and men don't know that I know what I +mean.” Rose was almost crying.</p> +<p>“Go up-stairs and lay down a little while before +dinner,” said Sylvia, anxiously.</p> +<p>“No,” replied Rose; “I am going to help you. +Don't, please, think I am crying because I feel badly. It is +because I am angry. I am going to set the table.”</p> +<p>But Rose did not set the table. She forgot all about it when she +had entered the south room and found Henry Whitman sitting there +with the Sunday paper. She sat down opposite and looked at him with +her clear, blue, childlike eyes. She had come to call him Uncle +Henry.</p> +<p>“Uncle Henry?” said she, interrogatively, and +waited.</p> +<p>Henry looked across at her and smiled with the somewhat abashed +tenderness which he always felt for this girl, whose environment +had been so very different from his and his wife's. +“Well?” he said.</p> +<p>“Uncle Henry, do you think a man can tell another man's +reasons for doing a queer thing better than a woman can?”</p> +<p>“Perhaps.”</p> +<p>“I almost know a woman could tell why a woman did a queer +thing, better than a man could,” said Rose, reflectively. She +hesitated a little.</p> +<p>Henry waited, his worn, pleasant face staring at her over a +vividly colored page of the paper.</p> +<p>“Suppose,” said Rose, “another woman had given +Aunt Sylvia a box of candy which she had made herself, real nice +candy, and suppose the woman who had given it to her was lovely, +and you had knocked a piece of candy from Aunt Sylvia's mouth just +as she was going to taste it, and had startled her so you made her +drop the whole box, and then set your heel hard on the pieces; what +would you have done it for?”</p> +<p>The girl's face wore an expression of the keenest inquiry. Henry +looked at her, wrinkling his forehead. “If another woman had +given Sylvia a box of candy she had made, and I knocked a piece +from her hand just as she was going to taste it, and made her drop +the whole box, and had trampled all the rest of the candy +underfoot, what should I have done it for?” he repeated.</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>Henry looked at her. He heard a door shut up-stairs. “I +shouldn't have done it,” he said.</p> +<p>“But suppose you had done it?”</p> +<p>“I shouldn't have.”</p> +<p>Rose shrugged her shoulders. “You are horrid, Uncle +Henry,” she said.</p> +<p>“But I shouldn't have done it,” repeated Henry. He +heard Horace's step on the stair. Rose got up and ran out of the +room by another door from that which Horace entered. Horace sat +down in the chair which Rose had just vacated. He looked pale and +worried. The eyes of the two men met. Henry's eyes asked a +question. Horace answered it.</p> +<p>“I am in such a devil of a mess as never man was yet, I +believe,” he said.</p> +<p>Henry nodded gravely.</p> +<p>“The worst of it is I can't tell a living mortal,” +Horace said, in a whisper. “I am afraid even to think +it.”</p> +<p>At dinner Rose sat with her face averted from Horace. She never +spoke once to him. As they rose from the table she made an +announcement. “I am going to run over and see Lucy +Ayres,” she said. “I am going to tell her an accident +happened to my candy, and maybe she will give me some +more.”</p> +<p>Henry saw Horace's face change. “Candy is not good for +girls; it spoils their complexion. I have just been reading about +it in the Sunday paper,” said Henry. Sylvia unexpectedly +proved his ally. Rose had not eaten much dinner, although it had +been an especially nice one, and she felt anxious about her.</p> +<p>“I don't think you ought to eat candy when you have so +little appetite for good, wholesome meat and vegetables,” she +said.</p> +<p>“I want to see Lucy, too,” said Rose. “I am +going over there. It is a lovely afternoon. I have nothing I want +to read and nothing to do. I am going over there.”</p> +<p>Henry's eyes questioned Horace's, which said, plainly, to the +other man, “For God's sake, don't let her go; don't let her +go!”</p> +<p>Rose had run up-stairs for her parasol. Horace turned away. He +understood that Henry would help him. “Don't let her go over +there this afternoon,” said Henry to Sylvia, who looked at +him in the blankest amazement.</p> +<p>“Why not, I'd like to know?” asked Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Don't let her go,” repeated Henry.</p> +<p>Sylvia looked suspiciously from one man to the other. The only +solution which a woman could put upon such a request immediately +occurred to her. She said to herself, “Hm! Mr. Allen wants +Rose to stay at home so he can see her himself, and Henry knows +it.”</p> +<p>She stiffened her neck. Down deep in her heart was a feeling +more seldom in women's hearts than in men's. She would not have +owned that she did not wish to part with this new darling of her +heart—who had awakened within it emotions of whose strength +the childless woman had never dreamed. There was also another +reason, which she would not admit even to herself. Had Rose been, +indeed, her daughter, and she had possessed her from the cradle to +womanhood, she would probably have been as other mothers, but now +Rose was to her as the infant she had never borne. She felt the +intense jealousy of ownership which the mother feels over the baby +in her arms. She wished to snatch Rose from every clasp except her +own.</p> +<p>She decided at once that it was easy to see through the plans of +Horace and her husband, and she determined to thwart them. “I +don't see why she shouldn't go,” she said. “It is a +lovely afternoon. The walk will do her good. Lucy Ayres is a real +nice girl, and of course Rose wants to see girls of her own age now +and then.”</p> +<p>“It is Sunday,” said Henry. He felt and looked like +a hypocrite as he spoke, but the distress in Horace's gaze was too +much for him.</p> +<p>Sylvia sniffed. “Sunday,” said she. “Good +land! what has come over you, Henry Whitman? It has been as much as +I could do to get you to go to meeting the last ten years, and now +all of a sudden you turn around and think it's wicked for a young +girl to run in and see another young girl Sunday afternoon.” +Sylvia sniffed again very distinctly, and then Rose entered the +room.</p> +<p>Her clear, fair face looked from one to another from under her +black hat. “What is the matter?” she asked.</p> +<p>Sylvia patted her on the shoulder. “Nothing is the +matter,” said she. “Run along and have a good time, but +you had better be home by five o'clock. There is a praise meeting +to-night, and I guess we'll all want to go, and I am going to have +supper early.”</p> +<p>After Rose had gone and Sylvia had left the room, the two men +looked at each other. Horace was ashy pale. Henry's face showed +alarm and astonishment. “What is it?” he whispered.</p> +<p>“Come out in the grove and have a smoke,” said +Horace, with a look towards the door through which Sylvia had +gone.</p> +<p>Henry nodded. He gathered up his pipe and tobacco from the +table, and the two men sauntered out of the house into the grove. +But even there not much was said. Both smoked in silence, sitting +on the bench, before Horace opened his lips in response to Henry's +inquiry.</p> +<p>“I don't know what it is, and I don't know that it is +anything, and that is the worst of it,” he said, gloomily; +“and I can't see my way to telling any mortal what little I +do know that leads me to fear that it is something, although I +would if I were sure and actually knew beyond doubt that there was—” He stopped abruptly and blew a ring of smoke from +his cigar.</p> +<p>“Something is queer about my wife lately,” said +Henry, in a low voice.</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“That's just it. I feel something as you do. It may be +nothing at all. I tell you what, young man, when women talk, as +women are intended by an overruling Providence to talk, men know +where they are at, but when a woman doesn't talk men know where +they ain't.”</p> +<p>“In my case there has been so much talk that I seem to be +in a fog of it, and can't see a blessed thing sufficiently straight +to know whether it is big enough to bother about or little enough +to let alone; but I can't repeat the talk—no man +could,” said Horace.</p> +<p>“In my case there ain't talk enough,” said Henry. +“I ain't in a fog; I'm in pitch darkness.”</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter XI</h4> +<p>The two men sat for some time out in the grove. It was very +pleasant there. The air was unusually still, and only the tops of +the trees whitened occasionally in a light puff of wind like a +sigh. Now and then a carriage or an automobile passed on the road +beyond, but not many of them. It was not a main thoroughfare. The +calls and quick carols of the birds, punctuated with sharp trills +of insects, were almost the only sounds heard. Now and then +Sylvia's face glanced at them from a house window, but it was +quickly withdrawn. She never liked men to be in close conclave +without a woman to superintend, yet she could not have told why. +She had a hazy impression, as she might have had if they had been +children, that some mischief was afoot.</p> +<p>“Sitting out there all this time, and smoking, and never +seeming to speak a word,” she said to herself, as she +returned to her seat beside a front window in the south room and +took up her book. She was reading with a mild and patronizing +interest a book in which the heroine did nothing which she would +possibly have done under given circumstances, and said nothing +which she would have said, and was, moreover, a distinctly +different personality from one chapter to another, yet the whole +had a charm for the average woman reader. Henry had flung it aside +in contempt. Sylvia thought it beautiful, possibly for the reason +that her own hard sense was sometimes a strenuous burden, and in +reading this she was forced to put it behind her. However, the book +did not prevent her from returning every now and then to her own +life and the happenings in it. Hence her stealthy journeys across +the house and peeps at the men in the grove. If they were nettled +by a sense of feminine mystery, she reciprocated. “What on +earth did they want to stop Rose from going to see Lucy for?” +seemed to stare at her in blacker type than the characters of the +book.</p> +<p>Presently, when she saw Horace pass the window and disappear +down the road, she laid the book on the table, with a slip of paper +to keep the place, and hurried out to the grove. She found Henry +leisurely coming towards the house. “Where has he +gone?” she inquired, with a jerk of her shoulder towards the +road.</p> +<p>“Mr. Allen?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“How should I know?”</p> +<p>“Don't you know?”</p> +<p>“Maybe I do,” said Henry, smiling at Sylvia with his +smile of affection and remembrance that she was a woman.</p> +<p>“Why don't you tell?”</p> +<p>“Now, Sylvia,” said Henry, “you must remember +that Mr. Allen is not a child. He is a grown man, and if he takes +it into his head to go anywhere you can't say anything.”</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at Henry with a baffled expression. “I think +he might spend his time a good deal more profitably Sunday +afternoon than sitting under the trees and smoking, or going +walking,” said she, rashly and inconsequentially. “If +he would only sit down and read some good book.”</p> +<p>“You can't dictate to Mr. Allen what he shall or shall not +do,” Henry repeated.</p> +<p>“Why didn't you want Rose to go to Lucy's?” asked +Sylvia, making a charge in an entirely different quarter.</p> +<p>Henry scorned to lie. “I don't know,” he replied, +which was the perfect truth as far as it went. It did not go quite +far enough, for he did not add that he did not know why Horace +Allen did not want her to go, and that was his own reason.</p> +<p>However, Sylvia could not possibly fathom that. She sniffed with +her delicate nostrils, as if she actually smelled some questionable +odor of character. “You men have mighty queer streaks, that's +all I've got to say,” she returned.</p> +<p>When they were in the house again she resumed her book, reading +every word carefully, and Henry took up the Sunday paper, which he +had not finished. The thoughts of both, however, turned from time +to time towards Horace. Sylvia did not know where he had gone. She +did not suspect. Henry knew, but he did not know why. Horace had +sprung suddenly to his feet and caught up his hat as the two men +had been sitting under the trees. Henry had emitted a long puff of +tobacco smoke and looked inquiringly at him through the filmy blue +of it.</p> +<p>“I can't stand it another minute,” said Horace, +almost with violence. “I've got to know what is going on. I +am going to the Ayres's myself. I don't care what they think. I +don't care what she thinks. I don't care what anybody +thinks.” With that he was gone.</p> +<p>Henry took another puff at his pipe. It showed the difference +between the masculine and the feminine point of view that Henry did +not for one moment attach a sentimental reason to Horace's going. +He realized Rose's attractions. The very probable supposition that +she and Horace might fall in love with and marry each other had +occurred to him, but this he knew at once had nothing to do with +that. He turned the whole over and over in his mind, with no +result. He lacked enough premises to arrive at conclusions. He had +started for the house and his Sunday paper when he met Sylvia, and +had resolved to put it all out of his mind. But he was not quite +able. There is a masculine curiosity as well as a feminine, and one +is about as persistent as the other.</p> +<p>Meantime Horace was walking down the road towards the Ayres +house. It was a pretty, much-ornamented white cottage, with a +carefully kept lawn and shade trees. At one side was an +old-fashioned garden with an arbor. In this arbor, as Horace drew +near, he saw the sweep of feminine draperies. It seemed to him that +the arbor was full of women. In reality there were only +three—Lucy, her mother, and Rose.</p> +<p>When Rose had rung the door-bell she had been surprised by what +sounded like a mad rush to answer her ring. Mrs. Ayres opened the +door. She looked white and perturbed, and behind her showed Lucy's +face, flushed and angry.</p> +<p>“I knew it was Miss Fletcher; I told you so, +mother,” said Lucy, and her low, sweet voice rang out like an +angry bird's with a sudden break for the high notes.</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres kept her self-possession of manner, although her face +showed not only nervousness but something like terror. +“Good-afternoon, Miss Fletcher,” she said. +“Please walk in.”</p> +<p>“She said for me to call her Rose,” cried Lucy. +“Please come in, Rose. I am glad to see you.”</p> +<p>In spite of the cordial words the girl's voice was strange. Rose +stared from daughter to mother and back again. “If you were +engaged,” she said, rather coldly, “if you would prefer +that I come some other time—”</p> +<p>“No, indeed,” cried Lucy, “no other time. Yes, +every other time. What am I saying? But I want you now, too. Come +right up to my room, Rose. I know you will excuse my wrapper and my +bed's being tumbled. I have been lying down. Come right +up.”</p> +<p>Rose followed Lucy, and to her astonishment became aware that +Lucy's mother was following her. Mrs. Ayres entered the room with +the two girls. Lucy looked impatiently at her, and spoke as Rose +wondered any daughter could speak. “Rose and I have some +things to talk over, mother,” she said.</p> +<p>“Nothing, I guess, that your mother cannot hear,” +returned Mrs. Ayres, with forced pleasantry. She sat down, and Lucy +flung herself petulantly upon the bed, where she had evidently been +lying, but seemingly not reposing, for it was much rumpled, and the +pillows gave evidence of the restless tossing of a weary head. Lucy +herself had a curiously rumpled aspect, though she was not exactly +untidy. Her soft, white, lace-trimmed wrapper carelessly tied with +blue ribbons was wrinkled, her little slippers were unbuttoned. Her +mass of soft hair was half over her shoulders. There were red spots +on the cheeks which had been so white in the morning, and her eyes +shone. She kept tying and untying two blue ribbons at the neck of +her wrapper as she lay on the bed and talked rapidly.</p> +<p>“I look like a fright, I know,” she said. “I +was tired after church, and slipped off my dress and lay down. My +hair is all in a muss.”</p> +<p>“It is such lovely hair that it looks pretty +anyway,” said Rose.</p> +<p>Lucy drew a strand of her hair violently over her shoulder. It +almost seemed as if she meant to tear it out by the roots.</p> +<p>“Lucy!” said her mother.</p> +<p>“Oh, mother, do let me alone!” cried the girl. Then +she said, looking angrily at her tress of hair, then at Rose: +“It is not nearly as pretty as yours. You know it isn't. All +men are simply crazy over hair your color. I hate my hair. I just +hate it.”</p> +<p>“Lucy!” said her mother again, in the same startled +but admonitory tone.</p> +<p>Lucy made an impatient face at her. She threw back the tress of +hair. “I hate it,” said she.</p> +<p>Rose began to feel awkward. She noticed Mrs. Ayres's anxious +regard of her daughter, and she thought with disgust that Lucy +Ayres was not so sweet a girl as she had seemed. However, she felt +an odd kind of sympathy and pity for her. Lucy's pretty face and +her white wrapper seemed alike awry with nervous suffering, which +the other girl dimly understood, although it was the understanding +of a normal character with regard to an abnormal one.</p> +<p>Rose resolved to change the subject. “I did enjoy your +singing so much this morning,” she said.</p> +<p>“Thank you,” replied Lucy, but a look of alarm +instead of pleasure appeared upon her face, which Rose was +astonished to see in the mother's likewise.</p> +<p>“I feel so sorry for poor Miss Hart, because I cannot +think for a moment that she was guilty of what they accused her +of,” said Rose, “that I don't like to say anything +about her singing. But I will say this much: I did enjoy +yours.”</p> +<p>“Thank you,” said Lucy again. Her look of mortal +terror deepened. From being aggressively nervous, she looked on the +verge of a collapse.</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres rose, went to Lucy's closet, and returned with a +bottle of wine and a glass. “Here,” she said, as she +poured out the red liquor. “You had better drink this, dear. +You know Dr. Wallace said you must drink port wine, and you are all +tired out with your singing this morning.”</p> +<p>Lucy seized the glass and drank the wine eagerly.</p> +<p>“It must be a nervous strain,” said Rose, “to +stand up there, before such a crowded audience as there was this +morning, and sing.”</p> +<p>“Yes, it is,” agreed Mrs. Ayres, in a harsh voice, +“and especially when anybody isn't used to it. Lucy is not at +all strong.”</p> +<p>“I hope it won't be too much for her,” said Rose; +“but it is such a delight to listen to her after—”</p> +<p>“Oh, I am tired and sick of hearing Miss Hart's +name!” cried Lucy, unpleasantly.</p> +<p>“Lucy!” said Mrs. Ayres.</p> +<p>“Well, I am,” said Lucy, defiantly. “It has +been nothing but Miss Hart, Miss Hart, from morning until night +lately. Nobody thinks she poisoned Miss Farrel, of course. It was +perfect nonsense to accuse her of it, and when that is said, I +think myself that is enough. I see no need of this eternal harping +upon it. I have heard nothing except ‘poor Miss Hart’ +until I am nearly wild. Come, Rose, I'll get dressed and we'll go +out in the arbor. It is too pleasant to stay in-doors. This room is +awfully close.”</p> +<p>“I think perhaps I had better not stay,” Rose +replied, doubtfully. It seemed to her that she was having a very +strange call, and she began to be indignant as well as +astonished.</p> +<p>“Of course you are going to stay,” Lucy said, and +her voice was sweet again. “We'll let Miss Hart alone and +I'll get dressed, and we'll go in the arbor. It is lovely out there +to-day.”</p> +<p>With that Lucy sprang from the bed and let her wrapper slip from +her shoulders. She stood before her old-fashioned black-walnut +bureau and began brushing her hair. Her white arms and shoulders +gleamed through it as she brushed with what seemed a cruel +violence.</p> +<p>Rose laughed in a forced way. “Why, dear, you brush your +hair as if it had offended you,” she said.</p> +<p>“Don't brush so hard, Lucy,” said Mrs. Ayres.</p> +<p>“I just hate my old hair, anyway,” said Lucy, with a +vicious stroke of the brush. She bent her head over, and swept the +whole dark mass downward until it concealed her face and nearly +touched her knees. Then she gave it a deft twist, righted herself, +and pinned the coil in place.</p> +<p>“How beautifully you do up your hair,” said +Rose.</p> +<p>Lucy cast an appreciative glance at herself in the glass. The +wine had deepened the glow on her cheeks. Her eyes were more +brilliant. She pulled her hair a little over one temple, and looked +at herself with entire satisfaction. Lucy had beautiful neck and +arms, unexpectedly plump for a girl so apparently slender. Her skin +was full of rosy color, too. She gazed at the superb curve of her +shoulders rising above the dainty lace of her corset-cover, and +smiled undisguisedly.</p> +<p>“I wish my neck was as plump as yours,” said +Rose.</p> +<p>“Yes, she has a nice, plump neck,” said Mrs. Ayres. +While the words showed maternal pride, the tone never relaxed from +its nervous anxiety.</p> +<p>Lucy's smile vanished suddenly. “Well, what if it is +plump?” said she. “What is the use of it? A girl living +here in East Westland can never wear a dress to show her neck. +People would think she had gone out of her mind.”</p> +<p>Rose laughed. “I have some low-neck gowns,” said +she, “but I can't wear them, either. Maybe that is fortunate +for me, my neck is so thin.”</p> +<p>“You will wear them in other places,” said Lucy. +“You won't stay here all your days. You will have plenty of +chances to wear your low-neck gowns.” She spoke again in her +unnaturally high voice. She turned towards her closet to get her +dress.</p> +<p>“Lucy!” said Mrs. Ayres.</p> +<p>“Well, it is the truth,” said Lucy. “Don't +preach, mother. If you were a girl, and somebody told you your neck +was pretty, and you knew other girls had chances to wear low-neck +dresses, you wouldn't be above feeling it a little.”</p> +<p>“My neck was as pretty as yours when I was a girl, and I +never wore a low-neck dress in my life,” said Mrs. Ayres.</p> +<p>“Oh, well, you got married when you were eighteen,” +said Lucy. There was something almost coarse in her remark. Rose +felt herself flush. She was sophisticated, and had seen the world, +although she had been closely if not lovingly guarded; but she +shrank from some things as though she had never come from under a +country mother's wing in her life.</p> +<p>Lucy got a pale-blue muslin gown from the closet and slipped it +over her shoulders. Then she stood for her mother to fasten it in +the back. Lucy was lovely in this cloud of blue, with edgings of +lace on the ruffles and knots of black velvet. She fastened her +black velvet girdle, and turned herself sidewise with a charming +feminine motion, to get the effect of her slender waist between the +curves of her small hips and bust. Again she looked pleased.</p> +<p>“You are dear in that blue gown,” said Rose.</p> +<p>Lucy smiled. Then she scowled as suddenly. She could see Rose +over her shoulder in the glass. “It is awful +countrified,” said she. “Look at the sleeves and look +at yours. Where was yours made?”</p> +<p>“My dressmaker in New York made it,” faltered Rose. +She felt guilty because her gown was undeniably in better +style.</p> +<p>“There's no use trying to have anything in East +Westland,” said Lucy.</p> +<p>While she was fastening a little gold brooch at her throat, Rose +again tried to change the subject. “That candy of yours +looked perfectly delicious,” said she. “You must teach +me how you make it.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres went dead white in a moment. She looked at Lucy with +a look of horror which the girl did not meet. She went on fastening +her brooch. “Did you like it?” she asked, +carelessly.</p> +<p>“An accident happened to it, I am sorry to say,” +explained Rose. “Mr. Allen and I were out in the grove, and +somehow he jostled me, and the candy got scattered on the ground, +and he stepped on it.”</p> +<p>“Were you and he alone out there?” asked Lucy, in a +very quiet voice.</p> +<p>Rose looked at her amazedly. “Why, no, not when that +happened!” she replied. “Aunt Sylvia was there, +too.” She spoke a little resentfully. “What if Mr. +Allen and I had been alone; what is that to her?” she +thought.</p> +<p>“There is some more candy,” said Lucy, calmly. +“I will get it, and then we will go out in the arbor. I will +teach you to make the candy any day. It is very simple. Come, Rose +dear. Mother, we are going out in the arbor.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres rose immediately. She preceded the two girls +down-stairs, and came through the sitting-room door with a dish of +candy in her hand just as they reached it. “Here is the +candy, dear,” she said to Lucy, and there was something +commanding in her voice.</p> +<p>Lucy took the dish, a pretty little decorated affair, with what +seemed to Rose an air of suspicion and a grudging “thank you, +mother.”</p> +<p>“Come, Rose,” she said. She led the way and Rose +followed. Mrs. Ayres returned to the sitting-room. The girls went +through the old-fashioned garden with its flower-beds outlined with +box, in which the earlier flowers were at their prime, to the +arbor. It was a pretty old structure, covered with the shaggy arms +of an old grape-vine whose gold-green leaves were just uncurling. +Lucy placed the bowl of candy on the end of the bench which ran +round the interior, and, to Rose's surprise, seated herself at a +distance from it, and motioned Rose to sit beside her, without +offering her any candy. Lucy leaned against Rose and looked up at +her. She looked young and piteous and confiding. Rose felt again +that she was sweet and that she loved her. She put her arm around +Lucy.</p> +<p>“You are a dear,” said she.</p> +<p>Lucy nestled closer. “I know you must have thought me +perfectly horrid to speak as I did to mother,” said she, +“but you don't understand.”</p> +<p>Lucy hesitated. Rose waited.</p> +<p>“You see, the trouble is,” Lucy went on, “I +love mother dearly, of course. She is the best mother that ever a +girl had, but she is always so anxious about me, and she follows me +about so, and I get nervous, and I know I don't always speak as I +should. I am often ashamed of myself. You see—”</p> +<p>Lucy hesitated again for a longer period. Rose waited.</p> +<p>“Mother has times of being very nervous,” Lucy said, +in a whisper. “I sometimes think, when she follows me about +so, that she is not for the time being quite herself.”</p> +<p>Rose started and looked at the other girl in horror. “Why +don't you have a doctor?” said she.</p> +<p>“Oh, I don't mean that she—I don't mean that there +is anything serious, only she has always been over-anxious about +me, and at times I fancy she is nervous, and then the anxiety grows +beyond limit. She always gets over it. I don't mean that—”</p> +<p>“Oh, I didn't know,” said Rose.</p> +<p>“I never mean to be impatient,” Lucy went on, +“but to-day I was very tired, and I wanted to see you +especially. I wanted to ask you something.”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>Lucy looked away from Rose. She seemed to shrink within herself. +The color faded from her face. “I heard something,” she +said, faintly, “but I said I wouldn't believe it until I had +asked you.”</p> +<p>“What is it?”</p> +<p>“I heard that you were engaged to marry Mr. +Allen.”</p> +<p>Rose flushed and moved away a little from Lucy. “You can +contradict the rumor whenever you hear it again,” said +she.</p> +<p>“Then it isn't true?”</p> +<p>“No, it isn't.”</p> +<p>Lucy nestled against Rose, in spite of a sudden coldness which +had come over the other girl. “You are so dear,” said +she.</p> +<p>Rose looked straight ahead, and sat stiffly.</p> +<p>“I am thoroughly angry at such rumors, merely because a +girl happens to be living in the same house with a marriageable +man,” said she.</p> +<p>“Yes, that is so,” said Lucy. She remained quiet for +a few moments, leaning against Rose, her blue-clad shoulder +pressing lovingly the black-clad one. Then she moved away a little, +and reared her pretty back with a curious, snakelike motion. Rose +watched her. Lucy's eyes fastened themselves upon her, and +something strange happened. Either Lucy Ayres was a born actress, +or she had become actually so imbued, through abnormal emotion and +love, with the very spirit of the man that she was capable of +projecting his own emotions and feelings into her own soul and +thence upon her face. At all events, she looked at Rose, and slowly +Rose became bewildered. It seemed to her that Horace Allen was +looking at her through the eyes of this girl, with a look which she +had often seen since their very first meeting. She felt herself +glowing from head to foot. She was conscious of a deep crimson +stealing all over her face and neck. Her eyes fell before the other +girl's. Then suddenly it was all over. Lucy rose with a little +laugh. “You sweet, funny creature,” she said. “I +can make you blush, looking at you, as if I were a man. Well, maybe +I love you as well as one.” Lucy took the bowl of candy from +the bench and extended it to Rose. “Do have some +candy,” said she.</p> +<p>“Thank you,” said Rose. She looked bewildered, and +felt so. She took a sugared almond and began nibbling at it. +“Aren't you going to eat any candy yourself?” said +she.</p> +<p>“I have eaten so much already that it has made my head +ache,” replied Lucy. “Is it good?”</p> +<p>“Simply delicious. You must teach me how you make such +candy.”</p> +<p>“Lucy will be glad to teach you any day,” said Mrs. +Ayres's voice. She had come swiftly upon them, and entered the +arbor with a religious newspaper in her hand. Lucy no longer seemed +annoyed by her mother's following her. She only set the candy +behind her with a quick movement which puzzled Rose.</p> +<p>“Aren't you going to offer your mother some?” she +asked, laughing.</p> +<p>“Mother can't eat candy. Dr. Wallace has forbidden +it,” Lucy said, quickly.</p> +<p>“Yes, that is quite true,” assented Mrs. Ayres. She +began reading her paper. Lucy offered the bowl again to Rose, who +took a bonbon. She was just swallowing it when Horace Allen +appeared. He made a motion which did not escape Mrs. Ayres. She +rose and confronted him with perfect calmness and dignity. +“Good-afternoon, Mr. Allen,” she said.</p> +<p>Lucy had sprung up quickly. She was very white. Horace said +good-afternoon perfunctorily, and looked at Rose.</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres caught up the bowl of candy. “Let me offer you +some, Mr. Allen,” she said. “It is home-made candy, and +quite harmless, I assure you.”</p> +<p>Her fair, elderly face confronted him smilingly, her voice was +calm.</p> +<p>“Thank you,” said Horace, and took a sugared +almond.</p> +<p>Lucy made a movement as if to stop him, but her mother laid her +hand with gentle firmness on her arm. “Sit down, Lucy,” +she said, and Lucy sat down.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter XII</h4> +<p>Henry Whitman and his wife Sylvia remained, the one reading his +Sunday paper, the other her book, while Horace and Rose were away. +Henry's paper rustled, Sylvia turned pages gently. Occasionally she +smiled the self-satisfied smile of the reader who thinks she +understands the author, to her own credit. Henry scowled over his +paper the scowl of one who reads to disapprove, to his own +credit.</p> +<p>Both were quite engrossed. Sylvia had reached an extremely +interesting portion of her book, and Henry was reading a section of +his paper which made him fairly warlike. However, the clock +striking four aroused both of them.</p> +<p>“I think it is very funny that they have not come +home,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“I dare say they will be along pretty soon,” said +Henry.</p> +<p>Sylvia looked keenly at him. “Henry Whitman, did he go to +the Ayres's?” said she.</p> +<p>Henry, cornered, told the truth. “Well, I shouldn't +wonder,” he admitted.</p> +<p>“I think it is pretty work,” said Sylvia, angry red +spots coming in her cheeks.</p> +<p>Henry said nothing.</p> +<p>“The idea that a young man can't be in the house with a +girl any longer than this without his fairly chasing her,” +said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Who knows that he is?”</p> +<p>“Do you think he is interested in the Ayres +girl?”</p> +<p>“No, I don't.”</p> +<p>“Then it is Rose,” said Sylvia. “Pretty work, +I call it. Here she is with her own folks in this nice home, with +everything she needs.”</p> +<p>Henry looked at Sylvia with astonishment. “Why,” he +said, “girls get married! You got married +yourself.”</p> +<p>“I know I did,” said Sylvia, “but that hasn't +got anything to do with it. Of course he has to chase her the +minute she comes within gunshot.”</p> +<p>“Still, there's one thing certain, if she doesn't want him +he can take it out in chasing, if he is chasing, and I don't think +he is,” said Henry. “Nobody is going to make Rose marry +any man.”</p> +<p>“She don't act a mite in love with him,” said +Sylvia, ruminatingly. “She seemed real mad with him this noon +about that candy. Henry, that was a funny thing for him to +do.”</p> +<p>“What?” asked Henry, who had so far only gotten +Rose's rather vague account of the candy episode.</p> +<p>Sylvia explained. “He actually knocked that candy out of +her hand, and made her spill the whole box, and then trampled on +it. I saw him.”</p> +<p>Henry stared at Sylvia. “It must have been an +accident,” said he.</p> +<p>“It looked like an accident on purpose,” said +Sylvia. “Well, I guess I'll go out and make some of that +salad they like so much for supper.”</p> +<p>After Sylvia had gone Henry sat for a while reflecting, then he +went noiselessly out of the front door and round to the grove. He +found the scattered pieces of candy and the broken box quickly +enough. He cast a wary glance around, and gathered the whole mass +up and thrust it into the pocket of his Sunday coat. Then he stole +back to the house and got his hat and went out again. He was +hurrying along the road, when he met Horace and Rose returning. +Rose was talking, seemingly, with a cold earnestness to her +companion. Horace seemed to be listening passively. Henry thought +he looked pale and anxious. When he saw Henry he smiled. “I +have an errand, a business errand,” explained Henry. +“Please tell Mrs. Whitman I shall be home in time for supper. +I don't think she knew when I went out. She was in the +kitchen.”</p> +<p>“All right,” replied Horace.</p> +<p>After he had passed them Henry caught the words, “I think +you owe me an explanation,” in Rose's voice.</p> +<p>“It is about this blamed candy,” thought Henry, +feeling the crumpled mass in his pocket. He had a distrust of +candy, and it occurred to him that he would have an awkward +explanation to make if the candy should by any possibility melt and +stick to the pocket of his Sunday coat. He therefore took out the +broken box and carried it in his hand, keeping the paper wrapper +firmly around it. “What in creation is it all about?” +he thought, irritably. He felt a sense of personal injury. Henry +enjoyed calm, and it seemed to him that he was being decidedly +disturbed, as by mysterious noises breaking in upon the even tenor +of his life.</p> +<p>“Sylvia is keeping something to herself that is worrying +her to death, in spite of her being so tickled to have the girl +with us, and now here is this candy,” he said to himself. He +understood that for some reason Horace had not wanted Rose to eat +the candy, that he had resorted to fairly desperate measures to +prevent it, but he could not imagine why. He had no imagination for +sensation or melodrama, and the candy affair was touching that +line. He had been calmly prosaic with regard to Miss Farrel's +death. “They can talk all they want to about murder and +suicide,” he had said to Sylvia. “I don't believe a +word of it.”</p> +<p>“But the doctors found—” began Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Found nothing,” interposed Henry. “What do +doctors know? She et something that hurt her. How do doctors know +but what anybody might eat something that folks think is wholesome, +that, if the person ain't jest right for it, acts like poison? +Doctors don't know much. She et something that hurt her.”</p> +<p>“Poor Lucinda's cooking is enough to hurt 'most +anybody,” admitted Sylvia; “but they say they found—”</p> +<p>“Don't talk such stuff,” said Henry, fiercely. +“She et something. I don't know what you women like best to +suck at, candy or horrors.”</p> +<p>Now Henry was forced to admit that he himself was confronted by +something mysterious. Why had Horace fairly flung that candy on the +ground, and trampled on it, unless he had suddenly gone mad, or—? +There Henry brought himself up with a jolt. He absolutely +refused to suspect. “I'd jest as soon eat all that's left of +the truck myself,” he thought, “only I couldn't bear +candy since I was a child, and I ain't going to eat it for +anybody.”</p> +<p>Henry had to pass the Ayres house. Just as he came abreast of it +he heard a hysterical sob, then another, from behind the open +windows of a room on the second floor, whose blinds were closed. +Henry made a grimace and went his way. He was bound for Sidney +Meeks's. He found the lawyer in his office in an arm-chair, which +whirled like a top at the slightest motion of its occupant. Around +him were strewn Sunday papers, all that could be bought. On the +desk before him stood a bottle of clear yellow wine, +half-emptied.</p> +<p>Sidney looked up and smiled as Henry entered. “Here I am +in a vortex of crime and misrule,” he said, “and I +should have been out of my wits if it had not been for that wine. +There's another glass over there, Henry; get it and help +yourself.”</p> +<p>“Guess I won't take any now, thank you,” said Henry. +“It's just before supper.”</p> +<p>“Maybe you are wise,” admitted the lawyer. He +slouched before Henry in untidy and unmended, but clean, Sunday +attire. Sidney Meeks was as clean as a gentleman should be, but +there was never a crease except of ease in his clothes, and he was +so buttonless that women feared to look at him closely. “It +might go to your head,” said Sidney. “It went to mine a +little, but that was unavoidable. After one of those papers there +my head was mighty near being a vacuum.”</p> +<p>“What do you read the papers for?” asked Henry.</p> +<p>“Because,” said Sidney, “I feel it incumbent +upon me to be well informed concerning two things, although I +verily believe it to be true that I have precious little of either, +and they cannot directly concern me. I want to know about the stock +market, although I don't own a blessed share in anything except an +old mine out West on a map; and I want to know what evil is +fermenting in the hearts of men, though I am pretty sure, in spite +of the original sin part of it, that precious little is fermenting +in mine. About three o'clock this afternoon I came to the +conclusion that we were in hell or Sodom, or else the newspaper men +got saved from the general destruction along with Lot. So I got a +bottle of this blessed wine, and now I am fully convinced that I am +on a planet which is the work of the Lord Almighty, and only +created for an end of redemption and eternal bliss, and that the +newspaper men are enough sight better than Lot ever thought of +being, and are spending Sunday as they should, peacefully in the +bosoms of their own families. In fact, Henry, my mental and +spiritual outlook has cleared. What in creation is that wad of +broken box you are carrying as if it would go off any +minute?”</p> +<p>Henry told him the story in a few words.</p> +<p>“Gee whiz!” said Meeks. “I thought I had +finished the Sunday papers and here you are with another sensation. +Let's see the stuff.”</p> +<p>Henry gave the crumpled box with the mass of candy to Meeks, who +examined it closely. He smelled of it. He even tasted a bit. +“It's all beyond me,” he said, finally. “I am +loath to admit that a sensation has lit upon us here in East +Westland. Leave it with me, and I'll see what is the matter with +it, if there's anything. I don't think myself there's anything, but +I'll take it to Wallace. He's an analytical chemist, and holds his +tongue, which is worth more than the chemistry.”</p> +<p>“You will not say a word—” began Henry, but +Meeks interrupted him.</p> +<p>“Don't you know me well enough by this time?” he +demanded, and Henry admitted that he did.</p> +<p>“Do you suppose I want all this blessed little town in a +tumult, and the devil to pay?” said Meeks. “It is near +time for me to start some daisy wine, too. I shouldn't have a +minute free. There'd be suits for damages, and murder trials, and +the Lord knows what. I'd rather make my daisy wine. Leave this +damned sticky mess with me, and I'll see to it. What in creation +any young woman in her senses wants to spend her time in making +such stuff for, anyway, beats me. Women are all more or less fools, +anyhow. I suppose they can't help it, but we ought to have it in +mind.”</p> +<p>“I suppose there's something in it,” said Henry, +rather doubtfully.</p> +<p>Meeks laughed. “Oh, I don't expect any man with a wife to +agree with me,” he said. “You might as well try to lift +yourself by your boot-straps; but I've got standing-ground outside +the situation and you haven't. Good-night, Henry. Don't fret +yourself over this. I'll let you know as soon as I know +myself.”</p> +<p>Henry, passing the Ayres house on his way home, fancied he heard +again a sob, but this time it was so stifled that he was not sure. +“It's mighty queer work, anyway,” he thought. He +thought also that though he should have liked a son, he was very +glad that he and Sylvia had not owned a daughter. He was fond of +Rose, but, although she was a normal girl, she often gave him a +sense of mystery which irritated him.</p> +<p>Had Henry Whitman dreamed of what was really going on in the +Ayres house, he would have been devoutly thankful that he had no +daughter. He had in reality heard the sob which he had not been +sure of. It had come from Lucy's room. Her mother was there with +her. The two had been closeted together ever since Rose had gone. +Lucy had rushed up-stairs and pulled off her pretty gown with a +hysterical fury. She had torn it at the neck, because the hooks +would not unfasten easily, before her mother, who moved more +slowly, had entered the room.</p> +<p>“What are you doing, Lucy?” Mrs. Ayres asked, in a +voice which was at once tender and stern.</p> +<p>“Getting out of this old dress,” replied Lucy, +fiercely.</p> +<p>“Stand round here by the light,” said her mother, +calmly. Lucy obeyed. She stood, although her shoulders twitched +nervously, while her mother unfastened her gown. Then she began +almost tearing off her other garments. “Lucy,” said +Mrs. Ayres, “you are over twenty years old, and a woman +grown, but you are not as strong as I am, and I used to take you +over my knee and spank you when you were a child and didn't behave, +and I'll do it now if you are not careful. You unfasten that +corset-cover properly. You are tearing the lace.”</p> +<p>Lucy gazed at her mother a moment in a frenzy of rage, then +suddenly her face began to work piteously. She flung herself face +downward upon her bed, and sobbed long, hysterical sobs. Then Mrs. +Ayres waxed tender. She bent over the girl, and gently untied +ribbons and unfastened buttons, and slipped a night-gown over her +head. Then she rolled her over in the bed, as if she had been a +baby, and laid her own cheek against the hot, throbbing one of the +girl. “Mother's lamb,” she said, softly. “There, +there, dear, mother knows all about it.”</p> +<p>“You don't,” gasped the girl. “What do you +know? You—you were married when you were years younger than I +am.” There was something violently accusing in her tone. She +thrust her mother away and sat up in bed, and looked at her with +fierce eyes blazing like lamps in her soft, flushed face.</p> +<p>“I know it,” said Mrs. Ayres. “I know it, and +I know what you mean, Lucy; but there is something else which I +know and you do not.”</p> +<p>“I'd like to know what!”</p> +<p>“How a mother reads the heart of her child.”</p> +<p>Lucy stared at her mother. Her face softened. Then it grew +burning red and angrier. “You taunt me with that,” she +said, in a whisper—“with that and everything.” +She buried her face in her crushed pillow again and burst into long +wails.</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres smoothed her hair. “Lucy,” said she, +“listen. I know what is going on within you as you don't know +it yourself. I know the agony of it as you don't know it +yourself.”</p> +<p>“I'd like to know how.”</p> +<p>“Because you are my child; because I can hardly sleep for +thinking of you; because every one of my waking moments is filled +with you. Lucy, because I am your mother and you are yourself. I am +not taunting you. I understand.”</p> +<p>“You can't.”</p> +<p>“I do. I know just how you felt about that young man from +the city who boarded at the hotel six years ago. I know how you +felt about Tom Merrill, who called here a few times, and then +stopped, and married a girl from Boston. I have known exactly how +you have felt about all the others, and—I know about this +last.” Her voice sank to a whisper.</p> +<p>“I have had some reason,” Lucy said, with a terrible +eagerness of self-defence. “I have, mother.”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“One day, the first year he came, I was standing at the +gate beside that flowering-almond bush, and it was all in flower, +and he came past and he looked at the bush and at me, then at the +bush again, and he said, ‘How beautiful that is!’ But, +mother, he meant me.”</p> +<p>“What else?”</p> +<p>“You remember he called here once.”</p> +<p>“Yes, Lucy, to ask you to sing at the school +entertainment.”</p> +<p>“Mother, it was for more than that. You did not hear him +speak at the door. He said, ‘I shall count on you; you cannot +disappoint me.’ You did not hear his voice, +mother.”</p> +<p>“What else, Lucy?”</p> +<p>“Once, one night last winter, when I was coming home from +the post-office, it was after dark, and he walked way to the house +with me, and he told me a lot about himself. He told me how all +alone in the world he was, and how hard it was for a man to have +nobody who really belonged to him in the wide world, and when he +said good-night at the gate he held my hand—quite a while; he +did, mother.”</p> +<p>“What else, Lucy?”</p> +<p>“You remember that picnic, the trolley picnic to Alford. +He sat next to me coming home, and—”</p> +<p>“And what?”</p> +<p>“There were only—four on the seat, and he—he +sat very close, and told me some more about himself: how he had +been alone ever since he was a little boy, and—how hard it +had been. Then he asked how long ago father died, and if I +remembered, and if I missed him still.”</p> +<p>“I don't quite understand, dear, how that—”</p> +<p>“You didn't hear the way he spoke, mother.”</p> +<p>“What else, Lucy?”</p> +<p>“He has always looked at me very much across the church, +and whenever I have met him it has not been so much what—he +said as—his manner. You have not known what his manner was, +and you have not heard how he spoke, nor seen his eyes +when—he looked at me—”</p> +<p>“Yes, dear, you are right. I have not. Then you have +thought he was in love with you?”</p> +<p>“Sometimes he has made me think so, mother,” Lucy +sobbed.</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres gazed pitifully at the girl. “Then when you +thought perhaps he was not you felt badly.”</p> +<p>“Oh, mother!”</p> +<p>“You were not yourself.”</p> +<p>“Oh, mother!”</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres took the girl by her two slender shoulders; she bent +her merciful, loving face close to the younger one, distraught, and +full of longing, primeval passion. “Lucy,” she +whispered, “your mother never lost sight +of—anything.”</p> +<p>Lucy turned deadly white. She stared back at her mother.</p> +<p>“You thought perhaps he was in love with Miss Farrel, +didn't you?” Mrs. Ayres said, in a very low whisper.</p> +<p>Lucy nodded, still staring with eyes of horrified inquiry at her +mother.</p> +<p>“You had seen him with her?”</p> +<p>“Ever so many times, walking, and he took her to ride, and +I saw him coming out of the hotel. I thought—”</p> +<p>“Listen, Lucy.” Mrs. Ayres's whisper was hardly +audible. “Mother made some candy and sent it to Miss Farrel. +She—never had any that anybody else made. It—was candy +that would not hurt anybody that she had.”</p> +<p>Lucy's face lightened as if with some veritable +illumination.</p> +<p>“Mother perhaps ought not to have let you think—as +you did, so long,” said Mrs. Ayres, “but she thought +perhaps it was best, and, Lucy, mother has begun to realize that it +was. Now you think, perhaps, he is in love with this other girl, +don't you?”</p> +<p>“They are living in the same house,” returned Lucy, +in a stifled shriek, “and—and—I found out this +afternoon that she—she is in love with him. And she is so +pretty, and—” Lucy sobbed wildly.</p> +<p>“Mother has been watching every minute,” said Mrs. +Ayres.</p> +<p>“Mother, I haven't killed him?”</p> +<p>“No, dear. Mother made the candy.”</p> +<p>Lucy sobbed and trembled convulsively. Mrs. Ayres stroked her +hair until she was a little quieter, then she spoke. +“Lucy,” she said, “the time has come for you to +listen to mother, and you must listen.”</p> +<p>Lucy looked up at her with her soft, terrible eyes.</p> +<p>“You are not in love with this last man,” said Mrs. +Ayres, quietly. “You were not in love with any of the others. +It is all because you are a woman, and the natural longings of a +woman are upon you. The time has come for you to listen and +understand. It is right that you should have what you want, but if +the will of God is otherwise you must make the best of it. There +are other things in life, or it would be monstrous. It will be no +worse for you than for thousands of other women who go through life +unmarried. You have no excuse to—commit crime or to become a +wreck. I tell you there are other things besides that which has +taken hold of you, soul and body. There are spiritual things. There +is the will of God, which is above the will of the flesh and the +will of the fleshly heart. It is for you to behave yourself and +take what comes. You are still young, and if you were not there is +always room in life for a gift of God. You may yet have what you +are crying out for. In the mean time—”</p> +<p>Lucy interrupted with a wild cry. “Oh, mother, you will +take care of me, you will watch me!”</p> +<p>“You need not be afraid, Lucy,” said Mrs. Ayres, +grimly and tenderly. “I will watch you, and—” +She hesitated a moment, then she continued, “If I ever catch +you buying that again—”</p> +<p>But Lucy interrupted.</p> +<p>“Oh, mother,” she said, “this last time it was +not—it really was not—<em>that!</em> It was only +something that would have made her sick a little. It would not +have—It was not <em>that!</em>”</p> +<p>“If I ever do catch you buying that again,” said +Mrs. Ayres, “you will know what a whipping is.” Her +tone was almost whimsical, but it had a terrible emphasis.</p> +<p>Lucy shrank. “I didn't put enough of <em>that</em> in +to—to do much harm,” she murmured, “but I never +will again.”</p> +<p>“No, you had better not,” assented Mrs. Ayres. +“Now slip on your wrapper and come down-stairs with me. I am +going to warm up some of that chicken on toast the way you like it, +for supper, and then I am coming back up-stairs with you, and you +are going to lie down, and I'll read that interesting book we got +out of the library.”</p> +<p>Lucy obeyed like a child. Her mother helped her slip the wrapper +over her head, and the two went down-stairs.</p> +<p>After supper that night Sidney Meeks called at the Whitmans'. He +did not stay long. He had brought a bottle of elder-flower wine for +Sylvia. As he left he looked at Henry, who followed him out of the +house into the street. They paused just outside the gate.</p> +<p>“Well?” said Henry, interrogatively.</p> +<p>“All right,” responded Meeks. “What it is all +about beats me. The stuff wouldn't hurt a babe in arms, unless it +gave it indigestion. Your boarder hasn't insanity in his family, +has he?”</p> +<p>“Not that I know of,” replied Henry. Then he +repeated Meeks's comment. “It beats me,” he said.</p> +<p>When Henry re-entered the house Sylvia looked at him. +“What were you and Mr. Meeks talking about out in the +street?” she asked.</p> +<p>“Nothing,” replied Henry, lying as a man may to a +woman or a child.</p> +<p>“He's in there with her,” whispered Sylvia. +“They went in there the minute Mr. Meeks and you went +out.” Sylvia pointed to the best parlor and looked miserably +jealous.</p> +<p>“Well,” said Henry, tentatively.</p> +<p>“If they've got anything to say I don't see why they can't +say it here,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“The door is open,” said Henry.</p> +<p>“I ain't going to listen, if it is, and you know I can't +hear with one ear,” said Sylvia. “Of course I don't +care, but I don't see why they went in there. What were you and Mr. +Meeks talking about, Henry?”</p> +<p>“Nothing,” answered Henry, cheerfully, again.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter XIII</h4> +<p>Rose Fletcher had had a peculiar training. She had in one sense +belonged to the ranks of the fully sophisticated, who are supposed +to swim on the surface of things and catch all the high lights of +existence, like bubbles, and in another sense it had been very much +the reverse. She might, so far as one side of her character was +concerned, have been born and brought up in East Westland, as her +mother had been before her. She had a perfect village simplicity +and wonder at life, as to a part of her innermost self, which was +only veneered by her contact with the world. In part she was +entirely different from all the girls in the place, and the +difference was really in the grain. That had come from her +assimilation at a very tender age with the people who had had the +care of her. They had belonged by right of birth with the most +brilliant social lights, but lack of money had hampered them. They +blazed, as it were, under ground glass with very small +candle-powers, although they were on the same shelf with the +brilliant incandescents. Rose's money had been the main factor +which enabled them to blaze at all. Otherwise they might have still +remained on the shelf, it is true, but as dark stars.</p> +<p>Rose had not been sent away to school for two reasons. One +reason was Miss Farrel's, the other originated with her caretakers. +Miss Farrel had a jealous dread of the girl's forming one of those +erotic friendships, which are really diseased love-affairs, with +another girl or a teacher, and the Wiltons' reason was a pecuniary +one. Among the Wiltons' few assets was a distant female relative of +pronounced accomplishments and educational attainments, who was +even worse off financially than they. It had become with her a +question of bread-and-butter and the simplest necessaries of life, +whereas Mrs. Wilton and her sister, Miss Pamela, still owned the +old family mansion, which, although reduced from its former heights +of fashion, was grand, with a subdued and dim grandeur, it is true, +but still grand; and there was also a fine old country-house in a +fashionable summer resort. There were also old servants and jewels +and laces and all that had been. The difficulty was in retaining it +with the addition of repairs, and additions which are as essential +to the mere existence of inanimate objects as food is to the +animate, these being as their law of growth. Rose Fletcher's +advent, although her fortune was, after all, only a moderate one, +permitted such homely but necessary things as shingles to be kept +intact upon roofs of old family homes; it enabled servants to be +paid and fuel and food to be provided. Still, after all, had poor +Eliza Farrel, that morbid victim of her own hunger for love, known +what economies were practised at her expense, in order that all +this should be maintained, she would have rebelled. She knew that +the impecunious female relative was a person fully adequate to +educate Rose, but she did not know that her only stipend therefor +was her bread-and-butter and the cast-off raiment of Mrs. Wilton +and Miss Pamela. She did not know that when Rose came out her stock +of party gowns was so limited that she had to refuse many +invitations or appear always as the same flower, as far as garments +were concerned. She did not know that during Rose's two trips +abroad the expenses had been so carefully calculated that the girl +had not received those advantages usually supposed to be derived +from foreign travel.</p> +<p>While Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela would have scorned the +imputation of deceit or dishonesty, their moral sense in those two +directions was blunted by their keen scent for the +conventionalities of life, which to them had almost become a +religion. They had never owned to their inmost consciousness that +Rose had not derived the fullest benefit from Miss Farrel's money; +it is doubtful if they really were capable of knowing it. When a +party gown for Rose was weighed in the balance with some essential +for maintaining their position upon the society shelf, it had not +the value of a feather. Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela gave regular +dinner-parties and receptions through the season, but they invited +people of undoubted social standing whom Miss Farrel would have +neglected for others on Rose's account. By a tacit agreement, never +voiced in words, young men or old who might have made too heavy +drains upon wines and viands were seldom invited. The preference +was for dyspeptic clergymen and elderly and genteel females with +slender appetites, or stout people upon diets. It was almost +inconceivable how Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela, with no actual +consultations to that end, practised economies and maintained +luxuries. They seemed to move with a spiritual unity like the +physical one of the Siamese twins. Meagre meals served +magnificently, the most splendid conservatism with the smallest +possible amount of comfort, moved them as one.</p> +<p>Rose, having been so young when she went to live with them, had +never realized the true state of affairs. Mrs. Wilton and Miss +Pamela had not encouraged her making visits in houses where her +eyes might have been opened. Then, too, she was naturally generous, +and not sharp-eyed concerning her own needs. When there were no +guests at dinner, and she rose from the table rather unsatisfied +after her half-plate of watery soup, her delicate little befrilled +chop and dab of French pease, her tiny salad and spoonful of +dessert, she never imagined that she was defrauded. Rose had a +singularly sweet, ungrasping disposition, and an almost childlike +trait of accepting that which was offered her as the one and only +thing which she deserved. When there was a dinner-party, she sat +between an elderly clergyman and a stout judge, who was dieting on +account of the danger of apoplexy, with the same graceful +agreeableness with which she would have sat between two young +men.</p> +<p>Rose had not developed early as to her temperament. She had +played with dolls until Miss Pamela had felt it her duty to +remonstrate. She had charmed the young men whom she had seen, and +had not thought about them when once they were out of sight. Her +pulses did not quicken easily. She had imagination, but she did not +make herself the heroine of her dreams. She was sincerely puzzled +at the expression which she saw on the faces of some girls when +talking with young men. She felt a vague shame and anger because of +it, but she did not know what it meant. She had read novels, but +the love interest in them was like a musical theme which she, +hearing, did not fully understand. She was not in the least a +boylike girl; she was wholly feminine, but the feminine element was +held in delicate and gentle restraint. Without doubt Mrs. Wilton's +old-fashioned gentility, and Miss Pamela's, and her governess's, +who belonged to the same epoch, had served to mould her character +not altogether undesirably. She was, on the whole, a pleasant and +surprising contrast to girls of her age, with her pretty, shy +respect for her elders, and lack of self-assertion, along with +entire self-possession and good breeding. However, she had missed +many things which poor Miss Farrel had considered desirable for +her, and which her hostesses with their self-sanctified evasion had +led her to think had been done.</p> +<p>Miss Farrel, teaching in her country school, had had visions of +the girl riding a thoroughbred in Central Park, with a groom in +attendance; whereas the reality was the old man who served both as +coachman and butler, in carefully kept livery, guiding two horses +apt to stumble from extreme age through the shopping district, and +the pretty face of the girl looking out of the window of an ancient +coupé which, nevertheless, had a coat of arms upon its door. +Miss Farrel imagined Rose in a brilliant house-party at Wiltmere, +Mrs. Wilton's and Miss Pamela's country home; whereas in reality +she was roaming about the fields and woods with an old bull-terrier +for guard and companion. Rose generally carried a book on these +occasions, and generally not a modern book. Her governess had a +terror of modern books, especially of novels. She had looked into a +few and shuddered. Rose's taste in literature was almost +Elizabethan. She was not allowed, of course, to glance at early +English novels, which her governess classed with late English and +American in point of morality, but no poetry except Byron was +prohibited.</p> +<p>Rose loved to sit under a tree with the dog in a white coil +beside her, and hold her book open on her lap and read a word now +and then, and amuse herself with fancies the rest of the time. She +grew in those days of her early girlhood to have firm belief in +those things which she never saw nor heard, and the belief had not +wholly deserted her. She never saw a wood-nymph stretch out a white +arm from a tree, but she believed in the possibility of it, and the +belief gave her a curious delight. When she returned to the house +for her scanty, elegantly served dinner with the three elder +ladies, her eyes would be misty with these fancies and her mouth +would wear the inscrutable smile of a baby's at the charm of +them.</p> +<p>When she first came to East Westland she was a profound mystery +to Horace, who had only known well two distinct types of +girls—the purely provincial and her reverse. Rose, with her +mixture of the two, puzzled him. While she was not in the least +shy, she had a reserve which caused her to remain a secret to him +for some time. Rose's inner life was to her something sacred, not +to be lightly revealed. At last, through occasional remarks and +opinions, light began to shine through. He had begun to understand +her the Sunday he had followed her to Lucy Ayres's. He had, also, +more than begun to love her. Horace Allen would not have loved her +so soon had she been more visible as to her inner self. Things on +the surface rarely interested him very much. He had not an easily +aroused temperament, and a veil which stimulated his imagination +and aroused his searching instinct was really essential if he were +to fall in love. He had fallen in love before, he had supposed, +although he had never asked one of the fair ones to marry him. Now +he began to call up various faces and wonder if this were not the +first time. All the faces seemed to dim before this present one. He +realized something in her very dear and precious, and for the first +time he felt as if he could not forego possession. Hitherto it had +been easy enough to bear the slight wrench of leaving temptation +and moving his tent. Here it was different. Still, the old +objection remained. How could he marry upon his slight salary?</p> +<p>The high-school in East Westland was an endowed institution. The +principal received twelve hundred a year. People in the village +considered that a prodigious income. Horace, of course, knew +better. He did not think that sum sufficient to risk matrimony. +Here, too, he was hampered by another consideration. It was +intolerable for him to think of Rose's wealth and his paltry twelve +hundred per year. An ambition which had always slumbered within his +mind awoke to full strength and activity. He began to sit up late +at night and write articles for the papers and magazines. He had +got one accepted, and received a check which to his inexperience +seemed promisingly large. In spite of all his anxiety he was +exalted. He began to wonder if circumstances would not soon justify +him in reaching out for the sweet he coveted. He made up his mind +not to be precipitate, to wait until he was sure, but his +impatience had waxed during the last few hours, ever since that +delicious note of stilted, even cold, praise and that check had +arrived. When Rose had started to go up-stairs he had not been able +to avoid following her into the hall. The door of the parlor stood +open, and the whole room was full of the soft shimmer of moonlight. +It looked like a bower of romance. It seemed full of soft and holy +and alluring mysteries. Horace looked down at Rose, Rose looked up +at him. Her eyes fell; she trembled deliciously.</p> +<p>“It is very early,” he said, in a whispering voice +which would not have been known for his. It had in it the male +cadences of wooing music.</p> +<p>Rose stood still.</p> +<p>“Let us go in there a little while,” whispered +Horace. Rose followed him into the room; he gave the door a little +push. It did not quite close, but nearly. Horace placed a chair for +Rose beside a window into which the moon was shining; then he drew +up one beside it, but not very close. He neither dared nor was sure +that he desired. Alone with the girl in this moonlit room, an awe +crept over him. She looked away from him out of the window, and he +saw that this same awe was over her also. All their young pulses +were thrilling, but this awe which was of the spirit held them in +check. Rose, with the full white moonlight shining upon her face, +gained an ethereal beauty which gave her an adorable aloofness. The +young man seemed to see her through the vista of all his young +dreams. She was the goddess before which his soul knelt at a +distance. He thought he had never seen anything half so lovely as +she was in that white light, which seemed to crown her with a +frosty radiance like a nimbus. Her very expression was changed. She +was smiling, but there was something a little grave and stern about +her smile. Her eyes, fixed upon the clear crystal of the moon +sailing through the night blue, were full of visions. It did not +seem possible to him that she could be thinking of him at all, this +beautiful creature with her pure regard of the holy mystery of the +nightly sky; but in reality Rose, being the more emotional of the +two, and also, since she was not the one to advance, the more +daring, began to tremble with impatience for his closer contact, +for the touch of his hand upon hers.</p> +<p>She would have died before she would have made the first +advance, but it filled her as with secret fire. Finally a sort of +anger possessed her, anger at herself and at Horace. She became +horribly ashamed of herself, and angry at him because of the shame. +She gazed out at the wonderful masses of shadows which the trees +made, and she gazed up again at the sky and that floating crystal, +and it seemed impossible that it was within her as it was. Her +clear face was as calm as marble, her expression as immovable, her +gaze as direct. It seemed as if a man must be a part of the +wonderful mystery of the moonlit night to come within her scope of +vision at all.</p> +<p>Rose chilled, when she did not mean to do so, by sheer +maidenliness. Horace, gazing at her calm face, felt in some way +rebuked. He had led a decent sort of life, but after all he was a +man, and what right had he to even think of a creature like that? +He leaned back in his chair, removing himself farther from her, and +he also gazed at the moon. That mysterious thing of silver light +and shadows, which had illumined all the ages of creation by their +own reflected light, until it had come to be a mirror of creation +itself, seemed to give him a sort of chill of the flesh. After all, +what was everything in life but a repetition of that which had been +and a certainty of death? Rose looked like a ghost to his fancy. He +seemed like a ghost to himself, and felt reproached for the hot +ardor surging in his fleshly heart.</p> +<p>“That same moon lit the world for the builders of the +Pyramids,” he said, tritely enough.</p> +<p>“Yes,” murmured Rose, in a faint voice. The Pyramids +chilled her. So they were what he had been thinking about, and not +herself.</p> +<p>Horace went on. “It shone upon all those ancient +battle-fields of the Old Testament, and the children of Israel in +their exile,” he said.</p> +<p>Rose looked at him. “It shone upon the Garden of Eden +after Adam had so longed for Eve that she grew out of his longing +and became something separate from himself, so that he could see +her without seeing himself all the time; and it shone upon the +garden in Solomon's Song, and the roses of Sharon, and the lilies +of the valley, and the land flowing with milk and honey,” +said she, in a childish tone of levity which had an undercurrent of +earnestness in it. All her emotional nature and her pride arose +against Pyramids and Old Testament battle-fields, when she had only +been conscious that the moon shone upon Horace and herself. She was +shamed and angry as she had never been shamed and angry before.</p> +<p>Horace leaned forward and gazed eagerly at her. After all, was +he mistaken? He was shrewd enough, although he did not understand +the moods of women very well, and it did seem to him that there was +something distinctly encouraging in her tone. Just then the night +wind came in strongly at the window beside which they were sitting. +An ardent fragrance of dewy earth and plants smote them in the +face.</p> +<p>“Do you feel the draught?” asked Horace.</p> +<p>“I like it.”</p> +<p>“I am afraid you will catch cold.”</p> +<p>“I don't catch cold at all easily.”</p> +<p>“The wind is very damp,” argued Horace, with +increasing confidence. He grew very bold. He seized upon one of her +little white hands. “I won't believe it unless I can feel for +myself that your hands are not cold,” said he. He felt the +little soft fingers curl around his hand with the involuntary, +pristine force of a baby's. His heart beat tumultuously.</p> +<p>“Oh—” he began. Then he stopped suddenly as +Rose snatched her hand away and again gazed at the moon.</p> +<p>“It is a beautiful night,” she remarked, and the +harmless deceit of woman, which is her natural weapon, was in her +voice and manner.</p> +<p>Horace was more obtuse. He remained leaning eagerly towards the +girl. He extended his hand again, but she repeated, in her soft, +deceitful voice, “Yes, a perfectly beautiful +night.”</p> +<p>Then he observed Sylvia Whitman standing beside them. “It +is a nice night enough,” said she, “but you'll both +catch your deaths of cold at this open window. The wind is blowing +right in on you.”</p> +<p>She made a motion to close it, stepping between Rose and Horace, +but the young man sprang to his feet. “Let me close it, Mrs. +Whitman,” said he, and did so.</p> +<p>“It ain't late enough in the season to set right beside an +open window and let the wind blow in on you,” said Sylvia, +severely. She drew up a rocking-chair and sat down. She formed the +stern apex of a triangle of which Horace and Rose were the base. +She leaned back and rocked.</p> +<p>“It is a pleasant night,” said she, as if answering +Rose's remark, “but to me there's always something sort of +sad about moonlight nights. They make you think of times and people +that's gone. I dare say it is different with you young folks. I +guess I used to feel different about moonlight nights years ago. I +remember when Mr. Whitman and I were first married, we used to like +to set out on the front door-step and look at the moon, and make +plans.”</p> +<p>“Don't you ever now?” asked Rose.</p> +<p>“Now we go to bed and to sleep,” replied Sylvia, +decisively. There was a silence. “I guess it's pretty +late,” said Sylvia, in a meaning tone. “What time is +it, Mr. Allen?”</p> +<p>Horace consulted his watch. “It is not very late,” +said he. It did not seem to him that Mrs. Whitman could stay.</p> +<p>“It can't be very late,” said Rose.</p> +<p>“What time is it?” asked Sylvia, relentlessly.</p> +<p>“About half-past ten,” replied Horace, with +reluctance.</p> +<p>“I call that very late,” said Sylvia. “It is +late for Rose, anyway.”</p> +<p>“I don't feel at all tired,” said Rose.</p> +<p>“You must be,” said Sylvia. “You can't always +go by feelings.”</p> +<p>She swayed pitilessly back and forth in her rocking-chair. +Horace waited in an agony of impatience for her to leave them, but +she had no intention of doing so. She rocked. Now and then she made +some maddening little remark which had nothing whatever to do with +the situation. Then she rocked again. Finally she triumphed. Rose +stood up. “I think it is getting rather late,” said +she.</p> +<p>“It is very late,” agreed Sylvia, also rising. +Horace rose. There was a slight pause. It seemed even then that +Sylvia might take pity upon them and leave them. But she stood like +a rock. It was quite evident that she would settle again into her +rocking-chair at the slightest indication which the two young +people made of a disposition to remain.</p> +<p>Rose gave a fluttering little sigh. She extended her hand to +Horace. “Good-night, Mr. Allen,” she said.</p> +<p>“Good-night,” returned Horace. “Good-night, +Mrs. Whitman.”</p> +<p>“It is time you went to bed, too,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“I think I'll go in and have a smoke with Mr. Whitman +first,” said Horace.</p> +<p>“He's going to bed, too,” said Sylvia. “He's +tired. Good-night, Mr. Allen. If you open that window again, you'll +be sure and shut it down before you go up-stairs, won't +you?”</p> +<p>Horace promised that he would. Sylvia went with Rose into her +room to unfasten her gown. A lamp was burning on the +dressing-table. Rose kept her back turned towards the light. Her +pretty face was flushed and she was almost in tears. Sylvia hung +the girl's gown up carefully, then she looked at her lovingly. +Unless Rose made the first advance, when Sylvia would submit with +inward rapture but outward stiffness, there never were good-night +kisses exchanged between the two.</p> +<p>“You look all tired out,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“I am not at all tired,” said Rose. She was all +quivering with impatience, but her voice was sweet and docile. She +put up her face for Sylvia to kiss. “Good-night, dear Aunt +Sylvia,” said she.</p> +<p>“Good-night,” said Sylvia. Rose felt merely a soft +touch of thin, tightly closed lips. Sylvia did not know how to +kiss, but she was glowing with delight.</p> +<p>When she joined Henry in their bedroom down-stairs he looked at +her in some disapproval. “I don't think you'd ought to have +gone in there,” he said.</p> +<p>“Why not?”</p> +<p>“Why, you must expect young folks to be young folks, and +it was only natural for them to want to set there in the +moonlight.”</p> +<p>“They can set in there in the moonlight if they want +to,” said Sylvia. “I didn't hinder them.”</p> +<p>“I think they wanted to be alone.”</p> +<p>“When they set in the moonlight, I'm going to set, +too,” said Sylvia. She slipped off her gown carefully over +her head. When the head emerged Henry saw that it was carried high +with the same rigidity which had lately puzzled him, and that her +face had that same expression of stern isolation.</p> +<p>“Sylvia,” said Henry.</p> +<p>“Well?”</p> +<p>“Does anything worry you lately?”</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at him with sharp suspicion. “I'd like to +know why you should think anything worries me,” she said, +“as comfortable as we are off now.”</p> +<p>“Sylvia, have you got anything on your mind?”</p> +<p>“I don't want to see young folks making fools of +themselves,” said Sylvia, shortly, and her voice had the same +tone of deceit which Rose had used when she spoke of the beautiful +night.</p> +<p>“That ain't it,” said Henry, quietly.</p> +<p>“Well, if you want to know,” said Sylvia, +“she's been pestering me with wanting to pay board if she +stays along here, and I've put my foot down; she sha'n't pay a +cent.”</p> +<p>“Of course we can't let her,” agreed Henry. Then he +added, “This was all her own aunt's property, anyway, and if +there hadn't been a will it would have come to her.”</p> +<p>“There was a will,” said Sylvia, fastening her +cotton night-gown tightly around her skinny throat.</p> +<p>“Of course she's going to stay as long as she's contented, +and she ain't going to pay board,” said Henry; “but +that ain't the trouble. Have you got anything on your mind, +Sylvia?”</p> +<p>“I hope so,” replied Sylvia, sharply. “I hope +I've got a little something on my mind. I ain't a fool.”</p> +<p>Henry said no more. Neither he nor Sylvia went to sleep at once. +The moon's pale influence lit their room and seemed disturbing in +itself. Presently they both smelled cigar smoke.</p> +<p>“He's smoking,” said Sylvia. “Well, nothing +makes much difference to you men, as long as you can smoke. I'd +like to know what you'd do in my place.”</p> +<p>“Have you got anything on your mind, Sylvia?”</p> +<p>“Didn't I say I hoped I had? Everybody has something on +her mind, unless she's a tarnation fool, and I ain't never set up +for one.”</p> +<p>Henry did not speak again.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter XIV</h4> +<p>The next morning at breakfast Rose announced her intention of +going to see if Lucy Ayres would not go to drive with her.</p> +<p>“There's one very nice little horse at the +livery-stable,” said she, “and I can drive. It is a +beautiful morning, and poor Lucy did not look very well yesterday, +and I think it will do her good.”</p> +<p>Horace turned white. Henry noticed it. Sylvia, who was serving +something, did not. Henry had thought he had arrived at a knowledge +of Horace's suspicions, which in themselves seemed to him perfectly +groundless, and now that he had, as he supposed, proved them to be +so, he was profoundly puzzled. Before he had gone to Horace's +assistance. Now he did not see his way clear towards doing so, and +saw no necessity for it. He ate his breakfast meditatively. Horace +pushed away his plate and rose.</p> +<p>“Why, what's the matter?” asked Sylvia. “Don't +you feel well, Mr. Allen?”</p> +<p>“Perfectly well; never felt better.”</p> +<p>“You haven't eaten enough to keep a sparrow +alive.”</p> +<p>“I have eaten fast,” said Horace. “I have to +make an early start this morning. I have some work to do before +school.”</p> +<p>Rose apparently paid no attention. She went on with her plans +for her drive.</p> +<p>“Are you sure you know how to manage a horse?” said +Sylvia, anxiously. “I used to drive, but I can't go with you +because the washerwoman is coming.”</p> +<p>“Of course I can drive,” said Rose. “I love to +drive. And I don't believe there's a horse in the stable that would +get out of a walk, anyway.”</p> +<p>“You won't try to pass by any steam-rollers, and you'll +look out for automobiles, won't you?” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>Horace left them talking and set out hurriedly. When he reached +the Ayres house he entered the gate, passed between the flowering +shrubs which bordered the gravel walk, and rang the bell with +vigor. He was desperate. Lucy herself opened the door. When she saw +Horace she turned red, then white. She was dressed neatly in a +little blue cotton wrapper, and her pretty hair was arranged as +usual, with the exception of one tiny curl-paper on her forehead. +Lucy's hand went nervously to this curl-paper.</p> +<p>“Oh, good-morning!” she said, breathlessly, as if +she had been running.</p> +<p>Horace returned her greeting gravely. “Can I see you a few +moments, Miss Lucy?” he said.</p> +<p>A wild light came into the girl's eyes. Her cheeks flushed +again. Again she spoke in her nervous, panting voice, and asked him +in. She led the way into the parlor and excused herself +flutteringly. She was back in a few moments. Instead of the +curl-paper there was a little, soft, dark, curly lock on her +forehead. She had also fastened the neck of her wrapper with a gold +brooch. The wrapper sloped well from her shoulders and displayed a +lovely V of white neck. She sat down opposite Horace, and the +simple garment adjusted itself to her slim figure, revealing its +tender outlines.</p> +<p>Lucy looked at Horace, and her expression was tragic, foolish, +and of almost revolting wistfulness. She was youth and womanhood in +its most helpless and pathetic revelation. Poor Lucy could not help +herself. She was a thing always devoured and never consumed by a +flame of nature, because of the lack of food to satisfy an inborn +hunger.</p> +<p>Horace felt all this perfectly in an analytical way. He +sympathized in an analytical way, but in other respects he felt +that curious resentment and outrage of which a man is capable and +which is fiercer than outraged maidenliness. For a man to be +beloved when his own heart does not respond is not pleasant. He +cannot defend himself, nor even recognize facts, without being +lowered in his own self-esteem. Horace had done, as far as he could +judge, absolutely nothing whatever to cause this state of mind in +Lucy. He was self-exonerated as to that, but the miserable reason +for it all, in his mere existence as a male of his species, filled +him with shame for himself and her, and also with anger.</p> +<p>He strove to hold to pity, but anger got the better of him. +Anger and shame coupled together make a balking team. Now the man +was really at a loss what to say. Lucy sat before him with her +expression of pitiable self-revelation, and waited, and Horace sat +speechless. Now he was there, he wondered what he had been such an +ass as to come for. He wondered what he had ever thought he could +say, would say. Then Rose's face shone out before his eyes, and his +impulse of protection made him firm. He spoke abruptly. “Miss +Lucy—” he began. Lucy cast her eyes down and waited, +her whole attitude was that of utter passiveness and yielding. +“Good Lord! She thinks I have come here at eight o'clock in +the morning to propose!” Horace thought, with a sort of fury. +But he did not speak again at once. He actually did not know how to +begin, what to say. He did not, finally, say anything. He rose. It +seemed to him that he must prevent Rose from going to drive with +Lucy, but he saw no way of doing so.</p> +<p>When he rose it was as if Lucy's face of foolish anticipation of +joy was overclouded. “You are not going so soon?” she +stammered.</p> +<p>“I have to get to school early this morning,” Horace +said, in a harsh voice. He moved towards the door. Lucy also had +risen. She now looked altogether tragic. The foolish wistfulness +was gone. Instead, claws seemed to bristle all over her tender +surface. Suddenly Horace realized that her slender, wiry body was +pressed against his own. He was conscious of her soft cheek against +his. He felt at once in the grip of a tiger and a woman, and +horribly helpless, more helpless than he had ever been in his whole +life. What could he say or do? Then suddenly the parlor door opened +and Mrs. Ayres, Lucy's mother, stood there. She saw with her stern, +melancholy gaze the whole situation.</p> +<p>“Lucy!” she said.</p> +<p>Lucy started away from Horace, and gazed in a sort of fear and +wrath at her mother.</p> +<p>“Lucy,” said Mrs. Ayres, “go up to your own +room.”</p> +<p>Lucy obeyed. She slunk out of the door and crept weakly +up-stairs. Horace and Mrs. Ayres looked at each other. There was a +look of doubt in the woman's face. For the first time she was not +altogether sure. Perhaps Lucy had been right, after all, in her +surmises. Why had Horace called? She finally went straight to the +point.</p> +<p>“What did you come for, Mr. Allen?” said she.</p> +<p>Suddenly Horace thought of the obvious thing to say, the +explanation to give. “Miss Fletcher is thinking of coming +later to take Miss Lucy for a drive,” said he.</p> +<p>“And you called to tell her?” said Mrs. Ayres.</p> +<p>Horace looked at her. Mrs. Ayres understood. “Miss +Fletcher must come with a double-seated carriage so that I can +go,” said she. “My daughter is very nervous about +horses. I never allow her to go to drive without me.”</p> +<p>She observed, with a sort of bitter sympathy, the look of relief +overspread Horace's face. “I will send a telephone message +from Mrs. Steele's, next door, so there will be no mistake,” +she said.</p> +<p>“Thank you,” replied Horace. His face was +burning.</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres went on with a melancholy and tragic calm. “I +saw what I saw when I came in,” said she. “I have only +to inform you that—any doubts which you may have entertained, +any fears, are altogether groundless. Everything has been as +harmless as—the candy you ate last night.”</p> +<p>Horace started and stared at her. In truth, he had lain awake +until a late hour wondering what might be going to happen to +him.</p> +<p>“I made it,” said Mrs. Ayres. “I attend to +everything. I have attended to everything.” She gazed at him +with a strange, pathetic dignity. “I have no apologies nor +excuses to make to you,” she said. “I have only this to +say, and you can reflect upon it at your leisure. Sometimes, quite +often, it may happen that too heavy a burden, a burden which has +been gathering weight since the first of creation, is heaped upon +too slender shoulders. This burden may bend innocence into guilt +and modesty into shamelessness, but there is no more reason for +condemnation than in a case of typhoid fever. Any man of good sense +and common Christianity should take that view of it.”</p> +<p>“I do,” cried Horace, hurriedly. He looked longingly +at the door. He had never felt so shamed in his life, and never so +angrily sympathetic.</p> +<p>“I will go over to Mrs. Steele's and telephone +immediately,” said Mrs. Ayres, calmly. “Good-morning, +Mr. Allen.”</p> +<p>“Good-morning,” said Horace. There was something +terrible about the face of patient defiance which the woman lifted +to his.</p> +<p>“You will not—” she began.</p> +<p>Horace caught her thin hand and pressed it heartily. “Good +God, Mrs. Ayres!” he stammered.</p> +<p>She nodded. “Yes, I understand. I can trust you,” +she said. “I am very glad it happened with you.”</p> +<p>Horace was relieved to be out in the open air. He felt as if he +had escaped from an atmosphere of some terrible emotional miasma. +He reflected that he had heard of such cases as poor Lucy Ayres, +but he had been rather incredulous. He walked along wondering +whether it was a psychological or physical phenomenon. Pity began +to get the better of his shame for himself and the girl. The +mother's tragic face came before his eyes. “What that woman +must have to put up with!” he thought.</p> +<p>When he had commenced the morning session of school he found +himself covertly regarding the young girls. He wondered if such +cases were common. If they were, he thought to himself that the man +who threw the first stone was the first criminal of the world. He +realized the helplessness of the young things before forces of +nature of which they were brought up in so much ignorance, and his +soul rebelled. He thought to himself that they should be armed from +the beginning with wisdom.</p> +<p>He was relieved that at first he saw in none of the girl-faces +before him anything which resembled in the slightest degree the +expression which he had seen in Lucy Ayres's. These girls, most of +them belonging to the village (there were a few from outside, for +this was an endowed school, ranking rather higher than an ordinary +institution), revealed in their faces one of three interpretations +of character. Some were full of young mischief, chafing impatiently +at the fetters of school routine. They were bubbling over with +innocent animal life; they were longing to be afield at golf or +tennis. They hated their books.</p> +<p>Some were frankly coquettish and self-conscious, but in a most +healthy and normal fashion. These frequently adjusted stray locks +of hair, felt of their belts at their backs to be sure that the +fastenings were intact, then straightened themselves with charming +little feminine motions. Their flowerlike faces frequently turned +towards the teacher, and there was in them a perfect consciousness +of the facts of sex and charm, but it was a most innocent, even +childlike consciousness.</p> +<p>The last type belonged to those intent upon their books, soberly +adjusted to the duties of life already, with little imagination or +emotion. This last was in the minority.</p> +<p>“Thank God!” Horace thought, as his eyes met one and +another of the girl-faces. “She is not, cannot be, a common +type.” And then he felt something like a chill of horror as +his eyes met those of a new pupil, a girl from Alford, who had only +entered the school the day before. She was not well dressed. There +was nothing coquettish about her, but in her eyes shone the awful, +unreasoning hunger which he had seen before. Upon her shoulders, +young as they were, was the same burden, the burden as old as +creation, which she was required to bear by a hard destiny, perhaps +of heredity. There was something horribly pathetic in the girl's +shy, beseeching, foolish gaze at Horace. She was younger and shyer +than Lucy and, although not so pretty, immeasurably more +pathetic.</p> +<p>“Another,” thought Horace. It was a great relief to +him when, only a week later, this girl found an admirer in one of +the schoolboys, who, led by some strange fascination, followed her +instead of one of the prettier, more attractive girls. Then the +girl began to look more normal. She dressed more carefully and +spent more time in arranging her hair. After all, she was very +young, and abnormal instincts may be quieted with a mere sop at the +first.</p> +<p>When Horace reached home that day of the drive he found that +Rose had returned. Sylvia said that she had been at home half an +hour.</p> +<p>“She went to Alford,” she said, “and I'm +afraid she's all tired out. She came home looking as white as a +sheet. She said she didn't want any dinner, but finally said she +would come down.”</p> +<p>At the dinner-table Rose was very silent. She did not look at +Horace at all. She ate almost nothing. After dinner she persisted +in assisting Sylvia in clearing away the table and washing the +dishes. Rose took a childish delight in polishing the china with +her dish-towel. New England traits seemed to awake within her in +this New England home. Sylvia was using the willow ware now, Rose +was so pleased with it. The Calkin's soap ware was packed away on +the top shelf of the pantry.</p> +<p>“It is perfectly impossible, Aunt Sylvia,” Rose had +declared, and Sylvia had listened. She listened with much more +docility than at first to the decrees of sophistication.</p> +<p>“The painting ain't nearly as natural,” she had +said, feebly, regarding the moss rosebuds on a Calkin's soap plate +with fluctuating admiration which caused her pain by its +fluctuations.</p> +<p>“Oh, but, Aunt Sylvia, to think of comparing for one +minute ware like that with this perfectly wonderful old willow +ware!” Rose had said.</p> +<p>“Well, have your own way,” said Sylvia, with a sigh. +“Maybe I can get used to everything all blue, when it ain't +blue, after awhile. I know you have been around more than I have, +and you ought to know.”</p> +<p>So the gold-and-white ware which had belonged to Sylvia's mother +decked the breakfast-table and the willow ware did duty for the +rest of the time. “I think it is very much better that you +have no maid,” Rose said. “I simply would not trust a +maid to care for china like this.”</p> +<p>Rose took care of her room now, and very daintily. “She'll +be real capable after awhile,” Sylvia told Henry.</p> +<p>“I didn't know as she'd be contented to stay at all, we +live so different from the way she's been used to,” said +Henry.</p> +<p>“It's the way her mother was brought up, and the way she +lived, and what's in the blood will work out,” said Sylvia. +“Then, too, I guess she didn't care any too much about those +folks she lived with. For my part, I think it's the queerest thing +I ever heard of that Miss Farrel, if she took such a notion to the +child, enough to do so much for her, didn't keep her +herself.”</p> +<p>“Miss Farrel was a queer woman,” said Henry.</p> +<p>“I guess she wasn't any too well balanced,” agreed +Sylvia.</p> +<p>“What do you suppose tired Rose out so much this +morning?” asked Henry. “It isn't such a very long ride +to Alford.”</p> +<p>“I don't know. She looked like a ghost when she got home. +I'm glad she's laying down. I hope she'll get a little +nap.”</p> +<p>That was after dinner, when the house had been set in order, and +Sylvia was at one front window in the cool sitting-room, with a +basket of mending, and Henry at another with a library book. Henry +was very restless in these days. He pottered about the place and +was planning to get in a good hay crop, but this desultory sort of +employment did not take the place of his regular routine of toil. +He missed it horribly, almost as a man is said to miss a pain of +long standing. He knew that he was better off without it, that he +ought to be happier, but he knew that he was not.</p> +<p>For years he had said bitterly that he had no opportunity for +reading and improving his mind. Now he had opportunity, but it was +too late. He could not become as interested in a book as he had +been during the few moments he had been able to snatch from his old +routine of toil. Some days it seemed to Henry that he must go back +to the shop, that he could not live in this way. He had begun to +lose all interest in what he had anticipated with much +pleasure—the raising of grass on Abrahama White's celebrated +land. He felt that he knew nothing about such work, that +agriculture was not for him. If only he could stand again at his +bench in the shop, and cut leather into regular shapes, he felt +that while his hands toiled involuntarily his mind could work. Some +days he fairly longed so for the old familiar odor of tanned hides, +that odor which he had once thought sickened him, that he would go +to the shop and stand by the open door, and inhale the warm rush of +leather-scented air with keen relish. But he never told this to +Sylvia.</p> +<p>Henry was not happy. At times it seemed to him that he really +wished that he and Sylvia had never met with this good-fortune. +Once he turned on Sidney Meeks with a fierce rejoinder, when Sidney +had repeated the sarcasm which he loved to roll beneath his tongue +like a honeyed morsel, that if he did not want his good-fortune it +was the easiest thing in the world to relinquish it.</p> +<p>“It ain't,” said Henry; “and what's more, you +know it ain't. Sylvia don't want to give it up, and I ain't going +to ask her. You know I can't get rid of it, but it's true what I +say: when good things are so long coming they get sour, like most +things that are kept too long. What's the use of a present your +hands are too cramped to hold?”</p> +<p>Sidney looked gravely at Henry, who had aged considerably during +the last few weeks. “Well, I am ready to admit,” he +said, “that sometimes the mills of the gods grind so slow and +small that the relish is out of things when you get them. I'm +willing to admit that if I had to-day what I once thought I +couldn't live without, I'd give up beat. Once I thought I'd like to +have the biggest law practice of any lawyer in the State. If I had +it now I'd be ready to throw it all up. It would come too late. Now +I'd think it was more bother than it was worth. How'd I make my +wines and get any comfort out of life? Yes, I guess it's true, +Henry, when Providence is overlong in giving a man what he wants, +it contrives somehow to suck the sweetness out of what he gets, +though he may not know it, and when what he thought he wanted does +come to him it is like a bee trying to make honey out of a flower +that doesn't hold any. Why don't you go back to the shop, Henry, +and have done with it?”</p> +<p>“Sylvia—” began Henry.</p> +<p>But Sidney cut in. “If you haven't found out,” said +he, “that in the long-run doing what is best for yourself is +doing what's best for the people who love you best, you haven't +found out much.”</p> +<p>“I don't know,” Henry said, in a puzzled, weary way. +“Sometimes it seems to me I can't keep on living the way I am +living, and live at all; and then I don't know.”</p> +<p>“I know,” said Sidney. “Get back to your +tracks.”</p> +<p>“Sylvia would feel all cut up over it. She wouldn't +understand.”</p> +<p>“Of course she wouldn't understand, but women always end +in settling down to things they don't understand, when they get it +through their heads it's got to be, and being just as contented, +unless they're the kind who fetch up in lunatic asylums, and Sylvia +isn't that kind. The inevitable may be a hard pill for her to +swallow, but it will never stick in her throat.”</p> +<p>Henry shook his head doubtfully. He had been thinking it over +since. He had thought of it a good deal after dinner that day, as +he sat with the unread book in his lap. Sylvia's remarks about Rose +diverted his attention, then he began thinking again. Sylvia +watched him furtively as she sewed. “You ain't reading that +book at all,” she said. “I have been watching you, and +you 'ain't turned a single page since I spoke last.”</p> +<p>“I don't see why I should,” returned Henry. “I +don't see why anybody but a fool should ever open the book, to +begin with.”</p> +<p>“What is the book?”</p> +<p>Henry looked at the title-page. “It is +<cite>Whatever</cite>, by Mrs. Fane Raymond,” he said, +absently.</p> +<p>“I've heard it was a beautiful book.”</p> +<p>“Most women would like it,” said Henry. “It +seems to be a lot written about a fool woman that didn't know what +she wanted, by another fool woman who didn't know, either, and was +born cross-eyed as to right and wrong.”</p> +<p>“Why, Henry Whitman, it ain't true!”</p> +<p>“I suppose it ain't.”</p> +<p>“No book is true—that is, no story.”</p> +<p>“If it ain't true, so much the less reason to tell such a +pack of stupid lies,” said Henry. He closed the book with a +snap.</p> +<p>“Why, Henry, ain't you going to finish it?”</p> +<p>“No, I ain't. I'm going back to the shop to +work.”</p> +<p>“Henry Whitman, you ain't!”</p> +<p>“Yes, I am. As for pottering round here, and trying to get +up an interest in things I ought to have begun instead of ended in, +and setting round reading books that I can't keep my mind on, and +if I do, just get madder and madder, I won't. I'm going back to +work with my hands the way I've been working the last forty years, +and then I guess I'll get my mind out of +leading-strings.”</p> +<p>“Henry Whitman, be you crazy?”</p> +<p>“No, but I shall be if I set round this way much +longer.”</p> +<p>“You don't need to do a mite of work.”</p> +<p>“You don't suppose it's the money I'm thinking about! It's +the work.”</p> +<p>“What will folks say?”</p> +<p>“I don't care what they say.”</p> +<p>“Henry Whitman, I thought I knew you, but I declare it +seems as if I have never known you at all,” Sylvia said. She +looked at him with her puzzled, troubled eyes, in which tears were +gathering. She was still very pale.</p> +<p>A sudden pity for her came over Henry. After all, he ought to +try to make his position clear to her. “Sylvia,” he +said, “what do you think you would do, after all these years +of housekeeping, if you had to stand in a shoe-shop, from morning +till night, at a bench cutting leather?”</p> +<p>Sylvia stared at him. “Me?”</p> +<p>“Yes, you.”</p> +<p>“Why, you know I couldn't do it, Henry Whitman!”</p> +<p>“Well, no more can I stand such a change in my life. I +can't go to farming and setting around after forty years in a +shoe-shop, any more than you can work in a shoe-shop after forty +years of housekeeping.”</p> +<p>“It ain't the same thing at all,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Why not?”</p> +<p>“Because it ain't.” Sylvia closed her thin lips +conclusively. This, to her mind, was reasoning which completely +blocked all argument.</p> +<p>Henry looked at her hopelessly. “I didn't suppose you +would understand,” he said.</p> +<p>“I don't see why you thought so,” said Sylvia. +“I guess I have a mind capable of understanding as much as a +man. There is no earthly sense in your going to work in the shop +again, with all our money. What would folks say, and why do you +want to do it?”</p> +<p>“I have told you why.”</p> +<p>“You haven't told me why at all.”</p> +<p>Henry said no more. He looked out of the window with a miserable +expression. The beautiful front yard, with its box-bordered +flower-beds, did not cheer him with the sense of possession. He +heard a bird singing with a flutelike note; he heard bees humming +over the flowers, and he longed to hear, instead, the buzz and whir +of machines which had become the accompaniment of his song of life. +A terrible isolation and homesickness came over him. He thought of +the humble little house in which he and Sylvia had lived so many +years, and a sort of passion of longing for it seized him. He felt +that for the moment he fairly loathed all this comparative splendor +with which he was surrounded.</p> +<p>“What do you think she would say if you went back to the +shop?” asked Sylvia. She jerked her head with an upward, +sidewise movement towards Rose's room.</p> +<p>“She may not be contented to live here very long, anyway. +It's likely that when the summer's over she'll begin to think of +her fine friends in New York, and want to lead the life she's been +used to again,” said Henry. “It ain't likely it would +make much difference to her.”</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at Henry as he had never seen her look before. She +spoke with a passion of utterance of which he had never thought her +capable. “She is going to stay right here in her aunt +Abrahama's house, and have all she would have had if there hadn't +been any will,” said she, fiercely.</p> +<p>“You would make her stay if she didn't want to?” +said Henry, gazing at her wonderingly.</p> +<p>“She's got to want to stay,” said Sylvia, still with +the same strange passion. “There'll be enough going on; you +needn't worry. I'm going to have parties for her, if she wants +them. She says she's been used to playing cards, and you know how +we were brought up about cards—to think they were wicked. +Well, I don't care if they are wicked. If she wants them she's +going to have card-parties, and prizes, too, though I 'most know +it's as bad as gambling. And if she wants to have dancing-parties +(she knows how to dance) she's going to have them, too. I don't +think there's six girls in East Westland who know how to dance, but +there must be a lot in Alford, and the parlor is big enough for +'most everything. She shall have every mite as much going on as she +would have in New York. She sha'n't miss anything. I'm willing to +have some dinners with courses, too, if she wants them, and hire +Hannah Simmons's little sister to wait on the table, with a white +cap on her head and a white apron with a bib. I'm willing Rose +shall have everything she wants. And then, you know, Henry, there's +the church sociables and suppers all winter, and she'll like to go +to them; and they will most likely get up a lecture and concert +course. If she can't be every mite as lively here in East Westland +as in New York, if I set out to have her, I'll miss my guess. +There's lots of beautiful dresses up-stairs that belonged to her +aunt, and I'm going to have the dressmaker come here and make some +over for her. It's no use talking, she's going to stay.”</p> +<p>“Well, I am sure I hope she will,” said Henry, still +regarding his wife with wonder.</p> +<p>“She is going to, and if she does stay, you know you can't +go back to work in the shop, Henry Whitman. I'd like to know how +you think you could set down to the table with her, smelling of +leather the way you used to.”</p> +<p>“There might be worse smells.”</p> +<p>“That's just because you are used to it.”</p> +<p>“That's just it,” cried Henry, pathetically. +“Can't you get it through your head, Sylvia? It is because +I'm used to it. Can't you see it's kind of dangerous to turn a man +out of his tracks after he's been in them so long?”</p> +<p>“There ain't any need for you to work in the shop. We've +got plenty of money without,” said Sylvia, settling back +immovably in her chair, and Henry gave it up.</p> +<p>Sylvia considered that she had won the victory. She began sewing +again. Henry continued to look out of the window.</p> +<p>“She is a delicate little thing, and I guess it's mighty +lucky for her that she came to live in the country just as she +did,” Sylvia observed.</p> +<p>“I suppose you know what's bound to happen if she and Mr. +Allen stay on in the same house,” said Henry. “As far +as I am concerned, I think it would be a good arrangement. Mr. +Allen has a good salary, and she has enough to make up for what he +can't do; and I would like to keep the child here myself, but I +somehow thought you didn't like the idea.”</p> +<p>Again Sylvia turned white, and stared at her husband almost with +horror. “I don't see why you think it is bound to +happen,” said she.</p> +<p>Henry laughed. “It doesn't take a very long head to think +so.”</p> +<p>“It sha'n't happen. That child ain't going to marry +anybody.”</p> +<p>“Sylvia, you don't mean that you want her to be an old +maid!”</p> +<p>“It's the best thing for any girl, if she only thought so, +to be an old maid,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>Henry laughed a little. “That's a compliment to +me.”</p> +<p>“I ain't saying anything against you. I've been happy +enough, and I suppose I've been better off than if I'd stayed +single; but Rose has got enough to live on, and what any girl +that's got enough to live on wants to get married for beats +me.”</p> +<p>Henry laughed again, a little bitterly this time. “Then +you wouldn't have married me if you had had enough to live +on?” he said.</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at him, and an odd, shamed tenderness came into +her elderly face. “There's no use talking about what wasn't, +anyway,” said she, and Henry understood.</p> +<p>After a little while Sylvia again brought up the subject of +Horace and Rose. She was evidently very uneasy about it. “I +don't see why you think because a young man and girl are in the +same house anything like that is bound to happen,” said +she.</p> +<p>“Well, perhaps not; maybe it won't,” said Henry, +soothingly. He saw that it troubled Sylvia, and it had always been +an unwritten maxim with him that Sylvia should not be troubled if +it could be helped. He knew that he himself was about to trouble +her, and why should she be vexed, in addition, about an +uncertainty, as possibly this incipient love-affair might be. After +all, why should it follow that because a young man and a girl lived +in the same house they should immediately fall in love? And why +should it not be entirely possible that they might have a little +love-making without any serious consequences? Horace had presumably +paid a little attention to girls before, and it was very probable +that Rose had received attention. Why bother about such a thing as +this when poor Sylvia would really be worried over his, Henry's, +return to his old, humble vocation?</p> +<p>For Henry, as he sat beside the window that pleasant afternoon, +was becoming more and more convinced it must happen. It seemed to +him that his longing was gradually strengthening into a purpose +which he could not overcome. It seemed to him that every flutelike +note of a bird in the pleasance outside served to make this purpose +more unassailable, as if every sweet flower-breath and every +bee-hum, every drawing of his wife's shining needle through the +white garment which she was mending, all served to render his +purpose so settled a thing that any change in it was as impossible +as growth in a granite ledge. That very day Henry had been +approached by the superintendent of Lawson & Fisher's, where he +had worked, and told that his place, which had been temporarily +filled, was vacant and ready for him. He had said that he must +consider the matter, but he had known in his heart that the matter +admitted of no consideration. He looked gloomy as he sat there with +his unread book in his hand, yet gradually an eager, happy light +crept into his eyes.</p> +<p>After supper he told Sylvia he was going down to the store. He +did go, but on his way he stopped at the superintendent's house and +told that he would report for work in the morning.</p> +<p>Rose had not come down to supper. Henry had wondered why, and +sympathized in part with Sylvia's anxiety. Still, he had a vague +feeling that a young girl's not coming down to supper need not be +taken very seriously, that young girls had whims and fancies which +signified nothing, and that it was better to let them alone until +they got over them. He knew that Sylvia, however, would take the +greatest comfort in coddling the girl, and he welcomed the fact as +conducing to his making his arrangements for the next day. He +thought that Sylvia would not have the matter in mind at all, since +she had the girl to fuss over, and that she would not ask him any +questions. On his way home he stopped at Sidney Meeks's. He found +the lawyer in a demoralized dining-room, which had, nevertheless, +an air of homely comfort, with its chairs worn into hollows to fit +human anatomies, and its sideboard set out with dusty dishes and a +noble ham. Meeks was a very good cook, although one could not +confidently assert that dust and dirt did not form a part of his +ingredients. One of his triumphs was ham cooked in a manner which +he claimed to have invented. After having been boiled, it was +baked, and frequently basted in a way which Meeks kept as secret as +the bouquet of his grape wine. Sidney sat at the table eating bread +and ham spread with mustard, and there were also a mysterious pie +in reserve and a bottle of wine. “Draw up, Henry,” said +Sidney.</p> +<p>“I've had supper.”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“Sylvia had chicken salad and flapjacks and hot +biscuits.”</p> +<p>Sidney sniffed. “Cut a slice off that ham,” he +ordered, “and draw a chair up. Not that one; you'll go +through. Yes, that's right. Bring over another wineglass while +you're about it. This is daisy wine, ten years old. I've got a pie +here that I'll be willing to stake your fortune you can't analyze. +It's after the pattern of the cold pasties you read about in old +English novels. You shall guess what's in it. Draw up.”</p> +<p>Henry obeyed. He found himself sitting opposite Sidney, eating +and drinking with intense enjoyment. Sidney chuckled. +“Good?” said he.</p> +<p>“I don't know when my victuals have tasted right +before,” said Henry. He received a large wedge of the pie on +his plate, and his whole face beamed with the first taste.</p> +<p>Sidney leaned across the table and whispered. +“Squabs,” said he, “and—robins, big fat +ones. I shot 'em night before last. It's all nonsense the fuss +folks make about robins, and a lot of other birds, as far as that +goes—damned sentiment. Year before last I hadn't a bushel of +grapes on my vines because the robins stole them, and not a +half-bushel of pears on that big seckel-pear-tree. If they'd eaten +them up clean I wouldn't have felt so bad, but there the ground +would be covered with pears rotted on account of one little peck. +They are enough sight better to be on women's bonnets than eating +up folks' substance, though I don't promulgate that doctrine +abroad. And one thing I ain't afraid to say: big fat robins ought +to be made some use of. This pie is enough sight more wholesome for +the bodies of men who have immortal souls dependent a little on +what is eaten, in spite of the preaching, than Western tainted +beef. I made up my mind that pie was the natural destiny of a +robin, and I make squab-and-robin pies every week of my life. The +robins are out of mischief in that pie, and they are doing us good. +What makes you look so, though, Henry? There's something besides my +pie and ham and wine that gives that look to your face.”</p> +<p>“I'm going back to the shop to-morrow,” said +Henry.</p> +<p>Sidney looked at him. “Most folks would say you were an +uncommon fool,” said he. “I suppose you know +that.”</p> +<p>“I can't help it,” said Henry, happily. Along with +the savory pie in his mouth came a subtler relish to his very soul. +The hunger of the honest worker who returns to his work was being +appeased.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter XV</h4> +<p>While Henry was at Sidney Meeks's, Horace sat alone smoking and +reading the evening paper. He kept looking up from the paper and +listening. He was hoping that Rose, in spite of the fact that she +had not been able to come down to supper, might yet make her +appearance. He speculated on her altered looks and manner at +dinner. He could not help being a little anxious, in spite of all +Mrs. Ayres's assurances and the really vague nature of his own +foreboding. He asked himself if he had had from the beginning +anything upon which to base suspicion. Given the premises of an +abnormal girl with a passion for himself which humiliated him, an +abnormal woman like Miss Farrel with a similar passion, albeit +under better control, the melodramatic phases of the candy, and +sudden death, and traces of arsenical poison, what should be the +conclusion?</p> +<p>He himself had eaten some of presumably the same candy with no +ill effects. Mrs. Ayres had assured him of her constant +watchfulness over her daughter, who was no doubt in an alarmingly +nervous state, but was she necessarily dangerous? He doubted if +Mrs. Ayres had left the two girls a moment to themselves during the +drive. What possible reason, after all, had he for alarm?</p> +<p>When he heard Sylvia mounting the stairs, and caught a glimpse +of a little tray borne carefully, he gave up all hope of Rose's +coming down. Presently he went out and walked down the village +street, smoking. As he passed out of the yard he glanced up at +Rose's windows, and saw the bright light behind the curtains. He +felt glad that the girl had a woman like Sylvia to care for +her.</p> +<p>As he looked Sylvia's shadow passed between the window and the +light. It had, in its shadowy enlargement, a benignant aspect. +There was an angelic, motherly bend to the vague shoulders. Sylvia +was really in her element. She petted and scolded the girl, whom +she found flung upon her bed like a castaway flower, sobbing +pitifully.</p> +<p>“What on earth is the matter?” demanded Sylvia, in a +honeyed tone, which at once stung and sweetened. “Here you +are in the dark, crying and going without your victuals. You ought +to be ashamed of yourself.”</p> +<p>As she spoke Sylvia struck a match and lit the lamp. Rose buried +her face deeper in the bed.</p> +<p>“I don't want any lamp,” she gasped.</p> +<p>“Don't want any lamp? Ain't you ashamed of yourself? I +should think you were a baby. You are going to have a lamp, and you +are going to sit up and eat your supper.” Sylvia drew down +the white shades carefully, then she bent over the girl. She did +not touch her, but she was quivering with maternal passion which +seemed to embrace without any physical contact. “Now, what is +the matter?” she said.</p> +<p>“Nothing.”</p> +<p>“What is the matter?” repeated Sylvia, +insistently.</p> +<p>Suddenly Rose sat up. “Nothing is the matter,” she +said. “I am just nervous.” She made an effort to +control her face. She smiled at Sylvia with her wet eyes and +swollen mouth. She resolutely dabbed at her flushed face with a +damp little ball of handkerchief.</p> +<p>Sylvia turned to the bureau and took a fresh handkerchief from +the drawer. She sprinkled it with some toilet water that was on the +dressing-table, and gave it to Rose. “Here is a clean +handkerchief,” she said, “and I've put some of your +perfumery on it. Give me the other.”</p> +<p>Rose took the sweet-smelling square of linen and tried to smile +again. “I just got nervous,” she said.</p> +<p>“Set down here in this chair,” said Sylvia, +“and I'll draw up the little table, and I want you to eat +your supper. I've brought up something real nice for +you.”</p> +<p>“Thank you, Aunt Sylvia; you're a dear,” said Rose, +pitifully, “but—I don't think I can eat +anything.” In spite of herself the girl's face quivered again +and fresh tears welled into her eyes. She passed her scented +handkerchief over them. “I am not a bit hungry,” she +said, brokenly.</p> +<p>Sylvia drew a large, chintz-covered chair forward. “Set +right down in this chair,” she said, firmly. And Rose slid +weakly from the bed and sank into the chair. She watched, with a +sort of dull gratitude, while Sylvia spread a little table with a +towel and set out the tray.</p> +<p>“There,” said she. “Here is some cream toast +and some of those new pease, and a little chop, spring lamb, and a +cup of tea. Now you just eat every mite of it, and then I've got a +saucer of strawberries and cream for you to top off +with.”</p> +<p>Rose looked hopelessly at the dainty fare. Then she looked at +Sylvia. The impulse to tell another woman her trouble got the +better of her. If women had not other women in whom to confide, +there are times when their natures would be too much for them. +“I heard some news this morning,” said she. She +attempted to make her voice exceedingly light and casual.</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“I heard about Mr. Allen's engagement.”</p> +<p>“Engagement to who?”</p> +<p>“To—Lucy.”</p> +<p>“Lucy!”</p> +<p>“Lucy Ayres. She seems to be a very sweet girl. She is +very pretty. I hope she will make him very happy.” Rose's +voice trembled with sad hypocrisy.</p> +<p>“Who told you?” demanded Sylvia.</p> +<p>“She told me herself.”</p> +<p>“Did her mother hear it?”</p> +<p>“She did, but I think she did not understand. Lucy spoke +in French. She talks French very well. She studied with Miss +Farrel, you know. I think Lucy has done all in her power to fit +herself to become a good wife for an educated man.”</p> +<p>“What did she tell you in French for? Why didn't she speak +in English?”</p> +<p>“I don't know.”</p> +<p>“Well, I know. She did it so her mother wouldn't hear, and +say in English that she was telling an awful whopper. Mr. Allen is +no more engaged to Lucy Ayres than I am.”</p> +<p>Rose gazed at Sylvia with sudden eagerness. “What makes +you think so, Aunt Sylvia?”</p> +<p>“Nothing makes me think what I know. Mr. Allen has never +paid any attention to Lucy Ayres, beyond what he couldn't help, and +she's made a mountain out of a mole-hill. Lucy Ayres is man-crazy, +that's all. You needn't tell me.”</p> +<p>“Then you don't think—?”</p> +<p>“I know better. I'll ask Mr. Allen.”</p> +<p>“If you asked him it would make it very hard for him if it +wasn't so,” said Rose.</p> +<p>“I don't see why.”</p> +<p>“Mr. Allen is a gentleman, and he could not practically +accuse a woman of making an unauthorized claim of that sort,” +said Rose.</p> +<p>“Well, I won't say anything about it to him if you think I +had better not,” said Sylvia, “but I must say I think +it's pretty hard on a man to have a girl going round telling folks +he's engaged to her when he ain't. Eat that lamb chop and them +pease while they're hot.”</p> +<p>“I am going to. They are delicious. I didn't think I was +hungry at all, but to have things brought up this way—”</p> +<p>“You've got to eat a saucer of strawberries +afterwards,” said Sylvia, happily.</p> +<p>She watched the girl eat, and she was in a sort of ecstasy, +which was, nevertheless, troubled. After a while, when Rose had +nearly finished the strawberries, Sylvia ventured a remark.</p> +<p>“Lucy Ayres is a queer girl,” said she. “I've +known all about her for some time. She has been thinking young men +were in love with her, when they never had an idea of such a thing, +ever since she was so high.”</p> +<p>Sylvia indicated by her out-stretched hand a point about a foot +and a half from the floor.</p> +<p>“It seems as if she must have had some reason +sometimes,” said Rose, with an impulse of loyalty towards the +other girl. “She is very pretty.”</p> +<p>“As far as I know, no young man in East Westland has ever +thought of marrying her,” said Sylvia. “I think myself +they are afraid of her. It doesn't do for a girl to act too anxious +to get married. She just cuts her own nose off.”</p> +<p>“I have never seen her do anything unbecoming,” +began Rose; then she stopped, for Lucy's expression, which had +caused a revolt in her, was directly within her mental vision.</p> +<p>It seemed as if Sylvia interpreted her thought. “I have +seen her making eyes,” said she.</p> +<p>Rose was silent. She realized that she, also, had seen poor Lucy +making eyes.</p> +<p>“What a girl is so crazy to get married for, anyway, when +she has a good mother and a good home, I can't see,” said +Sylvia, leading directly up to the subject in the secret place of +her mind.</p> +<p>Rose blushed, with apparently no reason. “But she can't +have her mother always, you know, Aunt Sylvia,” said she.</p> +<p>“Her mother's folks are awful long-lived.”</p> +<p>“But Lucy is younger. In the course of nature she will +outlive her mother, and then she will be all alone.”</p> +<p>“What if she is? 'Ain't she got her good home and money +enough to be independent? Lucy won't need to lift a finger to earn +money if she's careful.”</p> +<p>“I always thought it would be very dreadful to live +alone,” Rose said, with another blush.</p> +<p>“Well, she needn't be alone. There's plenty of women +always in want of a home. No woman need live alone if she don't +want to.”</p> +<p>“But it isn't quite like—” Rose +hesitated.</p> +<p>“Like what?”</p> +<p>“It wouldn't seem quite so much as if you had your own +home, would it, as if—” Rose hesitated again.</p> +<p>Sylvia interrupted her. “A girl is a fool to get married +if she's got money enough to live on,” said she.</p> +<p>“Why, Aunt Sylvia, wouldn't you have married Uncle Henry +if you had had plenty of money?” asked the girl, exactly as +Henry had done.</p> +<p>Sylvia colored faintly. “That was a very different +matter,” said she.</p> +<p>“But why?”</p> +<p>“Because it was,” said Sylvia, bringing up one of +her impregnable ramparts against argument.</p> +<p>But the girl persisted. “I don't see why,” she +said.</p> +<p>Sylvia colored again. “Well, for one thing, your uncle +Henry is one man in a thousand,” said she. “I know +every silly girl thinks she has found just that man, but it's only +once in a thousand times she does; and she's mighty lucky if she +don't find out that the man in a thousand is another woman's +husband, when she gets her eyes open. Then there's another thing: +nothing has ever come betwixt us.”</p> +<p>“I don't know what you mean.”</p> +<p>“I mean we've had no family,” said Sylvia, firmly, +although her color deepened. “I know you think it's awful for +me to say such a thing, but look right up and down this street at +the folks that got married about the same time Henry and I did. How +many of them that's had families 'ain't had reason to regret it? I +tell you what it is, child, girls don't know everything. It's awful +having children, and straining every nerve to bring them up right, +and then to have them go off in six months in consumption, the way +the Masons lost their three children, two boys and a girl. Or to +worry and fuss until you are worn to a shadow, the way Mrs. George +Emerson has over her son, and then have him take to drink. There +wasn't any consumption in the Mason family on either side in a +straight line, but the three children all went with it. And there +ain't any drink in the Emerson family, on her side or his, all as +straight as a string, but Mrs. Everson was a Weaver, and she had a +great-uncle who drank himself to death. I don't believe there's a +family anywhere around that hasn't got some dreadful thing in it to +leak out, when you don't expect it, in children. Sometimes it only +leaks in a straight line, and sometimes it leaks sidewise. You +never know. Now here's my family. I was a White, you know, like +your aunt Abrahama. There's consumption in our family, the worst +kind. I never had any doubt but what Henry and I would have lost +our children, if we'd had any.”</p> +<p>“But you didn't have any,” said Rose, in a curiously +naïve and hopeful tone.</p> +<p>“We are the only ones of all that got married about the +time we did who didn't have any,” said Sylvia, in her +conclusive tone.</p> +<p>“But, Aunt Sylvia,” said Rose, “you wouldn't +stop everybody's getting married? Why, there wouldn't be any people +in the world in a short time.”</p> +<p>“There's some people in the world now that would be a good +sight better off out of it, for themselves and other folks,” +said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Then you don't think anybody ought to get +married?”</p> +<p>“If folks want to be fools, let them. Nothing I can say is +going to stop them, but I'll miss my guess if some of the girls +that get married had the faintest idea what they were going into +they would stop short, if it sent them over a rail-fence. Folks +can't tell girls everything, but marriage is an awful risk, an +awful risk. And I say, as I said before, any girl who has got +enough to live on is a fool to get married.”</p> +<p>“But I don't see why, after all.”</p> +<p>“Because she is,” replied Sylvia.</p> +<p>This time Rose did not attempt to bruise herself against the +elder woman's imperturbability. She did not look convinced, but +again the troubled expression came over her face.</p> +<p>“I am glad you relished your supper,” said +Sylvia.</p> +<p>“It was very nice,” replied Rose, absently. Suddenly +the look of white horror which had overspread her countenance on +the night of her arrival possessed it again.</p> +<p>“What on earth is the matter?” cried Sylvia.</p> +<p>“I almost remembered, then,” gasped the girl. +“You know what I told you the night I came. Don't let me +remember, Aunt Sylvia. I think I shall die if I ever do.”</p> +<p>Sylvia was as white as the girl, but she rose briskly. +“There's nothing to remember,” she said. “You're +nervous, but I'm going to make some of that root-beer of mine +to-morrow. It has hops in it, and it's real quieting. Now you stop +worrying, and wait a minute. I've got something to show you. Here, +you look at this book you've been reading, and stop thinking. I'll +be back in a minute. I've just got to step into the other +chamber.”</p> +<p>Sylvia was back in a moment. She never was obliged to hesitate +for a second as to the whereabouts of any of her possessions. She +had some little boxes in her hand, and one rather large one under +her arm. Rose looked at them with interest. “What is it, Aunt +Sylvia?” said she.</p> +<p>Sylvia laughed. “Something to show you that belongs to +you,” she said.</p> +<p>“Why, what have you got that belongs to me, Aunt +Sylvia?”</p> +<p>“You wait a minute.”</p> +<p>Sylvia and Rose both stood beside the white dressing-table, and +Sylvia opened the boxes, one after another, and slowly and +impressively removed their contents, and laid them in orderly rows +on the white dimity of the table. The lamplight shone on them, and +the table blazed like an altar with jewelled fires. Rose gasped. +“Why, Aunt Sylvia!” said she.</p> +<p>“All these things belonged to your aunt Abrahama, and now +they belong to you,” said Sylvia, in a triumphant tone.</p> +<p>“Why, but these are perfectly beautiful things!”</p> +<p>“Yes; I don't believe anybody in East Westland ever knew +she had them. I don't believe she could have worn them, even when +she was a girl, or I should have heard of them. I found them all in +her bureau drawer. She didn't even keep them under lock and key; +but then she never went out anywhere, and if nobody even knew she +had them, they were safe enough. Now they're all yours.”</p> +<p>“But they belong to you, Aunt Sylvia.”</p> +<p>Sylvia took up the most valuable thing there, a really good +pearl necklace, and held it dangling from her skinny hand. “I +should look pretty with this around my neck, shouldn't I?” +she said. “I wanted to wear that pink silk, but when it comes +to some things I ain't quite out of my mind. Here, try it +on.”</p> +<p>Rose clasped the necklace about her white, round throat, and +smiled at herself in the glass. Rose wore a gown of soft, green +China silk, and the pearls over its lace collar surrounded her face +with soft gleams of rose and green.</p> +<p>“These amethysts are exquisite,” said Rose, after +she had done admiring herself. She took up, one after another, a +ring, a bracelet, a necklace, a brooch, and ear-rings, all of +clear, pale amethysts in beautiful settings.</p> +<p>“You could wear these,” she said to Sylvia.</p> +<p>“I guess I sha'n't begin to wear jewelry at my time of +life,” declared Sylvia. Her voice sounded almost angry in its +insistence. “Everything here is yours,” she said, and +nodded her head and set her mouth hard for further emphasis.</p> +<p>The display upon the dressing-table, although not of great +value, was in reality rather unusual. All of the pieces were, of +course, old, and there were more semi-precious than precious +stones, but the settings were good and the whole enough to delight +any girl. Rose hung over them in ecstasy. She had not many jewels. +Somehow her income had never seemed to admit of jewels. She was +pleased as a child. Finally she hung some pearl ear-rings over her +ears by bits of white silk, her ears not being pierced. She allowed +the pearl necklace to remain. She clasped on her arms some charming +cameo bracelets and a heavy gold one set with a miniature of a +lady. She covered her slender fingers with rings and pinned old +brooches all over her bosom. She fastened a pearl spray in her +hair, and a heavy shell comb. Then she fairly laughed out loud. +“There!” said she to Sylvia, and laughed again.</p> +<p>Sylvia also laughed, and her laugh had the ring of a child's. +“Don't you feel as if you were pretty well off as you +are?” said she.</p> +<p>Rose sprang forward and hugged Sylvia. “Well off!” +said she. “Well off! I never knew a girl who was better off. +To think of my being here with you, and your being as good as a +mother to me, and Uncle Henry as good as a father; and this dear +old house; and to see myself fairly loaded down with jewels like a +crown-princess. I never knew I liked such things so much. I am +fairly ashamed.”</p> +<p>Rose kissed Sylvia with such vehemence that the elder woman +started back, then she turned again to her mirror. She held up her +hands and made the gems flash with colored lights. There were +several very good diamonds, although not of modern cut; there was a +fairly superb emerald, also pearls and amethysts and green-blue +turquoises, on her hands. Rose made a pounce upon a necklace of +pink coral, and clasped it around her neck over the pearls.</p> +<p>“I have them all on now,” she said, and her laugh +rang out again.</p> +<p>Sylvia surveyed her with a sort of rapture. She had never heard +of “Faust,” but the whole was a New England version of +the “Jewel Song.” As Marguerite had been tempted to +guilty love by jewels, so Sylvia was striving to have Rose tempted +by jewels to innocent celibacy. But she was working by methods of +which she knew nothing.</p> +<p>Rose gazed at herself in the glass. A rose flush came on her +cheeks, her lips pouted redly, and her eyes glittered under a mist. +She thrust her shining fingers through her hair, and it stood up +like a golden spray over her temples. Rose at that minute was +wonderful. Something akin to the gleam of the jewels seemed to have +waked within her. She felt a warmth of love and ownership of which +she had never known herself capable. She felt that the girl and her +jewels, the girl who was the greatest jewel of all, was her very +own. For the first time a secret anxiety and distress of mind, +which she had confided to no one, was allayed. She said to herself +that everything was as it should be. She had Rose, and Rose was +happy. Then she thought how she had found the girl when she first +entered the room, and had courage, seeing her as she looked now, to +ask again: “What was the matter? Why were you +crying?”</p> +<p>Rose turned upon her with a smile of perfect radiance. +“Nothing at all, dear Aunt Sylvia,” she cried, happily. +“Nothing at all.”</p> +<p>Sylvia smiled. A smile was always somewhat of an effort for +Sylvia, with her hard, thin lips, which had not been used to +smiling. Sylvia had no sense of humor. Her smiles would never be +possible except for sudden and unlooked-for pleasures, and those +had been rare in her whole life. But now she smiled, and with her +lips and her eyes. “Rose wasn't crying because she thought +Mr. Allen was going to marry another girl,” she told herself. +“She was only crying because a girl is always full of +tantrums. Now she is perfectly happy. I am able to make her +perfectly happy. I know that all a girl needs in this world to make +her happy and free from care is a woman to be a mother to her. I am +making her see it. I can make up to her for everything. Everything +is as it should be.”</p> +<p>She stood gazing at Rose for a long moment before she spoke. +“Well,” said she, “you look like a whole jewelry +shop. I don't see, for my part, how your aunt came to have so +many—why she wanted them.”</p> +<p>“Maybe they were given to her,” said Rose. A tender +thought of the dead woman who had gone from the house of her +fathers, and left her jewels behind, softened her face. “Poor +Aunt Abrahama!” said she. “She lived in this house all +her life and was never married, and she must have come to think +that all her pretty things had not amounted to much.”</p> +<p>“I don't see why,” said Sylvia. “I don't see +that it was any great hardship to live all her life in this nice +house, and I don't see what difference it made about her having +nice things, whether she got married or not. It could not have made +any difference.”</p> +<p>“Why not?” asked Rose, looking at her with a +mischievous flash of blue eyes. A long green gleam like a note of +music shot out from the emerald on her finger as she raised it in a +slight gesture. “To have all these beautiful things put away +in a drawer, and never to have anybody see her in them, must have +made some difference.”</p> +<p>“It wouldn't make a mite,” said Sylvia, stoutly.</p> +<p>“I don't see why.”</p> +<p>“Because it wouldn't.”</p> +<p>Rose laughed, and looked again at herself in the glass.</p> +<p>“Now you had better take off those things and go to bed, +and try to go to sleep,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Yes, Aunt Sylvia,” said Rose. But she did not stir, +except to turn this way and that, to bring out more colored lights +from the jewels.</p> +<p>Sylvia had to mix bread that night, and she was obliged to go. +Rose promised that she would immediately go to bed, and kissed her +again with such effusion that the older woman started back. The +soft, impetuous kiss caused her cheek to fairly tingle as she went +down-stairs and about her work. It should have been luminous from +the light it made in her heart.</p> +<p>When Henry came home, with a guilty sense of what he was to do +next day, and which he had not courage enough to reveal, he looked +at his wife with relief at her changed expression. “I +declare, Sylvia, you look like yourself to-night,” he said. +“You've been looking kind of curious to me lately.”</p> +<p>“You imagined it,” said Sylvia. She had finished +mixing the bread, and had washed her hands and was wiping them on +the roller-towel in the kitchen.</p> +<p>“Maybe I did,” admitted Henry. “You look like +yourself to-night, anyhow. How is Rose?”</p> +<p>“Rose is all right. Young girls are always getting nervous +kinks. I took her supper up to her, and she ate every mite, and now +I have given her her aunt's jewelry and she's tickled to pieces +with it, standing before the looking-glass and staring at herself +like a little peacock.” Sylvia laughed with tender +triumph.</p> +<p>“I suppose now she'll be decking herself out, and every +young man in East Westland will be after her,” said Henry. He +laughed, but a little bitterly. He, also, was not altogether +unselfish concerning the proprietorship of this young thing which +had come into his elderly life. He was not as Sylvia, but although +he would have denied it he privately doubted if even Horace was +quite good enough for this girl. When it came to it, in his heart +of hearts, he doubted if any but the fatherly love which he himself +gave might be altogether good for her.</p> +<p>“Rose is perfectly contented just the way she is,” +declared Sylvia, turning upon him. “I shouldn't be surprised +if she lived out her days here, just as her aunt did.”</p> +<p>“Maybe it would be the best thing,” said Henry. +“She's got us as long as we live.” Henry straightened +himself as he spoke. Since his resolve to resume his work he had +felt years younger. Lately he had been telling himself miserably +that he was an old man, that his life-work was over. To-night the +pulses of youth leaped in his veins. He was so pleasantly excited +that after he and Sylvia had gone to bed it was long before he fell +asleep, but he did at last, and just in time for Rose and +Horace.</p> +<p>Rose, after Sylvia went down-stairs, had put out her light and +sat down beside the window gazing out into the night. She still +wore her jewels. She could not bear to take them off. It was a +beautiful night. The day had been rather warm, but the night was +one of coolness and peace. The moon was just rising. Rose could see +it through the leafy branches of an opposite elm-tree. It seemed to +be caught in the green foliage. New shadows were leaping out of the +distance as the moon increased. The whole landscape was dotted with +white luminosities which it was bliss not to explain, just to leave +mysteries. Wonderful sweetnesses and fresh scents of growing +things, dew-wet, came in her face.</p> +<p>Rose was very happy. Only an hour before she had been miserable, +and now her whole spirit had leaped above her woe as with the +impetus of some celestial fluid rarer than all the miseries of +earth and of a necessity surmounting them. She looked out at the +night, and it was to her as if that and the whole world was her +jewel-casket, and the jewels therein were immortal, and infinite in +possibilities of giving and receiving glory and joy. Rose thought +of Horace, and a delicious thrill went over her whole body. Then +she thought of Lucy Ayres, and felt both pity and a sort of angry +and contemptuous repulsion. “How a girl can do so!” she +thought.</p> +<p>Intuitively she knew that what she felt for Horace was a far +nobler love than Lucy's. “Love—was it love, after +all?” Rose did not know, but she gave her head a proud shake. +“I never would put him in such a position, and lie about him, +just because—” she said to herself.</p> +<p>She did not finish her sentence. Rose was innately modest even +as to her own self-disclosures. Her emotions were so healthy that +she had the power to keep them under the wings of her spirit, both +to guard and hold the superior place. She had a feeling that Lucy +Ayres's love for Horace was in a way an insult to him. After what +Sylvia had said, she had not a doubt as to the falsity of what Lucy +had told her during their drive. She and Lucy had been on the front +seat of the carriage, when Lucy had intimated that there was an +understanding between herself and Horace. She had spoken very low, +in French, and Rose had been obliged to ask her to repeat her +words. Immediately Lucy's mother's head was between the two girls, +and the bunch of violets on her bonnet grazed Rose's ear.</p> +<p>“What are you saying?” she had asked Lucy, sharply. +And Lucy had lied. “I said what a pleasant day it is,” +she replied.</p> +<p>“You said it in French.”</p> +<p>“Yes, mother.”</p> +<p>“Next time say it in English,” said Mrs. Ayres.</p> +<p>Of course, if Lucy had lied to her mother, she had lied to her. +She had lied in two languages. “She must be a very strange +girl,” thought Rose. She resolved that she could not go to +see Lucy very often, and a little pang of regret shot through her. +She had been very ready to love poor Lucy.</p> +<p>Presently, as Rose sat beside the window, she heard footsteps on +the gravel sidewalk outside the front yard, and then a man's figure +came into view, like a moving shadow. She knew the figure was a man +because there was no swing of skirts. Her heart beat fast when the +man opened the front gate and shut it with a faint click. She +wondered if it could be Horace, but immediately she saw, from the +slightly sidewise shoulders and gait, that it was Henry Whitman. +She heard him enter; she heard doors opened and closed. After a +time she heard a murmur of voices. Then there was a flash of light +across the yard, from a lighted lamp being carried through a room +below. The light was reflected on the ceiling of her room. Then it +vanished, and everything was quiet. Rose thought that Sylvia and +Henry had retired for the night. She almost knew that Horace was +not in the house. She had heard him go out after supper and she had +not heard him enter. He had a habit of taking long walks on fine +nights.</p> +<p>Rose sat and wondered. Once the suspicion smote her that +possibly, after all, Lucy had spoken the truth, that Horace was +with her. Then she dismissed the suspicion as unworthy of her. She +recalled what Sylvia had said; she recalled how she herself had +heard Lucy lie. She knew that Horace could not be fond of a girl +like that, and he had known her quite a long time. Again Rose's +young rapture and belief in her own happiness reigned. She sat +still, and the moon at last sailed out of the feathery clasp of the +elm branches, and the whole landscape was in a pale, clear glow. +Then Horace came. Rose started up. She stood for an instant +irresolute, then she stole out of her room and down the spiral +stair very noiselessly. She opened the front door before Horace +could insert his key in the latch.</p> +<p>Horace started back.</p> +<p>“Hush,” whispered Rose. She stifled a laugh. +“Step back out in the yard just a minute,” she +whispered.</p> +<p>Horace obeyed. He stepped softly back, and Rose joined him after +she had closed the door with great care.</p> +<p>“Now come down as far as the gate, out of the +shadows,” whispered Rose. “I want to show you +something.”</p> +<p>The two stole down to the gate. Then Rose faced Horace in full +glare of moonlight.</p> +<p>“Look at me,” said she, and she stifled another +laugh of pure, childish delight.</p> +<p>Horace looked. Only a few of the stones which Rose wore caught +the moonlight to any extent, but she was all of a shimmer and +gleam, like a creature decked with dewdrops.</p> +<p>“Look at me,” she whispered again.</p> +<p>“I am looking.”</p> +<p>“Do you see?”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“They are poor Aunt Abrahama's jewels. Aunt Sylvia gave +them to me. Aren't they beautiful? Such lovely, old-fashioned +settings. You can't half see in the moonlight. You shall see them +by day.”</p> +<p>“It is beautiful enough now,” said Horace, with a +sort of gasp. “Those are pearls around your neck?”</p> +<p>“Yes, really lovely pearls; and such carved pink coral! +And look at the dear old pearl spray in my hair. Wait; I'll turn my +head so the moon will show on it. Isn't it dear?”</p> +<p>“Yes, it is,” replied Horace, regarding the delicate +spray of seed pearls on Rose's head.</p> +<p>“And only look at these bracelets and these rings; and I +had to tie the ear-rings on because my ears are not pierced. Would +you have them pierced and wear them as they are—I believe +ear-rings are coming into vogue again—or would you have them +made into rings?”</p> +<p>“Rings,” said Horace, emphatically.</p> +<p>“I think that will be better. I fancy the ear-rings +dangling make me a little nervous already. See all these brooches, +and the rings.”</p> +<p>Rose held up her hands and twirled her ring-laden fingers, and +laughed again.</p> +<p>“They are pretty large, most of the rings,” said +she. “There is one pearl and one emerald that are charming, +and several of the dearest old-fashioned things. Think of poor Aunt +Abrahama having all these lovely things packed away in a bureau +drawer and never wearing them.”</p> +<p>“I should rather have packed away my name,” said +Horace.</p> +<p>“So should I. Isn't it awful? The Abrahama is simply +dreadful, and the way it comes down with a sort of whack on the +White! Poor Aunt Abrahama! I feel almost guilty having all her +pretty jewels and being so pleased with them.”</p> +<p>“Oh, she would be pleased, too, if she knew.”</p> +<p>“I don't know. She and my mother had been estranged for +years, ever since my mother's marriage. Would she be pleased, do +you think?”</p> +<p>“Of course she would, and as for the things themselves, +they are fulfilling their mission.”</p> +<p>Rose laughed. “Maybe jewels don't like to be shut up for +years and years in a drawer, away from the light,” said she. +“They do seem almost alive. Look, you can really see the +green in that emerald!”</p> +<p>Horace was trembling from head to foot. He could hardly +reply.</p> +<p>“Why, you are shivering,” said Rose. “Are you +cold?”</p> +<p>“No—well, perhaps yes, a little. It is rather cool +to-night after the hot day.”</p> +<p>“Where have you been?”</p> +<p>“I walked to Tunbury and back.”</p> +<p>“That is seven miles. That ought to have warmed you. Well, +I think we must go in. I don't know what Aunt Sylvia would +say.”</p> +<p>“Why should she mind?”</p> +<p>“I don't know. She might not think I should have run out +here as I did. I think all these jewels went to my head. Come. +Please walk very softly.”</p> +<p>Horace hesitated.</p> +<p>“Come,” repeated Rose, imperatively, and +started.</p> +<p>Horace followed.</p> +<p>The night before they had been on the verge of a love scene, now +it seemed impossible, incongruous. Horace was full of tender +longing, but he felt that to gratify it would be to pass the +impossible.</p> +<p>“Please be very still,” whispered Rose, when they +had reached the house door. She herself began opening it, turning +the knob by slow degrees. All the time she was stifling her +laughter. Horace felt that the stifled laughter was the main factor +in prohibiting the love-making.</p> +<p>Rose turned the knob and removed her hand as she pushed the door +open; then something fell with a tiny tinkle on the stone step. +Both stopped.</p> +<p>“One of my rings,” whispered Rose.</p> +<p>Horace stooped and felt over the stone slab, and finally his +hand struck the tiny thing.</p> +<p>“It's that queer little flat gold one,” continued +Rose, who was now serious.</p> +<p>A sudden boldness possessed Horace. “May I have it?” +he said.</p> +<p>“It's not a bit pretty. I don't believe you can wear +it.”</p> +<p>Horace slipped the ring on his little finger. “It just +fits.”</p> +<p>“I don't care,” Rose said, hesitatingly. “Aunt +Sylvia gave me the things. I don't believe she will care. And there +are two more flat gold rings, anyway. She will not notice, only +perhaps I ought to tell her.”</p> +<p>“If you think it will make any trouble for you—”</p> +<p>“Oh no; keep it. It is interesting because it is +old-fashioned, and as far as giving it away is concerned, I could +give away half of these trinkets. I can't go around decked out like +this, nor begin to wear all the rings. I certainly never should +have put that ring on again.”</p> +<p>Horace felt daunted by her light valuation of it, but when he +was in the house, and in his room, and neither Sylvia nor Henry had +been awakened, he removed the thing and looked at it closely. All +the inner surface was covered with a clear inscription, very clear, +although of a necessity in minute characters—“Let love +abide whate'er betide.”</p> +<p>Horace laughed tenderly. “She has given me more than she +knows,” he thought.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter XVI</h4> +<p>Henry Whitman awoke the next morning with sensations of delight +and terror. He found himself absolutely unable to rouse himself up +to that pitch of courage necessary to tell Sylvia that he intended +to return to his work in the shop. He said to himself that it would +be better to allow it to become an accomplished fact before she +knew it, that it would be easier for him. Luckily for his plans, +the family breakfasted early.</p> +<p>Directly after he had risen from the table, Henry attempted to +slip out of the house from the front door without Sylvia's +knowledge. He had nearly reached the gate, and had a sensation of +exultation like a child playing truant, when he heard Sylvia's +voice.</p> +<p>“Henry!” she called. “Henry +Whitman!”</p> +<p>Henry turned around obediently.</p> +<p>“Where are you going?” asked Sylvia.</p> +<p>She stood under the columns of the front porch, a meagre little +figure of a woman dressed with severe and immaculate cheapness in a +purple calico wrapper, with a checked gingham apron tied in a prim +bow at her back. Her hair was very smooth. She was New England +austerity and conservatism embodied. She was terrifying, although +it would have puzzled anybody to have told why. Certain it was that +no man would have had the temerity to contest her authority as she +stood there. Henry waited near the gate.</p> +<p>“Where are you going?” asked Sylvia again.</p> +<p>“Down street,” replied Henry.</p> +<p>“Whereabouts down street?”</p> +<p>Henry said again, with a meek doggedness, “Down +street.”</p> +<p>“Come here,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>Henry walked slowly towards her, between the rows of box. He was +about three feet away when she spoke again. “Where are you +going?” said she.</p> +<p>“Down street.”</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at Henry, and he trembled inwardly. Had she any +suspicion? When she spoke an immense relief overspread him. +“I wish you'd go into the drug store and get me a quarter of +a pound of peppermints,” said she.</p> +<p>Then Henry knew that he had the best of it. Sylvia possessed +what she considered an almost guilty weakness for peppermints. She +never bought them herself, or asked him to buy them, without +feeling humiliated. Her austere and dictatorial manner vanished at +the moment she preferred the request for peppermints.</p> +<p>“Of course I'll get them,” said Henry, with +enthusiasm. He mentally resolved upon a pound instead of a +quarter.</p> +<p>“I don't feel quite right in my stomach, and I think +they're good for me,” said Sylvia, still abjectly. Then she +turned and went into the house. Henry started afresh. He felt +renewed compunction at his deceit as he went on. It seemed hard to +go against the wishes of that poor, little, narrow-chested woman +who had had so little in life that a quarter of a pound of +peppermints seemed too much for her to desire.</p> +<p>But Henry realized that he had not the courage to tell her. He +went on. He had just about time to reach the shop before the +whistle blew. As he neared the shop he became one of a stream of +toilers pressing towards the same goal. Most of them were younger +than he, and it was safe to assume none were going to work with the +same enthusiasm. There were many weary, rebellious faces. They had +not yet come to Henry's pass. Toil had not yet gotten the better of +their freedom of spirit. They considered that they could think and +live to better purpose without it. Henry had become its slave. He +was his true self only when under the conditions of his slavery. He +had toiled a few years longer than he should have done, to attain +the ability to keep his head above the waters of life without toil. +The mechanical motion of his hands at their task of years was +absolutely necessary to him. He had become, in fact, as a machine, +which rusts and is good for nothing if left long inactive. Henry +was at once pitiable and terrible when he came in sight of the +many-windowed building which was his goal. The whistles blew, and +he heard as an old war-horse hears the summons to battle. But in +his case the battle was all for naught and there was no victory to +be won. But the man was happier than he had been for months. His +happiness was a pity and a shame to him, but it was happiness, and +sweet in his soul. It was the only happiness which he had not +become too callous to feel. If only he could have lived in the +beautiful old home, and spent the rest of his life in prideful +wrestling with the soil for goodly crops, in tasting the peace of +life which is the right of those who have worked long!</p> +<p>But it all seemed too late. When a man has become welded to toil +he can never separate himself from it without distress and loss of +his own substance of individuality. What Henry had told Sidney +Meeks was entirely true: good-fortune had come too late for him to +reap the physical and spiritual benefit from it which is its usual +dividend. He was no longer his own man, but the man of his +life-experience.</p> +<p>When he stood once more in his old place, cutting the leather +which smelled to him sweeter than roses, he was assailed by many a +gibe, good-natured in a way, but still critical.</p> +<p>“What are you to work again for, Henry?” +“You've got money enough to live on.” “What in +thunder are you working for?”</p> +<p>One thing was said many times which hit him hard. “You are +taking the bread out of the mouth of some other man who needs work; +don't you know it, Henry?” That rankled. Otherwise Henry, at +his old task, with his mind set free by the toil of his hands, +might have been entirely happy.</p> +<p>“Good Lord!” he said, at length, to the man at his +side, a middle-aged man with a blackened, sardonic face and a +forehead lined with a scowl of rebellion, “do you suppose I +do it for the money? I tell you it's for the work.”</p> +<p>“The work!” sneered the other man.</p> +<p>“I tell you I've worked so long I can't stop, and +live.”</p> +<p>The other man stared. “Either you're a damned fool, or the +men or the system—whatever it is that has worked you so long +that you can't stop—ought to go to—” he +growled.</p> +<p>“You can't shake off a burden that's grown to you,” +said Henry.</p> +<p>The worker on Henry's other side was a mere boy, but he had a +bulging forehead and a square chin, and already figured in labor +circles.</p> +<p>“As soon try to shake off a hump,” he said, and +nodded.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Henry. “When you've lived long +enough in one sort of a world it settles onto your shoulders, and +nothing but death can ease a man from the weight of it.”</p> +<p>“That's so,” said the boy.</p> +<p>“But as far as keeping the bread from another man goes—” said Henry. Then he hesitated. He was tainted by the +greed for unnecessary money, in spite of his avowal to the +contrary. That also had come to be a part of him. Then he +continued, “As far as that goes, I'm willing to give +away—a—good part of what I earn.”</p> +<p>The first man laughed, harshly. “He'll be for giving a +library to East Westland next, to make up to men for having their +money and freedom in his own pockets,” he said.</p> +<p>“I 'ain't got so much as all that, after all,” said +Henry. “Because my wife has had a little left to her, it +don't follow that we are millionaires.”</p> +<p>“I guess you are pretty well fixed. You don't need to +work, and you know it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. There's +my wife's brother can't get a job.”</p> +<p>“Good reason why,” said the boy on the other side. +“He drinks.”</p> +<p>“He drinks every time he gets out of work and gets clean +discouraged,” retorted the man.</p> +<p>“Well,” said the boy, “you know me well enough +to know that I'm with my class every time, but hanged if I can see +why your wife's brother 'ain't got into a circle that there's no +getting him out of. We've got to get out of work sometimes. We all +know it. We've got to if we don't want humps on all our shoulders; +and if Jim can't live up to his independence, why, he's out of the +running, or, rather, in his own running so neither God nor man can +get him out of it. You know the time that last strike was on he was +in the gutter every day, when he could beg enough money to keep him +there. Now, we can't have that sort of thing. When a man's got so +he can't work nor fight neither, why, he's up against it. If Henry +here gave up his job, Jim couldn't get it, and you know +it.”</p> +<p>Henry went on. He hardly heard now what they were saying. His +mind was revelling in its free flights of rebellion against +everything. Henry, for a man who kept the commandments, was again +as wicked as he could be, and revelling in his wickedness. He was +like a drinker returned to his cups. His joy was immense, but +unholy. However, the accusation that he was taking bread from +another man who needed it more than he still rankled. He could, +after all, rise somewhat above mere greed. He resolved that he +would give, and no one should know of his giving, to the family of +the man Jim who had no work.</p> +<p>During the morning Henry did not trouble himself about Sylvia +and what she would think about it all. Towards noon, however, he +began to dread going home and facing her. When he started he felt +fairly cowardly. He stopped at the drug store and bought a pound of +peppermints.</p> +<p>Albion Bennet waited on him. Albion Bennet was an intensely +black-haired man in his forties. His black hair was always sleek +with a patent hair-oil which he carried in his stock. He always +wore a red tie and an old-fashioned scarf-pin set with a tiny +diamond, and his collars were made of celluloid.</p> +<p>“I have gone back to the hotel to board,” he +informed Henry, while tying up the parcel. He colored a little +under his black, bristling cheeks as he spoke.</p> +<p>“I thought you left,” said Henry.</p> +<p>“So I did. I went to board at the Joneses', but—I +can't stand a girl right in my face and eyes all the time. When I +want to get married, and see the right one, then I want to do the +courting; but hang it if I can stand being courted, and that's what +I've been up against ever since I left the hotel, and that's a +fact. Susy Jones was enough, but when it came to Fanny Elliot +getting thick with her, and both of them on hand, it was too much. +But I stuck it out till Susy began to do the cooking and her mother +made me eat it.”</p> +<p>“I have heard Miss Hart wasn't a very good cook,” +said Henry.</p> +<p>“Well, she ain't anything to brag of; but say, a man can +stand regulation cooking done bad, but when it comes to new-fangled +messes done bad, so a man don't know what he's eating, whether it's +cats or poisonous mushrooms, I draw the line. Miss Hart's bread is +more generally saleratusy and heavy, but at least you know it's +heavy bread, and I got heavy stuff at the Joneses and didn't know +what it was. And Miss Hart's pies are tough, but you know you've +got tough pies, and at the Joneses' I had tough things that I +couldn't give a name to. Miss Hart's doughnuts are greasy, but +Lord, the greasy things at the Joneses' that Susy made! At least +you know what you've got when you eat a greasy doughnut, and if it +hurts you you know what to tell the doctor, but I had to give it +up. I'd rather have bad cooking and know what it is than bad +cooking and know what it isn't. Then there were other things. I +like, when I get home from the store, to have a little quiet and +read my paper, and Susy and Fanny, if I didn't stay in the parlor, +were banging the piano and singing at me all the time to get me +down-stairs. So I've gone back to the hotel, and I'm enough sight +better off. Of course, when that matter of Miss Farrel came up I +left. A man don't want to think he may get a little arsenic mixed +in with the bad cooking, but now I'm convinced that's all +right.”</p> +<p>“How do you know?” asked Henry, paying for the +peppermints. “I never thought Miss Hart had anything to do +with it myself, but of course she wasn't exactly acquitted, neither +she nor the girl. You said yourself that she bought arsenic +here.”</p> +<p>“So she did, and it all went to kill rats,” said +Albion. “Lots of folks have bought arsenic here to kill rats +with. They didn't all of them poison Miss Farrel.” Albion +nodded wisely and mysteriously. “No, Lucinda's all +right,” he said. “I ain't at liberty to say how I know, +but I do know. I may get bad cooking at the hotel, but I won't get +no arsenic.”</p> +<p>Henry looked curiously at the other man. “So you've found +out something?” he said.</p> +<p>“I ain't at liberty to say,” replied Albion. +“It's a pretty nice day, ain't it? Hope we ain't going to +have such a hot summer as last, though hot weather is mighty good +for my business, since I put in the soda-fountain.”</p> +<p>Henry, walking homeward with his package of peppermints, +speculated a little on what Albion Bennet had said; then his mind +reverted to his anxiety with regard to Sylvia, and her discovery +that he had returned to the shop. He passed his arm across his face +and sniffed at his coat-sleeve. He wondered if he smelled of +leather. He planned to go around to the kitchen door and wash his +hands at the pump in the yard before entering the house, but he +could not be sure about the leather. He wondered if Rose would +notice it and be disgusted. His heart sank as he neared home. He +sniffed at his coat-sleeve again. He wondered if he could possibly +slip into the bedroom and put on another coat for dinner before +Sylvia saw him. He doubted if he could manage to get away unnoticed +after dinner. He speculated, if Sylvia asked him where he was going +again, what he could say. He considered what he could say if she +were to call him to account for his long absence that forenoon.</p> +<p>When he reached the house he entered the side yard, stopped at +the pump, washed his hands and dried them on his handkerchief, and +drank from the tin cup chained to the pump-nose. He thought he +might enter by the front door and steal into his bedroom and get +the other coat, but Sylvia came to the side door.</p> +<p>“Where in the world have you been?” she said. Henry +advanced, smiling, with the peppermints. “Why, Henry,” +she cried, in a voice of dismay which had a gratified ring in it, +“you've been and bought a whole pound! I only said to buy a +quarter.”</p> +<p>“They're good for you,” said Henry, entering the +door.</p> +<p>Sylvia could not wait, and put one of the sweets in her mouth, +and to that Henry owed his respite. Sylvia, eating peppermint, was +oblivious to leather.</p> +<p>Henry went through into the bedroom and put on another coat +before he sat down at the dinner-table.</p> +<p>Sylvia noticed that. “What did you change your coat +for?” said she.</p> +<p>Henry shivered as if with cold. “I thought the house +seemed kind of damp when I came in,” he said, “and this +coat is some heavier.”</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at him with fretful anxiety. “You've got +cold. I knew you would,” she said. “You stayed out late +last night, and the dew was awful heavy. I knew you would catch +cold. You had better stop at the drug store and get some of those +pellets that Dr. Wallace puts up.”</p> +<p>Again was Henry's way made plain for him. “Perhaps I +had,” said he, eagerly. “I'll go down and get some +after dinner.”</p> +<p>But Horace innocently offered to save him the trouble. “I +go past the drug store,” said he. “Let me get +them.”</p> +<p>But Sylvia unexpectedly came to Henry's aid. “No,” +she said. “I think you had better not wait till Mr. Allen +comes home from school. Dr. Wallace says those pellets ought to be +taken right away, just as soon as you feel a cold, to have them do +any good.”</p> +<p>Henry brightened, but Rose interposed. “Why, I would love +to run down to the drug store and get the medicine,” she +said. “You lie down after dinner, Uncle Henry, and I'll +go.”</p> +<p>Henry cast an agonizing glance at Horace. The young man did not +understand in the least what it meant, but he came to the +rescue.</p> +<p>“The last time I took those pellets,” he said, +“Mr. Whitman got them for me. It was one Saturday, and I was +home, and felt the cold coming on, and I lay down, just as you +suggest Mr. Whitman's doing, and got asleep, and awoke with a +chill. I think that if one has a cold the best thing is to keep +exercising until you can get hold of a remedy. I think if Mr. +Whitman walks down to the drug store himself and gets the pellets, +and takes one, and keeps out in the open air afterwards, as it is a +fine day, it will be the very best thing for him.”</p> +<p>“That is just what I think myself,” said Henry, with +a grateful look at Horace.</p> +<p>Henry changed his coat again before leaving, on the plea that it +was better for him to wear a lighter one when walking and the +heavier one when he was in the house. He and Horace walked down the +street together. They were out of sight of the house when Henry +spoke.</p> +<p>“Mrs. Whitman don't know it yet,” said he, +“but there's no reason why you shouldn't. I 'ain't got any +cold. I'll get the pellets to satisfy her, but I 'ain't got any +cold. I wanted to get out again and not tell her, if I could help +it. I didn't want a fuss. I'm going to put it off as long as I can. +Mrs. Whitman's none too strong, and when anything goes against her +she's all used up, and I must save her as long as +possible.”</p> +<p>Horace stared at Henry with some alarm. “What on earth is +it?” he said.</p> +<p>“Nothing, only I have gone back to work in the +shop.”</p> +<p>Horace looked amazed. “But I thought—”</p> +<p>“You thought we had enough so I hadn't any need to work, +and you are right,” said Henry, with a pathetic firmness. +“We have got property enough to keep us, if nothing happens, +as long as we live, but I had to go back to that infernal treadmill +or die.”</p> +<p>Horace nodded soberly. “I think I understand,” said +he.</p> +<p>“I'm glad you do.”</p> +<p>“But Mrs. Whitman—”</p> +<p>“Oh, poor Sylvia will take it hard, and she won't +understand. Women don't understand a lot of things. But I can't +help it. I'll keep it from her for a day or two. She'll have to +hear of it before long. You don't think Rose will mind the leather +smell?” concluded Henry.</p> +<p>“I wouldn't worry about that. There is nothing very +disagreeable about it,” Horace replied, laughing.</p> +<p>“I will always change my coat and wash my hands real +particular before I set down to the table,” said Henry, +wistfully. Then he added, after a second's hesitation: “You +don't think she will think any the less of me? You don't suppose +she won't be willing to live in the house because I work in the +shop?”</p> +<p>“You mean Rose—Miss Fletcher?”</p> +<p>“Yes; of course she's been brought up different. She don't +know anything about people's working with their hands. She's been +brought up to think they're beneath her. I suppose it's never +entered into the child's head that she would live to set at the +same table with a man who works in a shoe-shop. You don't suppose +it will set her against me?”</p> +<p>“I think even if she has been brought up differently, as +you say, that she has a great deal of sense,” replied Horace. +“I don't think you need to worry about that.”</p> +<p>“I'm glad you don't. I guess it would about break Sylvia's +heart to lose her now, and I've got so I set a good deal by the +child myself. Mr. Allen, I want to ask you something.”</p> +<p>Henry paused, and Horace waited.</p> +<p>“I want to ask you if you've noticed anything queer about +Sylvia lately,” Henry said, at last.</p> +<p>Horace looked at him. “Do you mean in her looks or her +manners?”</p> +<p>“Both.”</p> +<p>Horace hesitated in his turn. “Now you speak of it—” he began.</p> +<p>“Well,” said Henry, “speak out just what you +think.”</p> +<p>“I have not been sure that there was anything +definite,” Horace said, slowly. “I have not been sure +that it was not all imagination on my part.”</p> +<p>“That's just the way I've been feeling,” Henry said, +eagerly. “What is it that you've been noticing?”</p> +<p>“I told you I am not sure that it is not all imagination, +but—”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“Well, sometimes your wife has given me the impression +that she was brooding over something that she was keeping entirely +to herself. She has had a look as if she had her eyes turned inward +and was worrying over what she saw. I don't know that you +understand what I mean by that?”</p> +<p>Henry nodded. “That's just the way Sylvia's been looking +to me.”</p> +<p>“I don't know but she looks as well as ever.”</p> +<p>“She's grown thin.”</p> +<p>“Maybe she has. Sometimes I have thought that, but what I +have noticed has been something intangible in her manner and +expression, that I thought was there one minute and was not at all +sure about the next. I haven't known whether the trouble, or +difference, as perhaps I had better put it, was with her or +myself.”</p> +<p>Henry nodded still more emphatically. “That's just the way +it's seemed to me, and we 'ain't either of us imagined it. It's +so,” said he.</p> +<p>“Have you any idea—”</p> +<p>“No, I haven't the least. But my wife's got something on +her mind, and she's had something on her mind for a long time. It +ain't anything new.”</p> +<p>“Why don't you ask her?”</p> +<p>“I have asked her, and she says that of course she's got +something on her mind, that she ain't a fool. You can't get around +Sylvia. She never would tell anything unless she wanted to. She +ain't like most women.”</p> +<p>Just then Horace turned the corner of the street leading to his +school, and the conversation ceased, with an enjoinder on his part +to Henry not to be disturbed about it, as he did not think it could +be anything serious.</p> +<p>Henry's reply rang back as the two men went their different +ways. “I don't suppose it can be anything serious,” he +said, almost angrily.</p> +<p>Horace, however, was disposed to differ with him. He argued that +a woman of Sylvia Whitman's type does not change her manner and +grow introspective for nothing. He was inclined to think there +might be something rather serious at the bottom of it all. His +imagination, however, pictured some disease, which she was +concealing from all about her, but which caused her never-ceasing +anxiety and perhaps pain.</p> +<p>That night he looked critically at her and was rather confirmed +in his opinion. Sylvia had certainly grown thin, and the lines in +her face had deepened into furrows. She looked much older than she +had done before she had received her inheritance. At the same time +she puzzled Horace by looking happier, albeit in a struggling sort +of fashion. Either Rose or the inheritance was the cause of the +happiness. Horace was inclined to think it was Rose, especially +since she seemed to him more than ever the source of all happiness +and further from his reach.</p> +<p>That night he had found in the post-office a story of whose +acceptance he had been almost sure, accompanied by the miserable +little formula which arouses at once wrath and humiliation. Horace +tore it up and threw the pieces along the road. There was a +thunder-shower coming up. It scattered the few blossoms remaining +on the trees, and many leaves, and the bits of the civilly +hypocritical note of thanks and rejection flew with them upon the +wings of the storm wind.</p> +<p>Horace gazed up at the clouds overhead, which looked like the +rapids of some terrible, heavenly river overlapping each other in +shell-like shapes and moving with intense fury. He thought of Rose, +and first hoped that she was in the house, and then reflected that +he might as well give up all hope of ever marrying her. The +returned manuscript in his pocket seemed to weigh down his very +soul. He recalled various stories which he had read in the current +magazines of late, and it seemed to him that his compared very +favorably with them. He tried to think of the matter judicially, as +if the rejected story were not his own, and felt justified in +thinking well of it. He had a sickening sense of being pitted +against something which he could not gainsay, which his own +convictions as to the privilege of persons in authority to have +their own opinions forbade him to question.</p> +<p>“The editors had a perfect right to return my story, even +if it is every whit as worthy of publication, even worthier, than +anything which has appeared in their magazine for a +twelvemonth,” he told himself.</p> +<p>He realized that he was not dependent upon the public concerning +the merit of his work—he could not be until the work appeared +in print—but he was combating the opinions (or appealing to +them) of a few men whose critical abilities might be biassed by a +thousand personal matters with which he could not interfere. He +felt that there was a broad, general injustice in the situation, +but absolute right as to facts. These were men to whom was given +the power to accept or refuse. No one could question their right to +use that power. Horace said to himself that he was probably a fool +to entertain for a moment any hope of success under such +conditions.</p> +<p>“Good Lord! It might depend upon whether the readers had +indigestion,” he thought; and at the same time he accepted +the situation with a philosophic pride of surrender.</p> +<p>“It's about one chance in a good many thousand,” he +told himself. “If I don't get the chance some other fellow +does, and there's no mortal way but to make the best of it, unless +I act like a fool myself.” Horace was exceedingly alive to +the lack of dignity of one who kicked against the pricks. He said +to himself that if he could not marry Rose, if he could not ask her +why, he must accept his fate, not attack it to his own undoing, nor +even deplore it to his ignominy.</p> +<p>In all this he was, rather curiously, leaving the girl and her +possible view of the matter entirely out of the question. Horace, +while he was not in the least self-deprecatory, and was disposed to +be as just in his estimate of himself as of other men, was not +egotistical. It did not really occur to him that Rose's fancy, too, +might have been awakened as his own had been, that he might cause +her suffering. It went to prove his unselfishness that, upon +entering the house, and seeing Rose seated beside a window with her +embroidery, his first feeling was of satisfaction that she was +housed and safe from the fast-gathering storm.</p> +<p>Rose looked up as he entered, and smiled.</p> +<p>“There's a storm overhead,” remarked Horace.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Rose. “Aunt Sylvia has just told +me I ought not to use a needle, with so much lightning. She has +been telling me about a woman who was sewing in a thunder-storm, +and the needle was driven into her hand.” Rose laughed, but +as she spoke she quilted her needle into her work and tossed it on +a table, got up, and went to the window.</p> +<p>“It looks almost wild enough for a cyclone,” she +said, gazing up at the rapid scud of gray, shell-like clouds.</p> +<p>“Rose, come right away from that window,” cried +Sylvia, entering from the dining-room. “Only last summer a +woman in Alford got struck standing at a window in a +tempest.”</p> +<p>“I want to look at the clouds,” said Rose, but she +obeyed.</p> +<p>Sylvia put a chair away from the fireplace and out of any +draught. “Here,” said she. “Set down here.” +She drew up another chair close beside Rose and sat down. There +came a flash of lightning and a terrible crash of thunder. A blind +slammed somewhere. Out in the great front yard the rain swirled in +misty columns, like ghostly dancers, and the flowering shrubs +lashed the ground. Horace watched it until Sylvia called him, also, +to what she considered a place of safety. “If you don't come +away from that window and set on the sofa I shall have a conniption +fit,” she said. Horace obeyed. As he sat down he thought of +Henry, and without stopping to think, inquired where he was.</p> +<p>“He went down to Mr. Meeks's,” replied Sylvia, with +calm decision.</p> +<p>Horace stared at her. He wondered if she could possibly be +lying, or if she really believed what she said.</p> +<p>He did not know what had happened that afternoon; neither did +Rose. Rose had gone out for a walk, and while Sylvia was alone a +caller, Mrs. Jim Jones, had come. Mrs. Jim Jones was a very small, +angry-looking woman. Nature had apparently intended her to be plump +and sweet and rosy, and altogether comfortable, but she had flown +in the face of nature, like a cross hen, and had her own way with +herself.</p> +<p>It was scarcely conceivable that Mrs. Jim Jones could be all the +time in the state of wrath against everything in general which her +sharp tongue and her angry voice evinced, but she gave that +impression. Her little blond face looked like that of a doll which +has been covered with angry pin-scratches by an ill-tempered child. +Whenever she spoke these scratches deepened.</p> +<p>Mrs. Jim Jones could not bring herself to speak of anything +without a show of temper, whether she really felt it or not. She +fairly lashed out at Sylvia when the latter inquired if it was true +that Albion Bennet had left her house and returned to the +hotel.</p> +<p>“Yes, it is true, and thank the Lord for His unspeakable +mercy to the children of men. I couldn't have stood that man much +longer, and that's the gospel truth. He ate like a pig, so there +wasn't a mite of profit in it. And he was as fussy as any old maid +I ever saw. If I have to choose between an old maid and an old +batch for a boarder, give me the old maid every time. She don't +begin to eat so much, and she takes care of her room. Albion Bennet +about ruined my spare chamber. He et peanuts every Sunday, and +they're all ground into the carpet. Yes, I'm mighty glad to get rid +of him. Let alone everything else, the way he pestered my Susy was +enough to make me sick of my bargain. There that poor child got so +she tagged me all over the house for fear Albion Bennet would make +love to her. I guess Susy ain't going to take up with a man like +Albion Bennet. He's too old for her anyhow, and I don't believe he +makes much out of his drug store. I rather guess Susy looks higher +than that. Yes, he's gone, and it's ‘good riddance, bad +rubbish.’”</p> +<p>“If you feel so about it I'm glad he's gone back to +Lucinda,” said Sylvia. “She didn't have many steady +boarders, and it did sort of look against her, poor thing, with all +the mean talk there's been.”</p> +<p>“I guess there wasn't quite so much smoke without a little +fire,” said Mrs. Jim Jones, and her small face looked fairly +evil.</p> +<p>Then Sylvia was aroused. “Now, Mrs. Jones, you know +better,” said she. “You know as well as you want to +that Lucinda Hart was no more guilty than you and I were. We both +went to school with her.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Jim Jones backed down a little. There was something about +Sylvia Whitman when she was aroused that a woman of Mrs. Jones's +type could not face with impunity. “Well, I don't pretend to +know,” said she, with angry sullenness.</p> +<p>“You pretended to know just now. If folks don't know, it +seems to me the best thing they can do is to hold their tongues, +anyhow.”</p> +<p>“I am holding my tongue, ain't I? What has got into you, +Sylvia Whitman?”</p> +<p>“No, you didn't hold your tongue when you said that about +there not being so much smoke without some fire.”</p> +<p>“Well, there always is fire when there's smoke, ain't +there?”</p> +<p>“No, there ain't always, not on the earth. Sometimes +there's smoke that folks' wicked imaginations bring up out of the +other place. I do believe that.”</p> +<p>“Why, Sylvia Whitman, how you do talk! You're almost +swearing.”</p> +<p>“Have it swearing if you want to,” said Sylvia. +“I know I'm glad that Albion Bennet has gone back to +Lucinda's. Everybody knows how mortal scared he is of his own +shadow, and if he's got grit enough to go back there it's enough to +about satisfy folks that there wasn't anything in the +story.”</p> +<p>“Well, it's ‘good riddance, bad rubbish,’ as +far as I'm concerned,” said Mrs. Jim Jones. There had been on +her face when she first entered an expression of peculiar +malignity. Sylvia knew it of old. She had realized that Mrs. Jones +had something sweet for her own tongue, but bitter for her, in +store, and that she was withholding it as long as possible, in +order to prolong the delight of anticipation. “You've got two +boarders, ain't you?” inquired Mrs. Jim Jones.</p> +<p>“I've got one boarder,” replied Sylvia, with +dignity, “and we keep him because he can't bear to go +anywhere else in East Westland, and because we like his +company.”</p> +<p>“I thought Abrahama White's niece—”</p> +<p>“She ain't no boarder. She makes her home here. If you +think we'd take a cent of money from poor Abrahama's own niece, +you're mistaken.”</p> +<p>“I didn't know. She takes after her grandmother White, +don't she? She was mortal homely.”</p> +<p>Then Sylvia fairly turned pale with resentment. “She +doesn't look any more like old Mrs. White than your cat +does,” said she. “Rose is a beauty; everybody says so. +She's the prettiest girl that ever set foot in this +town.”</p> +<p>“Everybody to their taste,” replied Mrs. Jim Jones, +in the village formula of contempt. “I heard Mr. Allen, your +boarder, was going to marry her,” she added.</p> +<p>“He ain't.”</p> +<p>“I'm glad to hear it from headquarters,” said Mrs. +Jim Jones. “I said I couldn't believe it was true.”</p> +<p>“Mr. Allen won't marry any girl in East Westland,” +said Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Is there anybody in Boston?” asked Mrs. Jim Jones, +losing her self-possession a little.</p> +<p>Sylvia played her trump card. “I don't know +anything—that is, I ain't going to say anything,” she +replied, mysteriously.</p> +<p>Mrs. Jim Jones was routed for a second, but she returned to the +attack. She had not yet come to her particular errand. She felt +that now was the auspicious moment. “I felt real sorry for +you when I heard the news,” said she.</p> +<p>Sylvia did not in the least know what she meant. Inwardly she +trembled, but she would have died before she betrayed herself. She +would not even disclose her ignorance of what the news might be. +She did not, therefore, reply in words, but gave a noncommittal +grunt.</p> +<p>“I thought,” said Mrs. Jim Jones, driven to her last +gun, “that you and Mr. Whitman had inherited enough to make +you comfortable for life, and I felt real bad to find out you +hadn't.”</p> +<p>Sylvia turned a little pale, but her gaze never flinched. She +grunted again.</p> +<p>“I supposed,” said Mrs. Jim Jones, mouthing her +words with intensest relish, “that there wouldn't be any need +for Mr. Whitman to work any more, and when I heard he was going +back to the shop, and when I saw him turn in there this morning, I +declare I did feel bad.”</p> +<p>Then Sylvia spoke. “You needn't have felt bad,” said +she. “Nobody asked you to.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Jim Jones stared.</p> +<p>“Nobody asked you to,” repeated Sylvia. +“Nobody is feeling at all bad here. It's true we've plenty, +so Mr. Whitman don't need to lift his finger, if he don't want to, +but a man can't set down, day in and day out, and suck his thumbs +when he's been used to working all his life. Some folks are lazy by +choice, and some folks work by choice. Mr. Whitman is one of +them.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Jim Jones felt fairly defrauded. “Then you don't feel +bad?” said she, in a crestfallen way.</p> +<p>“Nobody feels bad here,” said Sylvia. “I guess +nobody in East Westland feels bad unless it's you, and nobody wants +you to.”</p> +<p>After Mrs. Jim Jones had gone, Sylvia went into her bedroom and +sat down in a rocking-chair by the one window. Under the window +grew a sweetbrier rose-bush. There were no roses on it, but the +soothing perfume of the leaves came into the room. Sylvia sat quite +still for a while. Then she got up and went into the sitting-room +with her mouth set hard.</p> +<p>When Rose had returned she had greeted her as usual, and in +reply to her question where Uncle Henry was, said she guessed he +must be at Mr. Meeks's; there's where he generally was when he +wasn't at home.</p> +<p>It did not occur to Sylvia that she was lying, not even when, +later in the afternoon, Horace came home, and she answered his +question as to her husband's whereabouts in the same manner. She +had resolved upon Sidney Meeks's as a synonyme for the shoe-shop. +She knew herself that when she said Mr. Meeks's she in reality +meant the shoe-shop. She did not worry about others not having the +same comprehension as herself. Sylvia had a New England conscience, +but, like all New England consciences, it was susceptible of hard +twists to bring it into accordance with New England will.</p> +<p>The thunder-tempest, as Sylvia termed it, continued. She kept +glancing, from her station of safety, at the streaming windows. She +was becoming very much worried about Henry. At last she saw a +figure, bent to the rainy wind, pass swiftly before the side +windows of the sitting-room. She was on her feet in an instant, +although at that minute the room was filled with blue flame +followed by a terrific crash. She ran out into the kitchen and +flung open the door.</p> +<p>“Come in quick, for mercy's sake!” she called. Henry +entered. He was dripping with rain. Sylvia did not ask a question. +“Stand right where you are till I bring you some dry +clothes,” she said.</p> +<p>Henry obeyed. He stood meekly on the oil-cloth while Sylvia +hurried through the sitting-room to her bedroom.</p> +<p>“Mr. Whitman has got home from Mr. Meeks's, and he's +dripping wet,” she said to Horace and Rose. “I am going +to get him some dry things and hang the wet ones by the kitchen +stove.”</p> +<p>When she re-entered the kitchen with her arms full, Henry cast a +scared glance at her. She met it imperturbably.</p> +<p>“Hurry and get off those wet things or you'll catch your +death of cold,” said she.</p> +<p>Henry obeyed. Sylvia fastened his necktie for him when he was +ready for it. He wondered if she smelled the leather in his +drenched clothing. His own nostrils were full of it. But Sylvia +made no sign. She never afterwards made any sign. She never +intimated to Henry in any fashion that she knew of his return to +the shop. She was, if anything, kinder and gentler with him than +she had been before, but whenever he attempted, being led thereto +by a guilty conscience, to undeceive her, Sylvia lightly but +decidedly waved the revelation aside. She would not have it.</p> +<p>That day, when she and Henry entered the sitting-room, she said, +so calmly that he had not the courage to contradict her: +“Here is your uncle Henry home from Mr. Meeks's, and he was +as wet as a drowned rat. I suppose Mr. Meeks didn't have any +umbrella to lend. Old bachelors never do have anything.”</p> +<p>Henry sat down quietly in his allotted chair. He said nothing. +It was only when the storm had abated, when there was a clear +streak of gold low in the west, and all the wet leaves in the yard +gave out green and silver lights, when Sylvia had gone out in the +kitchen to get supper and Rose had followed her, that the two men +looked at each other.</p> +<p>“Does she know?” whispered Horace.</p> +<p>“If she does know, and has taken a notion never to let +anybody know she knows, she never will,” replied Henry.</p> +<p>“You mean that she will never mention it even to +you?”</p> +<p>Henry nodded. He looked relieved and scared. He was right. He +continued to work in the shop, and Sylvia never intimated to him +that she knew anything about it.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter XVII</h4> +<p>When Henry had worked in the shop before Sylvia's inheritance, +he had always given her a certain proportion of his wages and +himself defrayed their housekeeping bills. He began to do so again, +and Sylvia accepted everything without comment. Henry gradually +became sure that she did not touch a dollar of her income from her +new property for herself. One day he found on the bureau in their +bedroom a book on an Alford savings-bank, and discovered that +Sylvia had opened an account therein for Rose. Sylvia also began to +give Rose expensive gifts. When the girl remonstrated, she seemed +so distressed that there was nothing to do but accept them.</p> +<p>Sylvia no longer used any of Abrahama White's clothes for +herself. Instead, she begged Rose to take them, and finally induced +her to send several old gowns to her dressmaker in New York for +renovation. When Rose appeared in these gowns Sylvia's expression +of worried secrecy almost vanished.</p> +<p>The time went on, and it was midsummer. Horace was spending his +long vacation in East Westland. He had never done so before, and +Sylvia was not pleased by it. Day after day she told him that he +did not look well, that she thought he needed a change of air. +Henry became puzzled. One day he asked Sylvia if she did not want +Mr. Allen to stay with them any longer.</p> +<p>“Of course I do,” she replied.</p> +<p>“Well, you keep asking him why he doesn't go away, and I +began to think you didn't,” said Henry.</p> +<p>“I want him to stay,” said Sylvia, “but I +don't want any foolishness.”</p> +<p>“Foolishness?” said Henry, vaguely.</p> +<p>It was a very hot afternoon, but in spite of the heat Rose and +Horace were afield. They had been gone ever since dinner. It was +Saturday, and Henry had come home early from the shop. The first +question he asked had been concerning the whereabouts of the young +people. “Off together somewhere,” Sylvia had replied. +Then the conversation had ensued.</p> +<p>“Yes, foolishness,” repeated Sylvia, with a sort of +hysterical violence. She sat out on the front porch with some +mending, and she sewed feverishly as she spoke.</p> +<p>“I don't know what you mean by foolishness, I guess, +Sylvia.”</p> +<p>Henry sat on the porch step. He wore a black mohair coat, and +his thin hair was well brushed.</p> +<p>“It does seem,” said Sylvia, “as if a young +man and a young woman might live in the same house and behave +themselves.”</p> +<p>Henry stared at her. “Why, Sylvia, you don't mean—”</p> +<p>“I mean just what I said—behave themselves. It does +seem sometimes as if everything any girl or young man thought of +was falling in love and getting married,” Sylvia +said—“falling in love and getting married,” with +a bitter and satirical emphasis.</p> +<p>“I don't see,” said Henry, “that there is very +much against Mr. Allen and Rose's falling in love and getting +married. I think he might do worse, and I think she might. +Sometimes I've looked at the two of them and wondered if they +weren't just made for each other. I can't see quite what you mean, +Sylvia? You don't mean to say that you don't want Mr. Allen ever to +get married?”</p> +<p>“He can marry whoever he wants to,” said Sylvia, +“but he sha'n't marry her.”</p> +<p>“You don't mean you don't want her ever to get +married?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I do mean just that.”</p> +<p>“Why, Sylvia, are you crazy?”</p> +<p>“No, I ain't crazy,” replied Sylvia, doggedly. +“I don't want her to get married, and I'm in the right of it. +She's no call to get married.”</p> +<p>“I don't see why she 'ain't got a call as well as other +girls.”</p> +<p>“She 'ain't. Here she's got a good home, and everything +she needs, and more, too. She's got money of her own that she had +when she come here, plenty of it. I'm going over to Alford +to-morrow and see if I can't find some things in the stores there +for her that I think she'll like. And I'm going to get Jim +Jones—he's a good hand—to see if he can't get a good, +safe horse and pretty carriage for her, so she can ride +out.”</p> +<p>Henry stared. “I dunno as I can take care of a horse, +Sylvia,” he said, doubtfully.</p> +<p>“Nobody wants you to. I can get Billy Hudson to come. He +can sleep in the chamber over the kitchen. I spoke to his mother +about it, and she's tickled to pieces. She says he's real handy +with horses, and he'll come for fifteen dollars a month and his +board. Rose is going to have everything she wants.”</p> +<p>“Does she want a horse and carriage?”</p> +<p>“I shouldn't think of it if I didn't s'pose she +did.”</p> +<p>“What made me ask,” said Henry, “was, I'd +never heard her speak of it, and I knew she had money enough for +anything if she did want it.”</p> +<p>“Are you grudging my spending money her own aunt left on +her?”</p> +<p>Henry looked reproachfully at his wife. “I didn't quite +deserve that from you, Sylvia,” he said, slowly.</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at him a moment. Her face worked. Then she glanced +around to be sure nobody saw, and leaned over and touched the +shoulder of Henry's mohair coat with a little, skinny hand. +“Henry,” she said, pitifully.</p> +<p>“What, Sylvia?”</p> +<p>“You know I didn't mean anything. You've always been +generous about money matters. We 'ain't never had ill feeling about +such a thing as that. I shouldn't have spoke that way if I hadn't +been all wrought up, and—” Suddenly Sylvia thrust her +hand under her white apron and swept it up to her face. She shook +convulsively.</p> +<p>“Now, Sylvia, of course you didn't mean a blessed thing. +I've known you were all wrought up for a long time, but I haven't +known what about. Don't take on so, Sylvia.”</p> +<p>A little, hysterical sob came from Sylvia under the apron. Her +scissors fell from her lap and struck the stone slab on which Henry +was sitting. He picked them up. “Here are your scissors, +Sylvia,” said he. “Now don't take on so. What is it +about? What have you got on your mind? Don't you think it would do +you good to tell me?”</p> +<p>“I wish,” sobbed Sylvia, “that Abrahama White +had left her property where it belonged. I wish we'd never had a +cent of it. She didn't do right, and she laid the burden of her +wrong-doing onto us when she left us the property.”</p> +<p>“Is that what's troubling you, Sylvia?” said Henry, +slowly. “If that's all,” he continued, “why—”</p> +<p>But Sylvia interrupted him. She swept the apron from her face +and showed it grimly set. There was no trace of tears. “That +ain't troubling me,” said she. “Nothing's troubling me. +I'm kind of nervous, that's all, and I hate to set still and see +foolishness. I don't often give way, and I 'ain't nothing to give +way for. I'm jest all wrought up. I guess there's going to be a +thunder-tempest. I've felt jest like it all day. I wish you'd go +out in the garden and pick a mess of green corn for supper. If +you're a mind to you can husk it, and get that middling-sized +kettle out from under the sink and put the water on to boil. I +suppose they'll be home before long now. They ain't quite got to +going without their victuals.”</p> +<p>Henry rose. “I'd admire to get the corn,” said he, +and went around the house towards the kitchen. Left to herself, +Sylvia let her work fall in her lap. She stared at the front yard +and the street beyond and the opposite house, dimly seen between +waving boughs, and her face was the face of despair. Little, +commonplace, elderly countenance that it seemed, it was +strengthened into tragedy by the terrible stress of some concealed +misery of the spirit. Sylvia sat very stiffly, so stiffly that even +the work in her lap, a mass of soft muslin, might have been marble, +with its immovable folds. Sylvia herself looked petrified; not a +muscle of her face stirred. She was suffering the keenest agony +upon earth, that agony of the spirit which strikes it dumb.</p> +<p>She had borne it for months. She had never let slip the +slightest hint of it. At times she had managed to quiet it with +what she knew to be sophistries. She had been able to imagine +herself almost happy with Rose and the new passion for her which +had come into her life, but that passion was overgrown by her +secret, like some hideous parasite. Even the girl's face, which was +so beloved, was not to be seen without a pang to follow upon the +happiness. Sylvia showed, however, in spite of her face of utter +despair, an odd strength, a courage as if for battle.</p> +<p>After awhile she heard Henry's returning footsteps, and +immediately her face and whole body relaxed. She became flesh, and +took up her needlework, and Henry found her sewing placidly. The +change had been marvellous. Once more Sylvia was a little, +commonplace, elderly woman at her commonplace task. Even that +subtle expression which at times so puzzled Henry had disappeared. +The man had a sensation of relief as he resumed his seat on the +stone step. He was very patient with Sylvia. It was his nature to +be patient with all women. Without realizing it, he had a +tenderness for them which verged on contempt. He loved Sylvia, but +he never lost sight of the fact that she was a woman and he a man, +and therefore it followed, as a matter of course, that she was by +nature weaker and, because of the weakness, had a sweet +inferiority. It had never detracted from his love for her; it had +increased it. There might not have been any love in the beginning +except for that.</p> +<p>Henry was perhaps scarcely capable of loving a woman whom he +might be compelled to acknowledge as his superior. This elderly +New-Englander had in him none of the spirit of knight-errantry. He +had been a good, faithful husband to his wife, but he had never set +her on a pedestal, but a trifle below him, and he had loved her +there and been patient with her.</p> +<p>But patience must breed a certain sense of superiority. That is +inevitable. Henry's tender patience with Sylvia's moods and +unreason made him see over her character, as he could see over her +physical head. Lately this sense of mystery had increased, in a +way, his comprehension of his own stature. The more mysterious +Sylvia became, and the more Henry's patience was called into +action, the taller he appeared to himself to become.</p> +<p>While he had been getting the corn out in the garden, and +preparing it to be cooked, he had reflected upon Sylvia's +unaccountable emotion and her assertion that there was no reason +for it, and he realized his masculine height. He knew that it would +have been impossible for him to lose control of himself and then +declare that there was no cause; to sway like a reed driven by the +wind.</p> +<p>Henry was rather taken by this idea. When he had returned to his +station on the porch he was thinking how women were reeds driven by +the winds of their emotions, and really, in a measure, +irresponsible. If he had again found Sylvia with her apron over her +face, he was quite prepared to be very tender, but he was relieved +to see that the paroxysm had passed. He did not smile as he sat +down, neither did Sylvia. It was rather unusual for them to smile +at each other, but they exchanged looks of peaceful accord, which +really meant more than smiles.</p> +<p>“Well,” said Henry, “the kettle's on the +stove.”</p> +<p>“How much corn did you get?”</p> +<p>“Well, I allowed three ears apiece. They're pretty good +size. I thought that was about right.”</p> +<p>Sylvia nodded.</p> +<p>“The corn's holding out pretty well,” said Henry. +“That other later kind will be ready by the time the lima +beans are ripe.”</p> +<p>“That 'll go nice for succotash,” said Sylvia, +taking another stitch.</p> +<p>“That's what I was thinking,” said Henry.</p> +<p>He sat staring out upon the front yard, and he was in reality +thinking, with pleasant anticipations, of the succotash. Now that +he was back in his old track at the shop, his appetite was better, +and he found himself actually dreaming about savory dishes like a +boy. Henry's pleasures in life were so few and simple that they had +to go a long way, and lap over onto his spiritual needs from his +physical ones.</p> +<p>Sylvia broke in upon his visions of succotash. She was straining +her eyes to see the road beyond the front yard. “What time is +it?” she asked. “Do you know?”</p> +<p>“It was half-past five by the kitchen clock.”</p> +<p>“They ain't in sight yet.” Sylvia stared and frowned +at the distance. “This house does set too far back,” +she said, impatiently.</p> +<p>“Now, Sylvia, I wouldn't give up a mite of this front +yard.”</p> +<p>“I'd give it all up if I could see folks go past. A woman +wants to see something out of the window and from the doorstep +besides flowers and box and trees.”</p> +<p>Sylvia glared at the yard, which was beautiful. The box grew +lustily, framing beds of flowers and clusters of radiant bushes. +There were two perfectly symmetrical horse-chestnut-trees, one on +each side of the broad gravel walk. The yard looked like some +wonderful map wherein the countries were made of flowers, the +design was so charmingly artificial and prim.</p> +<p>“It's awful set, I think,” said Sylvia. “I'd +rather have flowers growing where they want to instead of where +they have to. And I never did like box. Folks say it's unhealthy, +too.”</p> +<p>“It's been here for years, and the people who belonged +here have never been short-lived,” said Henry. “I like +it.”</p> +<p>“I don't,” said Sylvia. She looked at the road. +“I don't see where they can be.”</p> +<p>“Oh, they'll be along soon. Don't worry, +Sylvia.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said Sylvia, in a strident voice, “I'm +going in and get supper, and when it's ready we'll set down and eat +it. I ain't going to wait one minute. I'm just sick of this kind of +work.”</p> +<p>Sylvia got up, and her scissors dropped again onto the step. +Henry picked them up. “Here are your scissors,” said +he.</p> +<p>Sylvia took them and went into the house with a flounce. Henry +heard a door slam and dishes rattle. “She's all wrought up +again,” he thought. He felt very tall as he pitied Sylvia. He +was sorry for her, but her distress over such a matter as the young +folks' being late seemed to him about as much to be taken seriously +as the buzzing of a bumblebee over a clump of lilies in the +yard.</p> +<p>He was watching the bumblebee when he heard the front gate +click, and thought with relief that the wanderers had returned, +then Sidney Meeks came into view from between the rows of box. +Sidney came up the walk, wiping his forehead with a large red +handkerchief, and fanning himself with an obsolete straw hat.</p> +<p>“Hullo,” said Henry.</p> +<p>“How are you?” said Meeks. “It's a corking hot +day.”</p> +<p>“Yes, it is pretty hot, but I think it's a little cooler +than it was an hour ago.”</p> +<p>“Try walking and you won't think so.”</p> +<p>“Set down,” said Henry, pointing to the chair Sylvia +had just vacated. “Set down and stay to supper.”</p> +<p>“I don't say I won't stay to supper, but I've got an +errand first. I've struck a new idea about wine. Haven't you got a +lot of wild grapes down back here?”</p> +<p>“Yes, back of the orchard.”</p> +<p>“Well, I've got an idea. I won't say what it is now. I +want to see how it turns out first. Does Sylvia use wild +grapes?”</p> +<p>“No, I know she won't. There are going to be bushels of +Concords and Delawares.”</p> +<p>“Well, I want you to go down with me and let me look at +your wild grape-vines. I suppose the grapes must be set long ago. I +just want to see how many there are. I suppose I can make a deal +with you for some?”</p> +<p>“You can have them, and welcome. I know Sylvia will say +so, too.”</p> +<p>“Well, come along. We can go around the house.”</p> +<p>Henry and Meeks skirted the house and the vegetable garden, then +crossed a field, and found themselves at one side of the orchard. +It was a noble old orchard. The apple, pear, and peach trees, set +in even rows, covered three acres. Between the men and the orchard +grew the wild grapes, rioting over an old fence. Henry began to say +there was a gap in the fence farther down, but the lawyer's hand +gripped his arm with sudden violence, and he stopped short. Then he +as well as Meeks heard voices. They heard the tones of a girl, +trembling with sweetness and delight, foolish with the blessed +folly of life and youth. The voice was so full of joy that at first +it sounded no more articulate than a bird's song. It was like a +strophe from the primeval language of all languages. Henry and +Meeks seemed to understand, finally, what the voice said, more from +some inner sympathy, which dated back to their youth and chorded +with it, than from any actual comprehension of spoken words.</p> +<p>This was what the sweet, divinely foolish girl-voice said: +“I don't know what you can see in me to love.”</p> +<p>There was nothing in the words; it was what any girl might say; +it was very trite, but it was a song. Celestial modesty and pride +were in it, and joy which looked at itself and doubted if it were +joy.</p> +<p>Then came the man's voice, and that sang a song also foolish and +trite, but divine and triumphant and new as every spring.</p> +<p>Henry and Meeks saw gradually, as they listened, afraid to move +lest they be heard. They saw Horace and Rose sitting on the green +turf under an apple-tree. They leaned against its trunk, twisted +with years of sun and storm, and the green spread of branches was +overhead, and they were all dappled with shade and light like the +gold bosses of a shield. The man's arm was around the girl, and +they were looking at each other and seeing this world and that +which is to come.</p> +<p>Suddenly Meeks gave Henry's arm another violent clutch. He +pointed. Then they saw another girl standing in the tangle of wild +grapes. She wore a green muslin gown, and was so motionless that it +was not easy to discern her readily. She was listening and watching +the lovers, and her young face was terrible. It was full of an +enormous, greedy delight, as of one who eats ravenously, and yet +there was malignity and awful misery and unreason in it. Her cheeks +were flushed and her blue eyes glittered. It was evident that +everything she heard and saw caused her the most horrible agony and +a more horrible joy. She was like a fanatic who dances in fire.</p> +<p>Meeks and Henry looked at her for a long minute, then at each +other. Henry nodded as if in response to a question. Then the two +men, moving by almost imperceptible degrees, keeping the utmost +silence, hearing all the time that love duet on the other side of +the grape-vines, got behind the girl. She had been so intent that +there had been no danger of seeing them. Horace and Rose were also +so intent that they were not easily reached by any sight or sound +outside themselves.</p> +<p>Meeks noiselessly and firmly clasped one of Lucy Ayres's arms. +It was very slender, and pathetically cold through her thin sleeve. +Henry grasped the other. She turned her wild young face over her +shoulder, and saw them, and yielded. Between them the two men half +carried, half led the girl away across the fields to the road. When +they were on the road Henry released his grasp of her arm, but +Meeks retained his. “Will you go quietly home?” said +he, “or shall Mr. Whitman and I go with you?”</p> +<p>“I will go,” Lucy replied, in a hoarse whisper.</p> +<p>Meeks looked keenly at her. “Now, Lucy,” he said, in +a gentle voice, “there's no use; you've got to go +home.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Henry. “Go home to your ma, right +away, like a good girl.”</p> +<p>Lucy remained motionless. Her poor young eyes seemed to see +nothing.</p> +<p>“Good Lord!” sighed Meeks, wiping his forehead with +his disengaged hand. “Well, come along, Lucy. Now, Lucy, you +don't want to make a spectacle of yourself on the street. I think +we must go home with you, because I can see right in your eyes that +you won't budge a step unless we make you, but we don't want to +walk holding on to you. So now you just march along ahead, and +we'll keep behind you, and we won't have all the town up in +arms.”</p> +<p>Lucy said nothing. Meeks wiped his forehead again, freed her, +and gave her a gentle shove between her shoulders. “Now, +march,” said he.</p> +<p>Lucy began to walk; the two men kept behind her. Presently they +met a boy, who evidently noticed nothing unusual, for he leaped +past, whistling.</p> +<p>“Thank the Lord it isn't far,” muttered Meeks, +wiping his forehead. “It's d—n hot.”</p> +<p>Lucy walked on quite rapidly after awhile. They were nearly in +sight of her home when Mrs. Ayres met them. She was almost running, +and was pale and out of breath.</p> +<p>“Lucy,” she began, “where—?” Then +she realized that Meeks and Henry were with the girl.</p> +<p>“Henry, you just keep an eye on her,” said Meeks. +Then he spoke to Mrs. Ayres with old-fashioned ceremony. +“Madam,” he said, “will you be so kind as to step +aside? I have a word I would like to say to you.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres, with a scared glance at Lucy, complied.</p> +<p>“Just this way a moment,” he said. “Now, +madam, I have a word of advice which you are at liberty to take or +not. Your daughter seems to be in a dangerously nervous state. I +will tell you plainly where we found her. It seems that Mr. Allen +and Miss Fletcher have fallen in love with each other, and have +come to an understanding. We happened upon them, sitting together +very properly, as lovers should, in the apple orchard back of Mr. +Whitman's, and your daughter stood there watching them. She is very +nervous. If you take my advice you will lose no time in getting her +away.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres stood and listened with a cold, pale dignity. She +waited until Meeks had entirely finished, then she spoke slowly and +evenly.</p> +<p>“Thank you, Mr. Meeks,” she said. “Your advice +is very good, so good that I have proved it by anticipating you. My +daughter is in a very nervous condition. She never fully recovered +from a severe attack of the grip.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Ayres lied, and Meeks respected her for it.</p> +<p>“We are to start before long for St. Louis, where my +brother lives,” continued Mrs. Ayres. “I am going to +rent my house furnished. My brother is a widower, and wishes us to +make our home with him, and we may never return here. I was obliged +to go on an errand to the store, and when I came home I missed Lucy +and was somewhat anxious. I am very much obliged to you. We are +going away, and I have no doubt that an entire change of scene will +restore my daughter entirely. Yesterday she had a sick headache, +and is still suffering somewhat from it to-day.”</p> +<p>“That woman lied like a gentleman,” Meeks said to +Henry when they were on their way home. “Good Lord! I was +thankful to her.”</p> +<p>Henry was regarding him with a puzzled look. “Do you think +the poor girl is in love with Mr. Allen, too?” he asked.</p> +<p>“I think she is in love with love, and nothing will cure +that,” said Meeks.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter XVIII</h4> +<p>Henry looked more and more disturbed as they went down the +street. “I declare, I don't know what Sylvia will say,” +he remarked, moodily.</p> +<p>“You mean about the pretty little love-affair?” said +Meeks, walking along fanning himself with his hat.</p> +<p>“Yes, she'll be dreadful upset.”</p> +<p>“Upset; why?”</p> +<p>“It beats me to know why. Who ever does know the why of a +woman?”</p> +<p>“What in creation is the fellow, anyhow?” said +Meeks, with a laugh. “Are all the women going daft over him? +He isn't half bad looking, and he's a good sort, but I'm hanged if +I can see why he should upset every woman who looks at him. Here +we've just escorted that poor Ayres girl home. I declare, her face +made me shiver. I was glad there wasn't any pond handy for her. But +if you mean to say that your good, sensible old wife—”</p> +<p>“Get out! You know better,” cried Henry, +impatiently. “You know Sylvia better than that. She sets a +lot by Mr. Allen; I do myself; but, as far as that goes, she'd give +her blessing if he'd marry any girl but Rose. That's where the +hitch comes in. She doesn't want him to marry her.”</p> +<p>“Thinks he isn't good enough?”</p> +<p>“I don't believe it's that. I don't know what it is. She +says she don't want Rose to marry anybody.”</p> +<p>“Good Lord! Sylvia doesn't expect a girl with a face like +that, and money to boot, to be an old maid! My only wonder is that +she hasn't been snapped up before now.”</p> +<p>“I guess Rose has had chances.”</p> +<p>“If she hasn't, all the men who have seen her have been +stone blind.”</p> +<p>“I don't know what has got into Sylvia, and that's the +truth,” Henry said. “I never saw her act the way she +does lately. I can't imagine what has got into her head about Rose +that she thinks she mustn't get married.”</p> +<p>“Maybe Sylvia is in love with the girl,” said Meeks, +shrewdly.</p> +<p>“I know she is,” said Henry. “Poor Sylvia +loves her as if she was her own daughter, but I have always +understood that mothers were crazy to have their daughters +married.”</p> +<p>“So have I, but these popular ideas are sometimes +nonsense. I have always heard that myself.”</p> +<p>“Sylvia and I have been happy enough together,” said +Henry. “It can't be that her own life as a married woman +makes her think it a better plan to remain single.”</p> +<p>“That's stuff.”</p> +<p>“It seems so to me. Well, all the reason I can think of +is, Sylvia has come to set so much by the girl that she's actually +jealous of her.”</p> +<p>“Do you suppose they'll tell her to-night?” asked +Meeks.</p> +<p>Henry regarded him with an expression of actual terror. +“Seems as if they might wait, and let Sylvia have her night's +sleep,” he muttered.</p> +<p>“I guess I won't stay to supper,” said Meeks.</p> +<p>“Stay, for the Lord's sake.”</p> +<p>Meeks laughed. “I believe you are afraid, +Henry.”</p> +<p>“I hate to see a woman upset over anything.”</p> +<p>“So do I, for that matter. Do you think my staying might +make it any better?”</p> +<p>“Yes, it might. Here we are in sight of the house. You +ain't going to back out?”</p> +<p>Meeks laughed again, although rather uneasily. “All +right,” he said.</p> +<p>When he and Henry entered they found Sylvia moving nervously +about the sitting-room. She was scowling, and her starched +apron-strings were rampant at her slim back.</p> +<p>“Well,” she said, with a snap, “I'm glad +somebody has come. Supper's been ready for the last quarter of an +hour, and I don't know but the corn is spoiled. How do you do, Mr. +Meeks? I'll be glad to have you stay to supper, but I don't know as +there's a thing fit to eat.”</p> +<p>“Oh, I'll risk it,” Sidney said. “You can't +have anything worse than I've got at home. I had to go to Alford +about that confounded Ames case. I had a dinner there that wasn't +fit for a dog to eat, and I'm down to baker's bread and +cheese.”</p> +<p>“Where have <em>you</em> been?” demanded Sylvia of +Henry. He cast an appealing glance at Meeks. The two men stood +shoulder to shoulder, as if confronted by a common foe of nervous +and exasperated feminity.</p> +<p>“I'm to blame for that,” said Meeks. “I wanted +to see if you had any wild grapes to spare, and I asked Henry to go +down to the orchard with me. I suppose you can spare me some of +those wild grapes?”</p> +<p>“Take all you want, and welcome,” said Sylvia. +“Now, I'll put supper on the table, and we'll eat it. I ain't +going to wait any longer for anybody.”</p> +<p>After Sylvia had gone, with a jerk, out of the room, the two men +looked at each other. “Couldn't you give Allen a hint to lay +low to-night, anyhow?” whispered Meeks.</p> +<p>Henry shook his head. “They'll be sure to show it some +way,” he replied. “I don't know what's got into +Sylvia.”</p> +<p>“It seems a pretty good sort of match, to me.”</p> +<p>“So it does to me. Of course Rose has got more money, and +I know as well as I want to that Horace has felt a little awkward +about that; but lately he's been earning extra writing for papers +and magazines, and it was only last Monday he told me he'd got a +steady job for a New York paper that wouldn't interfere with his +teaching. He seemed mighty tickled about it, and I guess he made up +his mind then to go ahead and get married.”</p> +<p>“Come to supper,” cried Sylvia, in a harsh voice, +from the next room, and the two men went out at once and took their +seats at the table. Rose's and Horace's places were vacant. +“I'd like to know what they think,” said Sylvia, +dishing up the baked beans. “They can eat the corn cold. It's +just as good cold as it is all dried up. Here it is six o'clock and +they ain't come yet.”</p> +<p>“These are baked beans that are baked beans,” said +Meeks.</p> +<p>“Yes, I always have said that Sylvia knows just how to +bake beans,” said Henry. “I go to church suppers, and +eat other folks' baked beans, but they 'ain't got the knack of +seasoning, or something.”</p> +<p>“It's partly the seasoning and partly the cooking,” +said Sylvia, in a somewhat appeased voice.</p> +<p>“This is brown bread, too,” said Meeks. His +flattering tone was almost fulsome.</p> +<p>Henry echoed him eagerly. “Yes, I always feel just the +same about the brown bread that Sylvia makes,” he said.</p> +<p>But the brown bread touched a discordant tone.</p> +<p>Sylvia frowned. “Mr. Allen always wants it hot,” +said she, “and it 'll be stone cold. I don't see where they +went to.”</p> +<p>“Here they are now,” said Henry. He and Meeks cast +an apprehensive glance at each other. Voices were heard, and Horace +and Rose entered.</p> +<p>“Are we late?” asked Rose. She smiled and blushed, +and cast her eyes down before Sylvia's look of sharp inquiry. There +was a wonderful new beauty about the girl. She fairly glowed with +it. She was a rose indeed, full of sunlight and dew, and holding +herself, over her golden heart of joy, with a divine grace and +modesty.</p> +<p>Horace did not betray himself as much. He had an expression of +subdued triumph, but his face, less mobile than the girl's, was +under better control. He took his place at the table and unfolded +his napkin.</p> +<p>“I am awfully sorry if we have kept you waiting, Mrs. +Whitman,” he said, lightly, as if it did not make the +slightest difference if she had been kept waiting.</p> +<p>Sylvia had already served Rose with baked beans. Now she spoke +to Horace. “Pass your plate up, if you please, Mr. +Allen,” she said. “Henry, hand Mr. Allen the brown +bread. I expect it's stone cold.”</p> +<p>“I like it better cold,” said Horace, +cheerfully.</p> +<p>Sylvia stared at him, then she turned to Rose. “Where on +earth have you been?” she demanded.</p> +<p>Horace answered for her. “We went to walk, and sat down +under a tree in the orchard and talked; and we hadn't any idea how +the time was passing,” he said.</p> +<p>Henry and Meeks cast a relieved glance at each other. It did not +appear that an announcement was to be made that night. After +supper, when Meeks left, Henry strolled down the street a little +way with him.</p> +<p>“I'm thankful to have it put off to-night, anyhow,” +he said. “Sylvia was all wrought up about their being late to +supper, and she wouldn't have got a mite of sleep.”</p> +<p>“You don't think anything will be said +to-night?”</p> +<p>“No, I guess not. I heard Sylvia tell Rose she'd better go +to bed right after supper, and Rose said, ‘Very well, Aunt +Sylvia,’ in that way she has. I never saw a human being who +seems to take other people's orders as Rose does.”</p> +<p>“Allen told me he'd got to sit up till midnight over some +writing,” said Meeks. “That may have made a difference +to the girl. Reckon she knew spooning was over for +to-day.”</p> +<p>Henry looked back at the house. There were two lighted windows +on the second floor. “Rose is going to bed,” he said. +“That light's in her room.”</p> +<p>“She looked happy enough to dazzle one when she came in, +poor little thing,” said Meeks. In his voice was an odd +mixture of tenderness, admiration, and regret. “You've got +your wife,” he said, “but I wonder if you know how +lonely an old fellow like me feels sometimes, when he thinks of how +he's lived and what he's missed. To think of a girl having a face +like that for a man. Good Lord!”</p> +<p>“You might have got married if you'd wanted to,” +said Henry.</p> +<p>“Of course; could get married now if I wanted to, but that +isn't the question. I don't know what I'm such a d—n fool as +to tell you for, only it's like ancient history, and no harm that I +can see for either the living or the dead. There was a time when, +if Abrahama White had worn a face like that for +me—well—Poor girl, she got her heart turned the way it +wasn't meant to go. She had a mean, lonesome life of it. Sometimes +now, when I go into that house where she lived so many years, I +declare, the weight of the burden she had to bear seems to be on +me. It was a cruel life for a woman, and here's your wife wanting +that girl to live the same way.”</p> +<p>“Wouldn't she have you after Susy got married?” +asked Henry. The words sounded blunt, but his voice was tender.</p> +<p>“Didn't ask her. I don't think so. She wasn't that kind of +woman. It was what she wanted or nothing with her, always was. +Guess that was why I felt the way I did about her.”</p> +<p>“She was a handsome girl.”</p> +<p>“Handsome! This girl you've got is pretty enough, but +there never was such a beauty as Abrahama. Sometimes when I call +her face back before my eyes, I declare it sounds like women's +nonsense, but I wonder if I haven't done better losing such a woman +as that than marrying any other.”</p> +<p>“She was handsome,” Henry said again, in his tone of +futile, wondering sympathy.</p> +<p>When Henry had left Sidney and returned home, he found, to his +horror, that Sylvia was not down-stairs. “She's up there with +the girl, and Rose 'll tell her,” he thought, uneasily. +“She can't keep it to herself if she's alone with another +woman.”</p> +<p>He was right. Sylvia had followed the girl to her room. She was +still angry with Rose, and filled with a vague suspicion, but she +adored her. She was hungry for the pleasure of unfastening her +gown, of seeing the last of her for the day. When she entered she +found Rose seated beside the window. The lamp was not lit.</p> +<p>Sylvia stood in the doorway looking into the shadowy room. +“Are you here?” she asked. She meant her voice to be +harsh, but it rang sweet with tenderness.</p> +<p>“Yes, Aunt Sylvia.”</p> +<p>“Where are you?”</p> +<p>“Over here beside the window.”</p> +<p>“What on earth are you setting in the dark for?”</p> +<p>“Oh, I just thought I'd sit down here a few minutes. I was +going to light the lamp soon.”</p> +<p>Sylvia groped her way to the mantel-shelf, found the china +match-box, and struck a match. Then she lit the lamp on the bureau +and looked at the girl. Rose held her face a little averted. The +lighting of the room had blotted out for her the soft +indeterminateness of the summer night outside, and she was a little +afraid to look at Sylvia with the glare of the lamp full upon her +face.</p> +<p>“You'll get cold setting there,” said Sylvia; +“besides, folks can look right in. Get up and I'll unhook +your dress.”</p> +<p>Rose got up. Sylvia lowered the white window-shade and Rose +stood about for her gown to be unfastened. She still kept her face +away from the older woman. Sylvia unfastened the muslin bodice. She +looked fondly at the soft, girlish neck when it was exposed. Her +lips fairly tingled to kiss it, but she put the impulse sternly +from her.</p> +<p>“What were you and Mr. Allen talking about so long down in +the orchard?” said she.</p> +<p>“A good many things—ever so many things,” said +Rose, evasively.</p> +<p>Sylvia saw the lovely, slender neck grow crimson. She turned the +girl around with a sudden twist at the shoulders, and saw the face +flushing sweetly under its mist of hair. She saw the pouting lips +and the downcast eyes.</p> +<p>“Why don't you look at me?” she said, in a hard +whisper.</p> +<p>Rose remained motionless.</p> +<p>“Look at me.”</p> +<p>Rose raised her eyelids, gave one glance at Sylvia, then she +dropped them again. She was all one soft, rosy flush. She smiled a +smile which she could not control—a smile of ecstasy.</p> +<p>Sylvia turned deadly pale. She gasped, and held the girl from +her, looking at her pitilessly. “You don't mean it?” +she exclaimed.</p> +<p>Then Rose spoke with a sudden burst of emotion. “Oh, Aunt +Sylvia,” she said, “I thought I wouldn't tell you +to-night. I made him promise not to tell to-night, because I was +afraid you wouldn't like it, but I've got to. I don't feel right to +go to bed and not let you know.”</p> +<p>“Then it's so?”</p> +<p>Rose gave her a glance of ineffable happiness and appeal for +sympathy.</p> +<p>“You and him are planning to get married?”</p> +<p>“Not for a year; not for a whole year. He's absurdly proud +because he's poor, and he wants to make sure that he can earn more +than his teacher's salary. Not for a whole year.”</p> +<p>“You and him are planning to get married?”</p> +<p>“I wasn't sure till this afternoon,” Rose whispered. +She put her arms around Sylvia, and tried to nestle against her +flat bosom with a cuddling movement of her head, like a baby. +“I wasn't sure,” she whispered, “but +he—told me, and—now I am sure.”</p> +<p>Then Rose wept a little, softly, against Sylvia's thin breast. +Sylvia stood like a stone. “Haven't you had all you wanted +here?” she asked.</p> +<p>“Oh, Aunt Sylvia, you know I have. You've been so good to +me.”</p> +<p>“I had got my plans made to put in a bath-room,” +said Sylvia. “I've got the carpenters engaged, and the +plumber. They are going to begin next week.”</p> +<p>“You've been as good as can be to me, Aunt +Sylvia.”</p> +<p>“And I'm on the lookout for a carriage and horse you can +drive, and I've been planning to have some parties for you. I've +tried to think of everything that would make you feel happy and +contented and at home.”</p> +<p>“Oh, you have; I know you have, dear Aunt Sylvia,” +murmured Rose.</p> +<p>“I have done all I knew how,” repeated Sylvia, in a +stony fashion. She put the girl gently away and turned to go, but +Rose caught her arm.</p> +<p>“Aunt Sylvia, you aren't going like this!” she +cried. “I was afraid you wouldn't like it, though I don't +know why. It does seem that Horace is all you could ask, if I were +your very own daughter.”</p> +<p>“You are like my very own daughter,” said Sylvia, +stiffly.</p> +<p>“Then why don't you like Horace?”</p> +<p>“I never said anything against him.”</p> +<p>“Then why do you look so?”</p> +<p>Sylvia stood silent.</p> +<p>“You won't go without kissing me, anyway, will you?” +sobbed Rose.</p> +<p>This time she really wept with genuine hurt and +bewilderment.</p> +<p>Sylvia bent and touched her thin, very cold lips to Rose's. +“Now go to bed,” she said, and moved away, and was out +of the room in spite of Rose's piteous cry to her to come back.</p> +<p>Henry, after he had entered the house and discovered that Sylvia +was up-stairs with Rose, sat down to his evening paper. He tried to +read, but could not get further than the glaring headlines about a +kidnapping case. He was listening always for Sylvia's step on the +stair.</p> +<p>At last he heard it. He turned the paper, with a loud rustle, to +the continuation of the kidnapping case as she entered the room. He +did not even look up. He appeared to be absorbed in the paper.</p> +<p>Sylvia closed the hall door behind her noiselessly; then she +crossed the room and closed the door leading into the dining-room. +Henry watched her with furtive eyes. He was horribly dismayed +without knowing why. When Sylvia had the room completely closed she +came close to him. She extended her right hand, and he saw that it +contained a little sheaf of yellowed newspaper clippings pinned +together.</p> +<p>“Henry Whitman,” said she.</p> +<p>“Sylvia, you are as white as a sheet. What on earth ails +you?”</p> +<p>“Do you know what has happened?”</p> +<p>Henry's eyes fell before her wretched, questioning ones. +“What do you mean, Sylvia?” he said, in a faint +voice.</p> +<p>“Do you know that Mr. Allen and Rose have come to an +understanding and are going to get married?”</p> +<p>Henry stared at her.</p> +<p>“She has just told me,” said Sylvia. “Here I +have done everything in the world I could for her to make her +contented.”</p> +<p>“Sylvia, what on earth makes you feel so? She is only +going to do what every girl who has a good chance does—what +you did yourself.”</p> +<p>“Look at here,” said Sylvia, in an awful voice.</p> +<p>“What are they?”</p> +<p>“I found them in a box up in the garret. They were cut +from newspapers years ago, when Rose was nothing but a child, just +after her mother died.”</p> +<p>“What are they? Don't look so, Sylvia.”</p> +<p>“Here,” said Sylvia, and Henry took the little +yellow sheaf of newspaper clippings, adjusted his spectacles, moved +the lamp nearer, and began to read.</p> +<p>He read one, then he looked at Sylvia, and his face was as white +as hers. “Good God!” he said.</p> +<p>Sylvia stood beside him, and their eyes remained fixed on each +other's white face. “I suppose the others are the +same,” Henry said, hoarsely.</p> +<p>Sylvia nodded. “Only from different papers. It's terrible +how alike they are.”</p> +<p>“So you've had this on your mind?”</p> +<p>Sylvia nodded grimly.</p> +<p>“When did you find them?”</p> +<p>“We'd been living here a few days. I was up in the garret. +There was a box.”</p> +<p>Henry remained motionless for a few moments. Then he sighed +heavily, rose, and took Sylvia by the hand. “Come,” he +said.</p> +<p>“What are you going to do?”</p> +<p>“Come.”</p> +<p>Sylvia followed, dragging back a little at her husband's leading +hand, like a child. They passed through the dining-room into the +kitchen. “There's a fire in the stove, ain't there?” +said Henry, as they went.</p> +<p>Sylvia nodded again. She did not seem to have many words for +this exigency.</p> +<p>Out in the kitchen Henry moved a lid from the stove, and put the +little sheaf of newspaper clippings, which seemed somehow to have a +sinister aspect of its own, on the bed of live coals. They leaped +into a snarl of vicious flame. Henry and Sylvia stood hand in hand, +watching, until nothing but a feathery heap of ashes remained on +top of the coals. Then he replaced the lid and looked at +Sylvia.</p> +<p>“Have you got any reason to believe that any living person +besides you and I knows anything about this?” he asked.</p> +<p>Sylvia shook her head.</p> +<p>“Do you think Miss Farrel knew?”</p> +<p>Sylvia shook her head again.</p> +<p>“Do you think that lawyer out West, who takes care of her +money, knows?”</p> +<p>“No.” Sylvia spoke in a thin, strained voice. +“This must be what she is always afraid of +remembering,” she said.</p> +<p>“Pray God she never does remember,” Henry said. +“Poor little thing! Here she is carrying a load on her back, +and if she did but once turn her head far enough to get a glimpse +of it she would die of it. It's lucky we can't see the other side +of the moon, and I guess it's lucky we haven't got eyes in the +backs of our heads.”</p> +<p>“You wondered why I didn't want her to get married to +him,” said Sylvia.</p> +<p>Henry made an impatient motion. “Look here, Sylvia,” +he said. “I love that young man like my own son, and your +feeling about it is rank idiocy.”</p> +<p>“And I love her like my own daughter!” cried Sylvia, +passionately. “And I don't want to feel that she's marrying +and keeping anything back.”</p> +<p>“Now, look here, Sylvia, here are you and I. We've got +this secret betwixt us, and we've got to carry it betwixt us, and +never let any living mortal see it as long as we both live; and the +one that outlives the other has got to bear it alone, like a sacred +trust.”</p> +<p>Sylvia nodded. Henry put out the kitchen lamp, and the two left +the room, moving side by side, and it was to each of them as if +they were in reality carrying with their united strength the heavy, +dead weight of the secret.</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter XIX</h4> +<p>Henry, after the revelation which Sylvia had made to him, became +more puzzled than ever. He had thought that her secret anxiety +would be alleviated by the confidence she had made him, but it did +not seem to be. On the contrary, she went about with a more +troubled air than before. Even Horace and Rose, in the midst of +their love-dream, noticed it.</p> +<p>One day Henry, coming suddenly into the sitting-room, found Rose +on her knees beside Sylvia, weeping bitterly. Sylvia was looking +over the girl's head with a terrible, set expression, as if she +were looking at her own indomitable will. For the first time Henry +lost sight of the fact that Sylvia was a woman. He seemed to see +her as a separate human soul, sexless and free, intent upon her own +ends, which might be entirely distinct from his, and utterly +unknown to him.</p> +<p>Rose turned her tear-wet face towards him. “Oh, Uncle +Henry,” she sobbed, “Aunt Sylvia is worrying over +something, and she won't tell me.”</p> +<p>“Nonsense,” said Henry.</p> +<p>“Yes, she is. Horace and I both know she is. She won't +tell me what it is. She goes about all the time with such a +dreadful face, and she won't tell me. Oh, Aunt Sylvia, is it +because you don't want me to marry Horace?”</p> +<p>Sylvia spoke, hardly moving her thin lips. “I have nothing +whatever against your marriage,” she said. “I did think +at first that you were better off as you were, but now I don't feel +so.”</p> +<p>“But you act so.” Rose stumbled to her feet and ran +sobbing out of the room.</p> +<p>Henry turned to his wife, who sat like a statue. “Sylvia, +you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said, in a +bewildered tone. “Here you are taking all the pleasure out of +that poor child's little love-affair, going about as you +do.”</p> +<p>“There are other things besides love-affairs,” said +Sylvia, in a strange, monotonous tone, almost as if she were deaf +and dumb, and had no knowledge of inflections. “There are +affairs between the soul and its Maker that are more important than +love betwixt men and women.”</p> +<p>Sylvia did not look at Henry. She still gazed straight ahead, +with that expression of awful self-review. The thought crossed +Henry's mind that she was more like some terrible doll with a +mechanical speech than a living woman. He went up to her and took +her hands. They were lying stiffly on her lap, in the midst of soft +white cambric and lace—some bridal lingerie which she was +making for Rose. “Look here, Sylvia,” said Henry, +“you don't mean that you are fretting about—what you +told me?”</p> +<p>“No,” said Sylvia, in her strange voice.</p> +<p>“Then what—?”</p> +<p>Sylvia shook off his hands and rose to her feet. Her scissors +dropped with a thud. She kept the fluffy white mass over her arm. +Henry picked up the scissors. “Here are your scissors,” +said he.</p> +<p>Sylvia paid no attention. She was looking at him with stern, +angry eyes.</p> +<p>“What I have to bear I have to bear,” said she. +“It is nothing whatever to you. It is nothing whatever to any +of you. I want to be let alone. If you don't like to see my face, +don't look at it. None of you have any call to look at it. I am +doing what I think is right, and I want to be let alone.”</p> +<p>She went out of the room, leaving Henry standing with her +scissors in his hand.</p> +<p>After supper that night he could not bear to remain with Sylvia, +sewing steadily upon Rose's wedding finery, and still wearing that +terrible look on her face. Rose and Horace were in the parlor. +Henry went down to Sidney Meeks's for comfort.</p> +<p>“Something is on my wife's mind,” he told Sidney, +when the two men were alone in the pleasant, untidy room.</p> +<p>“Do you think she feels badly about the +love-affair?”</p> +<p>“She says that isn't it,” replied Henry, gloomily, +“but she goes about with a face like grim death, and I don't +know what to make of it.”</p> +<p>“She'll tell finally.”</p> +<p>“I don't know whether she will or not.”</p> +<p>“Women always do.”</p> +<p>“I don't know whether she will or not.”</p> +<p>“She will.”</p> +<p>Henry remained with Meeks until quite late. Sylvia sewed and +sewed by her sitting-room lamp. Her face never relaxed. She could +hear the hum of voices across the hall.</p> +<p>After awhile the door of the parlor was flung violently open, +and she heard Horace's rushing step upon the stair. Then Rose came +in, all pale and tearful.</p> +<p>“I have told him I couldn't marry him, Aunt Sylvia,” +she said.</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at her. “Why not?” she asked, +harshly.</p> +<p>“I can't marry him and have you feel so dreadfully about +it.”</p> +<p>“Who said I felt dreadfully about it?”</p> +<p>“Nobody said so; but you look so dreadfully.”</p> +<p>“I can't help my looks. They have nothing whatever to do +with your love-affairs.”</p> +<p>“You say that just to pacify me, I know,” said Rose, +pitifully.</p> +<p>“You don't know. Do you mean to say that you have +dismissed him?”</p> +<p>“Yes, and he is horribly angry with me,” moaned +Rose.</p> +<p>“I should think he would be. What right have you to +dismiss a man to please another woman, who is hardly any relation +to you? I should think he would be mad. What did he do?”</p> +<p>“He just slammed the door and ran.”</p> +<p>Sylvia laid her work on the table and started out of the room +with an angry stride.</p> +<p>“Where are you going?” asked Rose, feebly, but she +got no reply.</p> +<p>Soon Sylvia re-entered the room, and she had Horace by the arm. +He looked stern and bewildered. Sylvia gave him a push towards +Rose.</p> +<p>“Now look at here, both of you,” she said. +“Once for all, I have got nothing to say against your getting +married. I am worrying about something, and it is nobody's business +what it is. I am doing right. I am doing what I know is right, and +I ain't going to let myself be persuaded I ain't. I have done all I +could for Rose, and I am going to do more. I have nothing against +your getting married. Now I am going into the parlor to finish this +work. The lamp in there is better. You can settle it betwixt +you.”</p> +<p>Sylvia went out, a long line of fine lace trailing in her wake. +Horace stood still where she had left him. Rose looked at him +timidly.</p> +<p>“I didn't know she felt so,” she ventured, at last, +in a small voice.</p> +<p>Horace said nothing. Rose went to him, put her hand through his +arm, and laid her cheek against his unresponsive shoulder. “I +did think it would about kill her if it went on,” she +whispered. “I think I was mistaken.”</p> +<p>“And you didn't mind in the least how much I was hurt, as +long as she wasn't,” said Horace.</p> +<p>“Yes, I did.”</p> +<p>“I must say it did not have that appearance.”</p> +<p>Rose wept softly against his rough coat-sleeve. “I wanted +to do what was right, and she looked so dreadfully; and I didn't +want to be selfish,” she sobbed.</p> +<p>Horace looked down at her, and his face softened. “Oh +Rose,” he said, “you are all alike, you women. When it +comes to a question of right or wrong, you will all lay your +best-beloved on the altar of sacrifice. Your logic is all wrong, +dear. You want to do right so much that the dust of virtue gets +into your eyes of love and blinds them. I should come first with +you, before your aunt Sylvia, and your own truth and happiness +should come first; but you wanted to lay them all at her +feet—or, rather, at the feet of your conscience.”</p> +<p>“I only wanted to do what was right,” Rose sobbed +again.</p> +<p>“I know you did, dear.” Horace put his arm around +Rose. He drew her to a chair, sat down, and took her on his knee. +He looked at her almost comically, in return for her glance of +piteous appeal.</p> +<p>“Don't laugh at me,” she whispered.</p> +<p>Horace kissed her. “I am not laughing at you, but at the +eternal feminine, dear,” he said. “There is something +very funny about the eternal feminine. It is so earnest on the +wrong tack, and hurts itself and others so cruelly, and gets no +thanks for it.”</p> +<p>“I don't know what you mean. I don't like your talking so +to me, Horace. I only meant to do what was right.”</p> +<p>“I won't talk so any more, darling.”</p> +<p>“I don't think I have much of the eternal feminine about +me, Horace.”</p> +<p>“Of course not, sweetheart.”</p> +<p>“I love you, anyway,” Rose whispered, and put up her +face to be kissed again, “and I didn't want to hurt you. I +only wanted to do my duty.”</p> +<p>“Of course you did, sweetheart. But now you think your +duty is to marry me, don't you?”</p> +<p>Rose laughed, and there was something angelic and innocent about +that laugh of the young girl. Horace kissed her again, then both +started. “She is talking to herself in there,” +whispered Rose. “Horace, what do you suppose it is about? +Poor Aunt Sylvia must be worrying horribly about something. What do +you think it is?”</p> +<p>“I don't know, darling,” replied Horace, +soberly.</p> +<p>They both heard that lamentable murmur of a voice in the other +room, but the doors were closed and not a word could be +understood.</p> +<p>Sylvia was sewing rapidly, setting the most delicate and dainty +stitches, and all the time she was talking carrying on a horrible +argument, as if against some invisible dissenter.</p> +<p>“Ain't I doing everything I can?” demanded Sylvia. +“Ain't I, I'd like to know? Ain't I bought everything I could +for her? Ain't I making her wedding-clothes by hand, when my eyes +are hurting me all the time? Ain't I set myself aside and given her +up, when God knows I love her better than if she was my own child? +Ain't I doing everything? What call have I to blame myself? Only +to-day I've bought a lot of silver for her, and I'm going to buy a +lot more. After the underclothes are done I'm going about the table +linen, though she don't need it. I ain't using a mite of her aunt +Abrahama's. I'm saving it all for her. I'm saving everything for +her. I've made my will and left all her aunt's property to her. +What have I done? I'm doing right; I tell you I'm doing right. I +know I'm doing right. Anybody that says I ain't, lies. They lie, I +say. I'm doing right. I—”</p> +<p>Henry opened the door. He had just returned from Sidney Meeks's. +Sylvia was sewing quietly.</p> +<p>Henry looked around the room. “Why, who were you talking +to?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Nobody,” replied Sylvia, taking another stitch.</p> +<p>“I thought I heard you talking.”</p> +<p>“How could I be talking when there ain't anybody here to +talk to?”</p> +<h4 align="center">Chapter XX</h4> +<p>It was not quite a year afterwards that the wedding-day of Rose +and Horace was set. It was July, shortly after the beginning of the +summer vacation. The summer was very cool, and the country looked +like June rather than July. Even the roses were not gone.</p> +<p>The wedding was to be in the evening, and all day long women +worked decorating the house. Rose had insisted on being married in +the old White homestead. She was to have quite a large wedding, and +people from New York and Boston crowded the hotel. Miss Hart was +obliged to engage three extra maids. Hannah Simmons had married the +winter before. She had married a young man from Alford, where she +now lived, and came over to assist her former mistress. Lucinda had +a look of combined delight and anxiety. “It's almost as bad +as when they thought we'd committed murder,” she said to +Hannah.</p> +<p>“It was queer how we found that,” said Hannah.</p> +<p>“Hush,” said Lucinda. “You remember what we +agreed upon after we'd told Albion Bennet that we'd keep it +secret.”</p> +<p>“Of course I remember,” said Hannah; “but +there ain't any harm in my reminding you how queer it was that we +found the arsenic, that the poor thing had been taking to make her +beautiful complexion, in her room.”</p> +<p>“It was awful,” said Lucinda. “Poor soul! I +always liked her. People ought to be contented with what God has +given them for complexions.”</p> +<p>“I wonder if she would have looked very dreadful if she +hadn't taken it,” Hannah said, ruminatingly. She was passing +the kitchen looking-glass as she spoke, and glanced in it. Hannah +considered that her own skin was very rough. “I +suppose,” said she, “that it would never have happened +if she had been careful. I suppose lots of women do use such +things.”</p> +<p>Lucinda cast a sharp glance at Hannah. “It's downright +wicked fooling with them,” said she. “I hope you won't +get any such ideas into your head.”</p> +<p>“No, I sha'n't,” replied Hannah. “I'm +married.”</p> +<p>“I heard pretty straight this morning,” said +Lucinda, “that Lucy Ayres had got married out West, and had +done real well.”</p> +<p>“I'm mighty glad of it,” said Hannah, sharply. +“She was crazy enough to get married when she was +here.”</p> +<p>Lucinda echoed her as sharply. “Guess you're right,” +she said. “Albion Bennet told me some things. I shouldn't +think she'd make much of a wife, if she has got a pretty +face.”</p> +<p>“She's just the kind to settle down and be a real sensible +woman, after she's found out that she's on the earth and not in the +clouds,” returned Hannah, with an air of wisdom.</p> +<p>Then Albion Bennet came into the kitchen for some hot water for +shaving. He was going to the wedding, and had closed his store +early, and was about to devote a long time to preparations. +Lucinda, also, was going. She had a new black silk for the +occasion.</p> +<p>When Albion left the kitchen he beckoned her to follow him. She +made an excuse and went out into the corridor. “What is +it?” she said to Albion, who was waiting, holding his pitcher +of hot water.</p> +<p>“Nothing,” said he, “only I was over to Alford +this morning and—I bought some violets. I thought you'd like +to wear them to the wedding.”</p> +<p>Lucinda stared at him. “What for?” asked she.</p> +<p>Albion fidgeted and his pitcher of hot water tilted.</p> +<p>“Look out, you're spilling the water,” said Lucinda. +“What for?”</p> +<p>“I—thought you might like to wear them, you +know,” said Albion. He had never before given violets to a +woman, and she had never had any given her by a man.</p> +<p>“Thank you,” she said, faintly.</p> +<p>“I've ordered a hack to come for me at half-past seven, +and—I thought maybe you'd like to ride with me,” said +Albion, further.</p> +<p>Lucinda stared. “What for?” she said again.</p> +<p>“I thought you might like to ride.”</p> +<p>Then Lucinda colored. “Why, folks would talk,” said +she.</p> +<p>“Let them. I don't care; do you?”</p> +<p>“Albion Bennet, I'm a lot older than you. I ain't old +enough to be your mother, but I'm a good deal older than +you.”</p> +<p>“I don't care,” said Albion. “I know how old +you are. I don't care. I'd enough sight rather have you than those +young things that keep racing to my store. When I get you I shall +know what I've got, and when I've got them I shouldn't know. I'd +rather have heavy bread, or dry bread, and know it was bread, than +new-fangled things that ain't a mite more wholesome, and you don't +know what you've got. I don't know how you feel, Lucinda, but I +ain't one who could ever marry somebody he hadn't summered and +wintered. I've summered and wintered you, and you've summered and +wintered me. I don't know how much falling in love there is for +either of us, but I reckon we can get on together and have a good +home, and that's what love-making has to wind up in, if the +mainspring don't break and all the works bust. I'm making quite a +little lot from my store. I suppose maybe the soda and candy trade +will fall off a little if I get married, but if it does I can take +a young clerk to draw it. You won't have to work so hard. You can +let some of this big hotel, and keep rooms enough for us, and I'll +hire a girl for the kitchen and you can do fancy-work.”</p> +<p>“Land!” said Lucinda. “I can do the work for +only two.”</p> +<p>“You're going to have a hired girl,” said Albion, +firmly. “I know of one I can get. She's a real good cook. Are +you going in the hack with me, Lucinda?”</p> +<p>Lucinda looked up at him, and her face was as the face of a +young girl. She had never had an offer, nor a lover. Albion Bennet +looked very dear to her.</p> +<p>“Good land!” said Albion, “you act as if you +were a back number, Lucinda. You look as young as lots of the young +women. You don't do up your hair quite like the girls that come for +soda and candy, but otherwise—”</p> +<p>“I can do up my hair like them, if I want to,” said +Lucinda. “It's thick enough. I suppose I 'ain't fussed +because I didn't realize that anybody but myself ever thought about +it one way or the other.”</p> +<p>“Then you'll go in the hack?” said Albion.</p> +<p>Lucinda made a sudden, sharp wheel about. “I sha'n't get +ready to go in a hack if I don't hurry and get these biscuits made +for supper,” said she, and was gone.</p> +<p>It is odd how individuality will uprear itself before its own +consciousness, in the most adverse circumstances. Few in all the +company invited to the wedding wasted a thought upon Albion Bennet +and Lucinda Hart, but both felt as if they were the principal +figures of it all. Lucinda really did merit attention. She had +taken another rôle upon her stage of life. The change in her +appearance savored of magic. Albion kept looking at her as if he +doubted his very eyes. Lucinda did not wear the black silk which +she had made for the occasion. She had routed out an old lavender +satin, which she had worn years ago and had laid aside for mourning +when her father died. It was made in one of those quaint styles +which defy fashion. Lucinda had not changed as to her figure. She +hesitated a little at the V-shape of the neck. She wondered if she +really ought not to fill that in with lace, but she shook her head +defiantly, and fastened around her neck a black velvet ribbon with +a little pearl pin. Then she tucked Albion's violets in the +lavender satin folds of her waist. Her hair was still untouched +with gray, and she had spoken the truth when she had said she could +arrange it like a girl. She had puffed it low over her temples and +given it a daring twist in the back.</p> +<p>Albion fairly gasped when he saw her. “Lord!” said +he, “why ain't you been for candy and soda to the store, +too?”</p> +<p>Few people at the wedding noticed Lucinda and Albion, but they +noticed each other to that extent that all save themselves seemed +rather isolated from them. Albion whispered to Lucinda that she +would make a beautiful bride, and she looked up at him, and they +were in love.</p> +<p>They stood well back. Neither Lucinda nor Albion were pushing. +Lucinda considered that her wonderful city boarders belonged in the +front ranks, and Albion shared her opinion. It was a beautiful +wedding. The old house was transformed into a bower with flowers +and vines. Musicians played in the south room, which was like a +grove with palms. There was a room filled with the +wedding-presents, and the glitter of cut glass and silver seemed +almost like another musical effect.</p> +<p>The wedding was to be at eight o'clock. Everybody was there +before that time. Meeks and Henry stood together in the hall by the +spiral staircase, which was wound with flowers and vines. Henry +wore a dress-suit for the first time in his life. Meeks wore an +ancient one, in which he moved gingerly. “I believe I weigh +fifty pounds more than I did when the blamed thing was made,” +he said to Henry, “and the broadcloth is as thin as paper. +I'm afraid to move.”</p> +<p>Henry looked very sober. “What's the matter, Henry?” +asked Sidney.</p> +<p>“It's Sylvia.”</p> +<p>“Sylvia? I thought—”</p> +<p>“Yes, I thought, too, that she had got what was on her +mind off it, but she hasn't. I don't know what ails her. She ain't +herself. I'm worried to death about her.”</p> +<p>Then the wedding-march was played and the bridal party came down +the stairs. Rose was on the arm of the lawyer who had acted as her +trustee. He was to give her away. The task had been an impossible +one for Henry to undertake, although he had been the first one +thought of by Rose. Henry had told Meeks, and the two had chuckled +together over it. “The idea of a man from a shoe-shop giving +away a bride in real lace at a swell wedding,” said +Henry.</p> +<p>“She was the right sort to ask you, though,” said +Meeks.</p> +<p>“Bless her little heart,” said Henry, “she +wouldn't care if Uncle Henry smelled strong enough of leather to +choke out the smell of the flowers. But I ain't going to make a +spectacle of myself at my time of life. If I stand that dress-suit +I shall do well. Sylvia is going to wear black lace with a tail to +it. I know somebody will step on it.”</p> +<p>Sylvia, in her black lace, came down the stairs in the wake of +the bridal party. She did not seem to see her husband as she passed +him.</p> +<p>“By Jove!” said the lawyer, in a whisper. +“What does ail her, Henry? She looks as if she was going to +jump at something.”</p> +<p>Henry did not answer. He made his way as quickly as possible +after Sylvia, and Sidney kept with him.</p> +<p>Horace and Rose, in her bridal white, stood before the +clergyman. The music had ceased. The clergyman opened his mouth to +begin the wedding-service, when Sylvia interrupted him. She pushed +herself like a wedge of spiritual intent past the bridal pair and +the bridesmaids and best man, and stood beside the clergyman. He +was a small, blond man, naturally nervous, and he fairly trembled +when Sylvia put her hand on his arm and spoke.</p> +<p>“I have something to say,” said she, in a thin, +strained voice. “You wait.”</p> +<p>The clergyman looked aghast at her. People pressed forward, +craning their necks to hear more distinctly. Some tittered from +nervousness. Henry made his way to his wife's side, but she pushed +him from her.</p> +<p>“No,” she said. “Stand back, Henry, and listen +with the others. You had nothing to do with it. You ain't concerned +in it.”</p> +<p>Then she addressed the assembly. “This man, my +husband,” she said, “has known nothing of it. I want +you all to understand that before I begin.” Sylvia fumbled in +the folds of her black lace skirt, while the people waited. She +produced a roll of paper and held it up before them. Then she began +her speech.</p> +<p>“I want,” said she, “before all this company, +before my old friends, and the friends of these two young people +who are about to be married, to make my confession. I have not had +the courage before. I have courage now, and this is the fitting +time and place, since it metes out the fittest punishment and shame +to me, who deserve so much. You have assembled here to-night +thinking that you were to be at my house at this wedding. It is not +so. It is not my house. None of this property is mine. I have known +it was not mine since a little while after we came to live here. I +have known it all belonged to Rose Fletcher, Abrahama White's own +niece. After Rose came to live with us, I tried to put salve on my +conscience by doing every single thing I could for her. When my +husband went to work again, I spent every cent that came from her +aunt's property on Rose. I gave her all her aunt's jewelry. I tried +to salve over my conscience and make it seem right—what I had +done, what I was doing. I tried to make it seem right by telling +myself that Rose had enough property of her own and didn't need +this, but I couldn't do it. I have been in torment, holding wealth +that didn't belong to me, that has gnawed at my very heart all the +time. Now I am going to confess. Here is Abrahama White's last will +and testament. I found it in a box in the garret with some letters. +Abrahama wrote letters to her sister asking her to forgive her, and +telling her how sorry she was, and begging her to come home, but +she never sent one of them. There they all were. She had tried to +salve her conscience as I have tried to salve mine. She couldn't do +it, either. She had to give it up, as I am doing. Then she made her +will and left all her property to Rose.”</p> +<p>Sylvia unfolded the roll of paper and began reading. The will +was very short and concise. It was as follows:</p> +<p>“I, Abrahama White, being in sound mind and understanding, +and moved thereunto by a desire to make my peace with God for my +sins before I give up this mortal flesh, declare this to be my last +will and testament. I give and bequeath to my niece, Rose Fletcher, +the daughter of my beloved sister, deceased, my entire property, +real and personal, to her and her heirs forever. And I hereby +appoint Sidney Meeks, Esquire, as my executor.<br> + “(Signed) Abrahama White.”</p> +<p>Sylvia read the will in her thin, strained voice, very clearly. +Every word was audible. Then she spoke again. “I have kept it +secret all this time,” said she. “My husband knew +nothing of it. I kept it from him. I tried to hide from God and +myself what I was doing, but I could not. Here is the will, and +Miss Rose Fletcher, who stands before you, about to be united to +the man of her choice, is the owner of this house and land and all +the property which goes with it.”</p> +<p>She stopped. There was a tense silence. Then Sidney Meeks spoke. +“Mrs. Whitman,” he said, “may I trouble you for +the date of that document you hold, and also for the names of the +witnesses?”</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at Sidney in bewilderment, then she scrutinized +the will. “I don't see any date,” she said, at last, +“and there is no name signed except just +Abrahama's.”</p> +<p>Meeks stepped forward. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he +said, “Mrs. Whitman has, I am pleased to say, been under +quite unnecessary anxiety of spirit. The document which she holds +is not valid. It is neither dated nor signed. I have seen it +before. The deceased lady, Miss Abrahama White, called me in one +morning, shortly before her death, and showed me this document, +which she had herself drawn up, merely to make her wishes clear to +me. She instructed me to make out a will under those directions, +and I was to bring it to her for her signature, and produce the +proper witnesses. Then, the next day, she called me in to inform me +that there had been a change in her plans since she had heard of +her niece's having a fortune, and gave me directions for the later +will, which was properly made out, signed, witnessed, and probated +after Miss White's decease. Mrs. Whitman is the rightful heir; but +since she has labored under the delusion that she was not, I am +sure we all appreciate her courage and sense of duty in making the +statement which you have just heard from her lips.”</p> +<p>Sylvia looked at the lawyer, and her face was ghastly. “Do +you mean to say that I have been thinking I was committing theft, +when I wasn't, all this time?” said she.</p> +<p>“I certainly do.”</p> +<p>Henry went to Sylvia and took hold of her arm, but she did not +seem to heed him. “I was just as guilty,” said she, +firmly, “for I had the knowledge of sin in my heart and I +held it there. I was just as guilty.”</p> +<p>She stared helplessly at the worthless will which she still +held. A young girl tittered softly. Sylvia turned towards the +sound. “There is no occasion to laugh,” said she, +“at one who thought she was sinning, and has had the taste of +sin in her soul, even though she was not doing wrong. The intention +was there.”</p> +<p>Sylvia stopped. Rose had both arms around her, and was kissing +her and whispering. Sylvia pushed her gently away. +“Now,” she said to the minister, “you can go on +with your marrying. Even if Mr. Meeks had told me before what he +has just told me here in your presence, I should have had to speak +out. I've carried it on my shoulders and in my heart just as long +as I could and live and walk and speak under it, let alone saying +my prayers. I don't say I haven't got to carry it now, for I have, +as long as I live; but telling you all about it was the only way I +could shift a little of the heft of it. Now I feel as if the Lord +Almighty was helping me carry the burden, and always would. That's +all I've got to say. Now you can go on with your +marrying.”</p> +<p>Sylvia stepped back. There was a hush, then a solemn murmur of +one voice, broken at intervals by other hushes and low +responses.</p> +<p>When it was over, and the bridal pair stood in the soft shadow +of their bridal flowers—Rose's white garment being covered +with a lace-like tracery of vines and bride roses, and her head +with its chaplet of orange-blossoms shining out clearly with a +white radiance from the purple mist of leaves and flowers, which +were real, yet unreal, and might have been likened to her maiden +dreams—Henry and Sylvia came first to greet them.</p> +<p>Henry's dress-suit fitted well, but his shoulders, bent with his +life-work over the cutting-table, already moulded it. No tailor on +earth could overcome the terrible, triumphant rigidity of that back +fitted for years to its burden of toil. However, the man's face was +happy with a noble happiness. He simply shook hands, with awkward +solemnity, with the two, but in his heart was great, unselfish +exultation.</p> +<p>“This man,” he was saying to himself, “has +work to do that won't grind him down and double him up, soul and +body, like a dumb animal. He can take care of his wife, and not let +her get bent, either, and the Lord knows I'm thankful.”</p> +<p>He felt Sylvia's little nervous hand on his arm, and a great +tenderness for her was over him. He had not a thought of blame or +shame on her account.</p> +<p>Instead, he looked at Rose, blooming under her bridal flowers, +not so much smiling as beaming with a soft, remote radiance, like a +star, and he said to himself: “Thank the Lord that she will +never get so warped and twisted as to what is right and wrong by +the need of money to keep soul and body together, that she will +have to do what my wife has done, and bear such a burden on her +pretty shoulders.”</p> +<p>It seemed to Henry that never, not even in his first wedded +rapture, had he loved his wife as he loved her that night. He +glanced at her, and she looked wonderful to him; in fact, there was +in Sylvia's face that night an element of wonder. In it spirit was +manifest, far above and crowning the flesh and its sordid needs. +Her shoulders, under the fine lace gown, were bent; her very heart +was bent; but she saw the goal where she could lay her burden +down.</p> +<p>The music began again. People thronged around the bride and +groom. There were soft sounds of pleasant words, gentle laughs, and +happy rejoinders. Everybody smiled. They witnessed happiness with +perfect sympathy. It cast upon them rosy reflections. And yet every +one bore, unseen or seen, the burden of his or her world upon +straining shoulders. The grand, pathetic tragedy inseparable from +life, which Atlas symbolized, moved multiple at the marriage feast, +and yet love would in the end sanctify it for them all.</p> +<p align="center">THE END</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Shoulders of Atlas, by Mary E. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Shoulders of Atlas + A Novel + +Author: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + +Release Date: January 21, 2006 [EBook #17566] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHOULDERS OF ATLAS *** + + + + +Produced by Jeff Kaylin and Andrew Sly + + + + + + +The Shoulders of Atlas + +A Novel + +By +Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + +Author of +"By the Light of the Soul" "The Debtor" +"Jerome" "A New England Nun" etc. + +New York and London +Harper & Brothers Publishers +MCMVIII + +Copyright, 1908, by the New York Herald Co. +All rights reserved. +Published June, 1908. + + + +Chapter I + + +Henry Whitman was walking home from the shop in the April afternoon. +The spring was very early that year. The meadows were quite green, +and in the damp hollows the green assumed a violet tinge--sometimes +from violets themselves, sometimes from the shadows. The trees +already showed shadows as of a multitude of bird wings; the +peach-trees stood aloof in rosy nimbuses, and the cherry-trees were +faintly a-flutter with white through an intense gloss of gold-green. + +Henry realized all the glory of it, but it filled him with a renewal +of the sad and bitter resentment, which was his usual mood, instead +of joy. He was past middle-age. He worked in a shoe-shop. He had +worked in a shoe-shop since he was a young man. There was nothing +else in store for him until he was turned out because of old age. +Then the future looked like a lurid sunset of misery. He earned +reasonably good wages for a man of his years, but prices were so high +that he was not able to save a cent. There had been unusual expenses +during the past ten years, too. His wife Sylvia had not been well, +and once he himself had been laid up six weeks with rheumatism. The +doctor charged two dollars for every visit, and the bill was not +quite settled yet. + +Then the little house which had come to him from his father, +encumbered with a mortgage as is usual, had all at once seemed to +need repairs at every point. The roof had leaked like a sieve, two +windows had been blown in, the paint had turned a gray-black, the +gutters had been out of order. He had not quite settled the bill for +these repairs. He realized it always as an actual physical incubus +upon his slender, bowed shoulders. He came of a race who were +impatient of debt, and who regarded with proud disdain all gratuitous +benefits from their fellow-men. Henry always walked a long route from +the shop in order to avoid passing the houses of the doctor and the +carpenter whom he owed. + +Once he had saved a little money; that was twenty-odd years before; +but he had invested it foolishly, and lost every cent. That +transaction he regarded with hatred, both of himself and of the +people who had advised him to risk and lose his hard-earned dollars. +The small sum which he had lost had come to assume colossal +proportions in his mind. He used, in his bitterest moments, to reckon +up on a scrap of paper what it might have amounted to, if it had been +put out at interest, by this time. He always came out a rich man, by +his calculations, if it had not been for that unwise investment. He +often told his wife Sylvia that they might have been rich people if +it had not been for that; that he would not have been tied to a +shoe-shop, nor she have been obliged to work so hard. + +Sylvia took a boarder--the high-school principal, Horace Allen--and +she also made jellies and cakes, and baked bread for those in East +Westland who could afford to pay for such instead of doing the work +themselves. She was a delicate woman, and Henry knew that she worked +beyond her strength, and the knowledge filled him with impotent fury. +Since the union had come into play he did not have to work so many +hours in the shop, and he got the same pay, but he worked as hard, +because he himself cultivated his bit of land. He raised vegetables +for the table. He also made the place gay with flowers to please +Sylvia and himself. He had a stunted thirst for beauty. + +In the winter he found plenty to do in the extra hours. He sawed wood +in his shed by the light of a lantern hung on a peg. He also did what +odd jobs he could for neighbors. He picked up a little extra money in +that way, but he worked very hard. Sometimes he told Sylvia that he +didn't know but he worked harder than he had done when the shop time +was longer. However, he had been one of the first to go, heart and +soul, with the union, and he had paid his dues ungrudgingly, even +with a fierce satisfaction, as if in some way the transaction made +him even with his millionaire employers. There were two of them, and +they owned houses which appeared like palaces in the eyes of Henry +and his kind. They owned automobiles, and Henry was aware of a +cursing sentiment when one whirred past him, trudging along, and +covered him with dust. + +Sometimes it seemed to Henry as if an automobile was the last straw +for the poor man's back: those enormous cars, representing fortunes, +tyrannizing over the whole highway, frightening the poor old country +horses, and endangering the lives of all before them. Henry read with +delight every account of an automobile accident. "Served them right; +served them just right," he would say, with fairly a smack of his +lips. + +Sylvia, who had caught a little of his rebellion, but was gentler, +would regard him with horror. "Why, Henry Whitman, that is a dreadful +wicked spirit!" she would say, and he would retort stubbornly that he +didn't care; that he had to pay a road tax for these people who would +just as soon run him down as not, if it wouldn't tip their old +machines over; for these maniacs who had gone speed-mad, and were +appropriating even the highways of the common people. + +Henry had missed the high-school principal, who was away on his +spring vacation. He liked to talk with him, because he always had a +feeling that he had the best of the argument. Horace would take the +other side for a while, then leave the field, and light another +cigar, and let Henry have the last word, which, although it had a +bitter taste in his mouth, filled him with the satisfaction of +triumph. He loved Horace like a son, although he realized that the +young man properly belonged to the class which he hated, and that, +too, although he was manifestly poor and obliged to work for his +living. Henry was, in his heart of hearts, convinced that Horace +Allen, had he been rich, would have owned automobiles and spent hours +in the profitless work-play of the golf links. As it was, he played a +little after school-hours. How Henry hated golf! "I wish they had to +work," he would say, savagely, to Horace. + +Horace would laugh, and say that he did work. "I know you do," Henry +would say, grudgingly, "and I suppose maybe a little exercise is good +for you; but those fellers from Alford who come over here don't have +to work, and as for Guy Lawson, the boss's son, he's a fool! He +couldn't earn his bread and butter to save his life, except on the +road digging like a common laborer. Playing golf! Playing! H'm!" Then +was the time for Horace's fresh cigar. + +When Henry came in sight of the cottage where he lived he thought +with regret that Horace was not there. Being in a more pessimistic +mood than usual, he wished ardently for somebody to whom he could +pour out his heart. Sylvia was no satisfaction at such a time. If she +echoed him for a while, when she was more than usually worn with her +own work, she finally became alarmed, and took refuge in Scripture +quotations, and Henry was convinced that she offered up prayer for +him afterward, and that enraged him. + +He struck into the narrow foot-path leading to the side door, the +foot-path which his unwilling and weary feet had helped to trace more +definitely for nearly forty years. The house was a small cottage of +the humblest New England type. It had a little cobbler's-shop, or +what had formerly been a cobbler's-shop, for an ell. Besides that, +there were three rooms on the ground-floor--the kitchen, the +sitting-room, and a little bedroom which Henry and Sylvia occupied. +Sylvia had cooking-stoves in both the old shop and the kitchen. The +kitchen stove was kept well polished, and seldom used for cooking, +except in cold weather. In warm weather the old shop served as +kitchen, and Sylvia, in deference to the high-school teacher, used to +set the table in the house. + +When Henry neared the house he smelled cooking in the shop. He also +had a glimpse of a snowy table-cloth in the kitchen. He wondered, +with a throb of joy, if possibly Horace might have returned before +his vacation was over and Sylvia were setting the table in the other +room in his honor. He opened the door which led directly into the +shop. Sylvia, a pathetic, slim, elderly figure in rusty black, was +bending over the stove, frying flapjacks. "Has he come home?" +whispered Henry. + +"No, it's Mr. Meeks. I asked him to stay to supper. I told him I +would make some flapjacks, and he acted tickled to death. He doesn't +get a decent thing to eat once in a dog's age. Hurry and get washed. +The flapjacks are about done, and I don't want them to get cold." + +Henry's face, which had fallen a little when he learned that Horace +had not returned, still looked brighter than before. While Sidney +Meeks never let him have the last word, yet he was much better than +Sylvia as a safety-valve for pessimism. Meeks was as pessimistic in +his way as Henry, although he handled his pessimism, as he did +everything else, with diplomacy, and the other man had a secret +conviction that when he seemed to be on the opposite side yet he was +in reality pulling with the lawyer. + +Sidney Meeks was older than Henry, and as unsuccessful as a country +lawyer can well be. He lived by himself; he had never married; and +the world, although he smiled at it facetiously, was not a pleasant +place in his eyes. + +Henry, after he had washed himself at the sink in the shop, entered +the kitchen, where the table was set, and passed through to the +sitting-room, where the lawyer was. Sidney Meeks did not rise. He +extended one large, white hand affably. "How are you Henry?" said he, +giving the other man's lean, brown fingers a hard shake. "I dropped +in here on my way home from the post-office, and your wife tempted me +with flapjacks in a lordly dish, and I am about to eat." + +"Glad to see you," returned Henry. + +"You get home early, or it seems early, now the days are getting so +long," said Meeks, as Henry sat down opposite. + +"Yes, it's early enough, but I don't get any more pay." + +Meeks laughed. "Henry, you are the direct outcome of your day and +generation," said he. "Less time, and more pay for less time, is our +slogan." + +"Well, why not?" returned Henry, surlily, still with a dawn of +delighted opposition in his thin, intelligent face. "Why not? Look at +the money that's spent all around us on other things that correspond. +What's an automobile but less time and more money, eh?" + +Meeks laughed. "Give it up until after supper, Henry," he said, as +Sylvia's thin, sweet voice was heard from the next room. + +"If you men don't stop talking and come right out, these flapjacks +will be spoiled!" she cried. The men arose and obeyed her call. +"There are compensations for everything," said Meeks, laughing, as he +settled down heavily into his chair. He was a large man. "Flapjacks +are compensations. Let us eat our compensations and be thankful. +That's my way of saying grace. You ought always to say grace, Henry, +when you have such a good cook as your wife is to get meals for you. +If you had to shift for yourself, the way I do, you'd feel that it +was a simple act of decency." + +"I don't see much to say grace for," said Henry, with a disagreeable +sneer. + +"Oh, Henry!" said Sylvia. + +"For compensations in the form of flapjacks, with plenty of butter +and sugar and nutmeg," said Meeks. "These are fine, Mrs. Whitman." + +"A good thick beefsteak at twenty-eight cents a pound, regulated by +the beef trust, would be more to my liking after a hard day's work," +said Henry. + +Sylvia exclaimed again, but she was not in reality disturbed. She was +quite well aware that her husband was enjoying himself after his own +peculiar fashion, and that, if he spoke the truth, the flapjacks were +more to his New England taste for supper than thick beefsteak. + +"Well, wait until after supper, and maybe you will change your mind +about having something to say grace for," Meeks said, mysteriously. + +The husband and wife stared at him. "What do you mean, Mr. Meeks?" +asked Sylvia, a little nervously. Something in the lawyer's manner +agitated her. She was not accustomed to mysteries. Life had not held +many for her, especially of late years. + +Henry took another mouthful of flapjacks. "Well, if you can give me +any good reason for saying grace you will do more than the parson +ever has," he said. + +"Oh, Henry!" said Sylvia. + +"It's the truth," said Henry. "I've gone to meeting and heard how +thankful I ought to be for things I haven't got, and things I have +got that other folks haven't, and for forgiveness for breaking +commandments, when, so far as I can tell, commandments are about the +only things I've been able to keep without taxes--till I'm tired of +it." + +"Wait till after supper," repeated the lawyer again, with smiling +mystery. He had a large, smooth face, with gray hair on the sides of +his head and none on top. He had good, placid features, and an easy +expression. He ate two platefuls of the flapjacks, then two pieces of +cake, and a large slice of custard pie! He was very fond of sweets. + +After supper was over Henry and Meeks returned to the sitting-room, +and sat down beside the two front windows. It was a small, square +room furnished with Sylvia's chief household treasures. There was a +hair-cloth sofa, which she and Henry had always regarded as an +extravagance and had always viewed with awe. There were two rockers, +besides one easy-chair, covered with old-gold plush--also an +extravagance. There was a really beautiful old mahogany table with +carved base, of which neither Henry nor Sylvia thought much. Sylvia +meditated selling enough Calkin's soap to buy a new one, and stow +that away in Mr. Allen's room. Mr. Allen professed great admiration +for it, to her wonderment. There was also a fine, old, gold-framed +mirror, and some china vases on the mantel-shelf. Sylvia was rather +ashamed of them. Mrs. Jim Jones had a mirror which she had earned by +selling Calkin's soap, which Sylvia considered much handsomer. She +would have had ambitions in that direction also, but Henry was firm +in his resolve not to have the mirror displaced, nor the vases, +although Sylvia descanted upon the superior merits of some vases with +gilded pedestals which Mrs. Sam Elliot had in her parlor. + +Meeks regarded the superb old table with appreciation as he sat in +the sitting-room after supper. "Fine old piece," he said. + +Henry looked at it doubtfully. It had been in a woodshed of his +grandfather's house, when he was a boy, and he was not as confident +about that as he was about the mirror and vases, which had always +maintained their parlor estate. + +"Sylvia don't think much of it," he said. "She's crazy to have one of +carved oak like one Mrs. Jim Jones has." + +"Carved oak fiddlestick!" said Sidney Meeks. "It's a queer thing that +so much virtue and real fineness of character can exist in a woman +without the slightest trace of taste for art." + +Henry looked resentful. "Sylvia has taste, as much taste as most +women," he said. "She simply doesn't like to see the same old things +around all the time, and I don't know as I blame her. The world has +grown since that table was made, there's no doubt about that. It +stands to reason furniture has improved, too." + +"Glad there's something you see in a bright light, Henry." + +"I must say that I like this new mission furniture, myself, pretty +well," said Henry, somewhat importantly. + +"That's as old as the everlasting hills; but the old that's new is +the newest thing in all creation," said Meeks. "Sylvia is a foolish +woman if she parts with this magnificent old piece for any +reproduction made in job lots." + +"Oh, she isn't going to part with it. Mr. Allen will like it in his +room. He thinks as much of it as you do." + +"He's right, too," said Meeks. "There's carving for you; there's a +fine grain of wood." + +"It's very hard to keep clean," said Sylvia, as she came in rubbing +her moist hands. "Now, that new Flemish oak is nothing at all to take +care of, Mrs. Jones says." + +"This is worth taking care of," said Meeks. "Now, Sylvia, sit down. I +have something to tell you and Henry." + +Sylvia sat down. Something in the lawyer's manner aroused hers and +her husband's keenest attention. They looked at him and waited. Both +were slightly pale. Sylvia was a delicate little woman, and Henry was +large-framed and tall, but a similar experience had worn similar +lines in both faces. They looked singularly alike. + +Sidney Meeks had the dramatic instinct. He waited for the silence to +gather to its utmost intensity before he spoke. "I had something to +tell you when I came in," he said, "but I thought I had better wait +till after supper." + +He paused. There was another silence. Henry's and Sylvia's eyes +seemed to wax luminous. + +Sidney Meeks spoke again. He was enjoying himself immensely. "What +relation is Abrahama White to you?" he said. + +"She is second cousin to Sylvia. Her mother was Sylvia's mother's +cousin," said Henry. "What of it?" + +"Nothing, except--" Meeks waited again. He wished to make a coup. He +had an instinct for climaxes. "Abrahama had a shock this morning," he +said, suddenly. + +"A shock?" said Henry. + +Sylvia echoed him. "A shock!" she gasped. + +"Yes, I thought you hadn't heard of it." + +"I've been in the house all day," said Sylvia. "I hadn't seen a soul +before you came in." She rose. "Who's taking care of her?" she asked. +"She ain't all alone?" + +"Sit down," said Sidney. "She's well cared for. Miss Babcock is +there. She happened to be out of a place, and Dr. Wallace got her +right away." + +"Is she going to get over it?" asked Sylvia, anxiously. "I must go +over there, anyway, this evening. I always thought a good deal of +Abrahama." + +"You might as well go over there," said the lawyer. "It isn't quite +the thing for me to tell you, but I'm going to. If Henry here can eat +flapjacks like those you make, Sylvia, and not say grace, his state +of mind is dangerous. I am going to tell you. Dr. Wallace says +Abrahama can't live more than a day or two, and--she has made a will +and left you all her property." + + + +Chapter II + + +There was another silence. The husband and wife were pale, with +mouths agape like fishes. So little prosperity had come into their +lives that they were rendered almost idiotic by its approach. + +"Us?" said Sylvia, at length, with a gasp. + +"Us?" said Henry. + +"Yes, you," said Sidney Meeks. + +"What about Rose Fletcher, Abrahama's sister Susy's daughter?" asked +Sylvia, presently. "She is her own niece." + +"You know Abrahama never had anything to do with Susy after she +married John Fletcher," replied the lawyer. "She made her will soon +afterward, and cut her off." + +"I remember what they said at the time," returned Sylvia. "They all +thought John Fletcher was going to marry Abrahama instead of Susy. +She was enough sight more suitable age for him. He was too old for +Susy, and Abrahama, even if she wasn't young, was a beautiful woman, +and smarter than Susy ever thought of being." + +"Susy had the kind of smartness that catches men," said the lawyer, +with a slight laugh. + +"I always wondered if John Fletcher hadn't really done a good deal to +make Abrahama think he did want her," said Sylvia. "He was just that +kind of man. I never did think much of him. He was handsome and glib, +but he was all surface. I guess poor Abrahama had some reason to cut +off Susy. I guess there was some double-dealing. I thought so at the +time, and now this will makes me think so even more." + +Again there was a silence, and again that expression of bewilderment, +almost amounting to idiocy, reigned in the faces of the husband and +wife. + +"I never thought old Abraham White should have made the will he did," +said Henry, articulating with difficulty. "Susy had just as much +right to the property, and there she was cut off with five hundred +dollars, to be paid when she came of age." + +"I guess she spent that five hundred on her wedding fix," said Sylvia. + +"It was a queer will," stammered Henry. + +"I think the old man always looked at Abrahama as his son and heir," +said the lawyer. "She was named for him, and his father before him, +you know. I always thought the poor old girl deserved the lion's +share for being saddled with such a name, anyhow." + +"It was a dreadful name, and she was such a beautiful girl and +woman," said Sylvia. She already spoke of Abrahama in the past tense. +"I wonder where the niece is," she added. + +"The last I heard of her she was living with some rich people in New +York," replied Meeks. "I think they took her in some capacity after +her father and mother died." + +"I hope she didn't go out to work as hired girl," said Sylvia. "It +would have been awful for a granddaughter of Abraham White's to do +that. I wonder if Abrahama never wrote to her, nor did anything for +her." + +"I don't think she ever had the slightest communication with Susy +after she married, or her husband, or the daughter," replied Meeks. +"In fact, I practically know she did not." + +"If the poor girl didn't do well, Abrahama had a good deal to answer +for," said Sylvia, thoughtfully. She looked worried. Then again that +expression of almost idiotic joy overspread her face. "That old White +homestead is beautiful--the best house in town," she said. + +"There's fifty acres of land with it, too," said Meeks. + +Sylvia and Henry looked at each other. Both hesitated. Then Henry +spoke, stammeringly: + +"I--never knew--just how much of an income Abrahama had," he said. + +"Well," replied the lawyer, "I must say not much--not as much as I +wish, for your sakes. You see, old Abraham had a lot of that railroad +stock that went to smash ten years ago, and Abrahama lost a good +deal. She was a smart woman; she could work and save; but she didn't +know any more about business than other women. There's an income of +about--well, about six hundred dollars and some odd cents after the +taxes and insurance are paid. And she has enough extra in the Alford +Bank to pay for her last expenses without touching the principal. And +the house is in good repair. She has kept it up well. There won't be +any need to spend a cent on repairs for some years." + +"Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are paid!" said +Sylvia. She gaped horribly. Her expression of delight was at once +mean and infantile. + +"Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are paid, and all +that land, and that great house!" repeated Henry, with precisely the +same expression. + +"Not much, but enough to keep things going if you're careful," said +Meeks. He spoke deprecatingly, but in reality the sum seemed large to +him also. "You know there's an income besides from that fine +grass-land," said he. "There's more than enough hay for a cow and +horse, if you keep one. You can count on something besides in good +hay-years." + +Henry looked reflective. Then his face seemed to expand with an +enormous idea. "I wonder--" he began. + +"You wonder what?" asked Sylvia. + +"I wonder--if it wouldn't be cheaper in the end to keep +an--automobile and sell all the hay." + +Sylvia gasped, and Meeks burst into a roar of laughter. + +"I rather guess you don't get me into one of those things, butting +into stone walls, and running over children, and scaring horses, with +you underneath most of the time, either getting blown up with +gasolene or covering your clothes with mud and grease for me to clean +off," said Sylvia. + +"I thought automobiles were against your principles," said Meeks, +still chuckling. + +"So they be, the way other folks run 'em," said Henry; "but not the +way I'd run 'em." + +"We'll have a good, steady horse that won't shy at one, if we have +anything," said Sylvia, and her voice had weight. + +"There's a good buggy in Abrahama's barn," said Meeks. + +Sylvia made an unexpected start. "I think we are wicked as we can +be!" she declared, violently. "Here we are talking about that poor +woman's things before she's done with them. I'm going right over +there to see if I can't be of some use." + +"Sit down, Sylvia," said Henry, soothingly, but he, too, looked both +angry and ashamed. + +"You had better keep still where you are to-night," said Meeks. "Miss +Babcock is doing all that anybody can. There isn't much to be done, +Dr. Wallace says. To-morrow you can go over there and sit with her, +and let Miss Babcock take a nap." Meeks rose as he spoke. "I must be +going," he said. "I needn't charge you again not to let anybody know +what I've told you before the will is read. It is irregular, but I +thought I'd cheer up Henry here a bit." + +"No, we won't speak of it," declared the husband and wife, almost in +unison. + +After Meeks had gone they looked at each other. Both looked +disagreeable to the other. Both felt an unworthy suspicion of the +other. + +"I hope she will get well," Sylvia said, defiantly. "Maybe she will. +This is her first shock." + +"God knows I hope she will," returned Henry, with equal defiance. + +Each of the two was perfectly good and ungrasping, but each accused +themselves and each other unjustly because of the possibilities of +wrong feeling which they realized. Sylvia did not understand how, in +the face of such prosperity, she could wish Abrahama to get well, and +she did not understand how her husband could, and Henry's mental +attitude was the same. + +Sylvia sat down and took some mending. Henry seated himself opposite, +and stared at her with gloomy eyes, which yet held latent sparks of +joy. "I wish Meeks hadn't told us," he said, angrily. + +"So do I," said Sylvia. "I keep telling myself I don't want that poor +old woman to die, and I keep telling myself that you don't; but I'm +dreadful suspicious of us both. It means so much." + +"Just the way I feel," said Henry. "I wish he'd kept his news to +himself. It wasn't legal, anyhow." + +"You don't suppose it will make the will not stand!" cried Sylvia, +with involuntary eagerness. Then she quailed before her husband's +stern gaze. "Of course I know it won't make any difference," she +said, feebly, and drew her darning-needle through the sock she was +mending. + +Henry took up a copy of the East Westland Gazette. The first thing he +saw was the list of deaths, and he seemed to see, quite plainly, +Abrahama White's among them, although she was still quick, and he +loathed himself. He turned the paper with a rattling jerk to an +account of a crime in New York, and the difficulty the police had +experienced in taking the guilty man in safety to the police station. +He read the account aloud. + +"Seems to me the principal thing the New York police protect is the +criminals," he said, bitterly. "If they would turn a little of their +attention to protecting the helpless women and children, seems to me +it would be more to the purpose. They're awful careful of the +criminals." + +Sylvia did not hear. She assented absently. She thought, in spite of +herself, of the good-fortune which was to befall them. She imagined +herself mistress of the old White homestead. They would, of course, +rent their own little cottage and go to live in the big house. She +imagined herself looking through the treasures which Abrahama would +leave behind her--then a monstrous loathing of herself seized her. +She resolved that the very next morning she would go over and help +Miss Babcock, that she would put all consideration of material +benefits from her mind. She brought her thoughts with an effort to +the article which Henry had just read. She could recall his last +words. + +"Yes, I think you are right," said she. "I think criminals ought not +to be protected. You are right, Henry. I think myself we ought to +have a doctor called from Alford to-morrow, if she is no better, and +have a consultation. Dr. Wallace is good, but he is only one, and +sometimes another doctor has different ideas, and she may get help." + +"Yes, I think there ought to be a consultation," said Henry. "I will +see about it to-morrow. I will go over there with you myself +to-morrow morning. I think the police ought not to protect the +criminals, but the people who are injured by them." + +"Then there would be no criminals. They would have no chance," said +Sylvia, sagely. "Yes, I agree with you, Henry, there ought to be a +consultation." + +She looked at Henry and he at her, and each saw in the other's face +that same ignoble joy, and that same resentment and denial of it. + +Neither slept that night. They were up early the next morning. Sylvia +was getting breakfast and Henry was splitting wood out in the yard. +Presently he came stumbling in. "Come out here," he said. Sylvia +followed him to the door. They stepped out in the dewy yard and stood +listening. Beneath their feet was soft, green grass strewn with tiny +spheres which reflected rainbows. Over their heads was a wonderful +sky of the clearest angelic blue. This sky seemed to sing with +bell-notes. + +"The bell is tolling," whispered Henry. They counted from that +instant. When the bell stopped they looked at each other. + +"That's her age," said Sylvia. + +"Yes," said Henry. + + + +Chapter III + + +The weather was wonderful on Abrahama White's funeral day. The air +had at once the keen zest of winter and the languor of summer. One +moment one perceived warm breaths of softly undulating pines, the +next it was as if the wind blew over snow. The air at once stimulated +and soothed. One breathing it realized youth and an endless vista of +dreams ahead, and also the peace of age, and of work well done and +deserving the reward of rest. There was something in this air which +gave the inhaler the certainty of victory, the courage of battle and +of unassailable youth. Even old people, pausing to notice the +streamer of crape on Abrahama White's door, felt triumphant and +undaunted. It did not seem conceivable, upon such a day, that that +streamer would soon flaunt for them. + +The streamer was rusty. It had served for many such occasions, and +suns and rains had damaged it. People said that Martin Barnes, the +undertaker, ought to buy some new crape. Martin was a very old man +himself, but he had no imagination for his own funeral. It seemed to +him grotesque and impossible that an undertaker should ever be in +need of his own ministrations. His solemn wagon stood before the door +of the great colonial house, and he and his son-in-law and his +daughter, who were his assistants, were engaged at their solemn tasks +within. + +The daughter, Flora Barnes, was arraying the dead woman in her last +robe of state, while her father and brother-in-law waited in the +south room across the wide hall. When her task was performed she +entered the south room with a gentle pride evident in her thin, +florid face. + +"She makes a beautiful corpse," she said, in a hissing whisper. + +Henry Whitman and his wife were in the room, with Martin Barnes and +Simeon Capen, his son-in-law. Barnes and Capen rose at once with +pleased interest, Henry and Sylvia more slowly; yet they also had +expressions of pleasure, albeit restrained. Both strove to draw their +faces down, yet that expression of pleasure reigned triumphant, +overcoming the play of the facial muscles. They glanced at each +other, and each saw an angry shame in the other's eyes because of +this joy. + +But when they followed Martin Barnes and his assistants into the +parlor, where Abrahama White was laid in state, all the shameful joy +passed from their faces. The old woman in her last bed was majestic. +The dead face was grand, compelling to other than earthly +considerations. Henry and Sylvia forgot the dead woman's little store +which she had left behind her. Sylvia leaned over her and wept; +Henry's face worked. Nobody except himself had ever known it, but he, +although much younger, had had his dreams about the beautiful +Abrahama White. He remembered them as he looked at her, old and dead +and majestic, with something like the light of her lost beauty in her +still face. It was like a rose which has fallen in such a windless +atmosphere that its petals retain the places which they have held +around its heart. + +Henry loved his wife, but this before him was associated with +something beyond love, which tended to increase rather than diminish +it. When at last they left the room he did what was very unusual with +him. He was reticent, like the ordinary middle-aged New-Englander. He +took his wife's little, thin, veinous hand and clasped it tenderly. +Her bony fingers clung gratefully to his. + +When they were all out in the south room Flora Barnes spoke again. "I +have never seen a more beautiful corpse," said she, in exactly the +same voice which she had used before. She began taking off her large, +white apron. Something peculiar in her motion arrested Sylvia's +attention. She made a wiry spring at her. + +"Let me see that apron," said she, in a voice which corresponded with +her action. + +Flora recoiled. She turned pale, then she flushed. "What for?" + +"Because I want to." + +"It's just my apron. I--" + +But Sylvia had the apron. Out of its folds dropped a thin roll of +black silk. Flora stood before Sylvia. Beads of sweat showed on her +flat forehead. She twitched like one about to have convulsions. She +was very tall, but Sylvia seemed to fairly loom over her. She held +the black silk out stiffly, like a bayonet. + +"What is this?" she demanded, in her tense voice. + +Flora twitched. + +"What is it? I want to know." + +"The back breadth," replied Flora in a small, scared voice, like the +squeak of a mouse. + +"Whose back breadth?" + +"Her back breadth." + +"_Her_ back breadth?" + +"Yes." + +"Robbing the dead!" said Sylvia, pitilessly. Her tense voice was +terrible. + +Flora tried to make a stand. "She hadn't any use for it," she +squeaked, plaintively. + +"Robbing the dead! Its bad enough to rob the living." + +"She couldn't have worn that dress without any back breadth while she +was living," argued Flora, "but now it don't make any odds. It don't +show." + +"What were you going to do with it?" + +Flora was scared into a storm of injured confession. "You 'ain't any +call to talk to me so, Mrs. Whitman," she said. "I've worked hard, +and I 'ain't had a decent black silk dress for ten years." + +"How can you have a dress made out of a back breadth, I'd like to +know?" + +"It's just the same quality that Mrs. Hiram Adams's was, and--" Flora +hesitated. + +"Flora Barnes, you don't mean to say that you're robbing the dead of +back breadths till you get enough to make you a whole dress?" + +Flora whimpered. "Business has been awful poor lately," she said. +"It's been so healthy here we've hardly been able to earn the salt to +our porridge. Father won't join the trust, either, and lots of times +the undertaker from Alford has got our jobs." + +"Business!" cried Sylvia, in horror. + +"I can't help it if you do look at it that way," Flora replied, and +now she was almost defiant. "Our business is to get our living out of +folks' dying. There's no use mincing matters. It's our business, just +as working in a shoe-shop is your husband's business. Folks have to +have shoes and walk when they're alive, and be laid out nice and +buried when they're dead. Our business has been poor. Either Dr. +Wallace gives awful strong medicine or East Westland is too healthy. +We haven't earned but precious little lately, and I need a whole +black silk dress and they don't." + +Sylvia eyed her in withering scorn. "Need or not," said she, "the one +that owns this back breadth is going to have it. I rather think she +ain't going to be laid away without a back breadth to her dress." + +With that Sylvia crossed the room and the hall, and entered the +parlor. She closed the door behind her. When she came out a few +minutes later she was pale but triumphant. "There," said she, "it's +back with her, and I've got just this much to say, and no more, Flora +Barnes. When you get home you gather up all the back breadths you've +got, and you do them up in a bundle, and you put them in that barrel +the Ladies' Sewing Society is going to send to the missionaries next +week, and don't you ever touch a back breadth again, or I'll tell it +right and left, and you'll see how much business you'll have left +here, I don't care how sickly it gets." + +"If father would--only have joined the trust I never would have +thought of such a thing, anyway," muttered Flora. She was vanquished. + +"You do it, Flora Barnes." + +"Yes, I will. Don't speak so, Mrs. Whitman." + +"You had better." + +The undertaker and his son-in-law and Henry had remained quite +silent. Now they moved toward the door, and Flora followed, red and +perspiring. Sylvia heard her say something to her father about the +trust on the way to the gate, between the tall borders of box, and +heard Martin's surly growl in response. + +"Laying it onto the trust," Sylvia said to Henry--"such an awful +thing as that!" + +Henry assented. He looked aghast at the whole affair. He seemed to +catch a glimpse of dreadful depths of feminity which daunted his +masculine mind. "To think of women caring enough about dress to do +such a thing as that!" he said to himself. He glanced at Sylvia, and +she, as a woman, seemed entirely beyond his comprehension. + +The whole great house was sweet with flowers. Neighbors had sent the +early spring flowers from their door-yards, and Henry and Sylvia had +bought a magnificent wreath of white roses and carnations and smilax. +They had ordered it from a florist in Alford, and it seemed to them +something stupendous--as if in some way it must please even the dead +woman herself to have her casket so graced. + +"When folks know, they won't think we didn't do all we could," Sylvia +whispered to Henry, significantly. He nodded. Both were very busy, +even with assistance from the neighbors, and a woman who worked out +by the day, in preparing the house for the funeral. Everything had to +be swept and cleaned and dusted. + +When the hour came, and the people began to gather, the house was +veritably set in order and burnished. Sylvia, in the parlor with the +chief mourners, glanced about, and eyed the smooth lap of her new +black gown with a certain complacency which she could not control. +After the funeral was over, and the distant relatives and neighbors +who had assisted had eaten a cold supper and departed, and she and +Henry were alone in the great house, she said, and he agreed, that +everything had gone off beautifully. "Just as she would have wished +it if she could have been here and ordered it herself," said Sylvia. + +They were both hesitating whether to remain in the house that night +or go home. Finally they went home. There was an awe and strangeness +over them; besides, they began to wonder if people might not think it +odd for them to stay there before the will was read, since they could +not be supposed to know it all belonged to them. + +It was about two weeks before they were regularly established in the +great house, and Horace Allen, the high-school teacher, was expected +the next day but one. Henry had pottered about the place, and +attended to some ploughing on the famous White grass-land, which was +supposed to produce more hay than any piece of land of its size in +the county. Henry had been fired with ambition to produce more than +ever before, but that day his spirit had seemed to fail him. He sat +about gloomily all the afternoon; then he went down for the evening +mail, and brought home no letters, but the local paper. Sylvia was +preparing supper in the large, clean kitchen. She had been looking +over her new treasures all day, and she was radiant. She chattered to +her husband like a school-girl. + +"Oh, Henry," said she, "you don't know what we've got! I never +dreamed poor Abrahama had such beautiful things. I have been up in +the garret looking over things, and there's one chest up there packed +with the most elegant clothes. I never saw such dresses in my life." + +Henry looked at his wife with eyes which loved her face, yet saw it +as it was, elderly and plain, with all its youthful bloom faded. + +"I don't suppose there is anything that will suit you to have made +over," he said. "I suppose they are dresses she had when she was +young." + +Sylvia colored. She tossed her head and threw back her round +shoulders. Feminine vanity dies hard; perhaps it never dies at all. + +"I don't know," she said, defiantly. "Three are colors I used to +wear. I have had to wear black of late years, because it was more +economical, but you know how much I used to wear pink. It was real +becoming to me." + +Henry continued to regard his wife's face with perfect love and a +perfect cognizance of facts. "You couldn't wear it now," he said. + +"I don't know," retorted Sylvia. "I dare say I don't look now as if I +could. I have been working hard all day, and my hair is all out of +crimp. I ain't so sure but if I did up my hair nice, and wasn't all +tuckered out, that I couldn't wear a pink silk dress that's there if +I tone it down with black." + +"I don't believe you would feel that you could go to meeting dressed +in pink silk at your time of life," said Henry. + +"Lots of women older than I be wear bright colors," retorted Sylvia, +"in places where they are dressy. You don't know anything about +dress, Henry." + +"I suppose I don't," replied Henry, indifferently. + +"I think that pink silk would be perfectly suitable and real becoming +if I crimped my hair and had a black lace bonnet to wear with it." + +"I dare say." + +Henry took his place at the supper-table. It was set in the kitchen. +Sylvia was saving herself all the steps possible until Horace Allen +returned. + +Henry did not seem to have much appetite that night. His face was +overcast. Along with his scarcely confessed exultation over his +good-fortune he was conscious of an odd indignation. For years he had +cherished a sense of injury at his treatment at the hands of +Providence; now he felt like a child who, pushing hard against +opposition to his desires, has that opposition suddenly removed, and +tumbles over backward. Henry had an odd sensation of having +ignominiously tumbled over backward, and he missed, with ridiculous +rancor, his sense of injury which he had cherished for so many years. +After kicking against the pricks for so long, he had come to feel a +certain self-righteous pleasure in it which he was now forced to +forego. + +Sylvia regarded her husband uneasily. Her state of mind had formerly +been the female complement of his, but the sense of possession +swerved her more easily. "What on earth ails you, Henry Whitman?" she +said. "You look awful down-in-the-mouth. Only to think of our having +enough to be comfortable for life. I should think you'd be real +thankful and pleased." + +"I don't know whether I'm thankful and pleased or not," rejoined +Henry, morosely. + +"Why, Henry Whitman!" + +"If it had only come earlier, when we had time and strength to enjoy +it," said Henry, with sudden relish. He felt that he had discovered a +new and legitimate ground of injury which might console him for the +loss of the old. + +"We may live a good many years to enjoy it now," said Sylvia. + +"I sha'n't; maybe you will," returned Henry, with malignant joy. + +Sylvia regarded him with swift anxiety. "Why, Henry, don't you feel +well?" she gasped. + +"No, I don't, and I haven't for some time." + +"Oh, Henry, and you never told me! What is the matter? Hadn't you +better see the doctor?" + +"Doctor!" retorted Henry, scornfully. + +"Maybe he could give you something to help you. Whereabouts do you +feel bad, Henry?" + +"All over," replied Henry, comprehensively, and he smiled like a +satirical martyr. + +"All over?" + +"Yes, all over--body and soul and spirit. I know just as well as any +doctor can tell me that I haven't many years to enjoy anything. When +a man has worked as long as I have in a shoe-shop, and worried as +much and as long as I have, good-luck finds him with his earthworks +about worn out and his wings hitched on." + +"Oh, Henry, maybe Dr. Wallace--" + +"Maybe he can unhitch the wings?" inquired Henry, with grotesque +irony. "No, Sylvia, no doctor living can give medicine strong enough +to cure a man of a lifetime of worry." + +"But the worry's all over now, Henry." + +"What the worry's done ain't over." + +Sylvia began whimpering softly. "Oh, Henry, if you talk that way it +will take away all my comfort! What do you suppose the property would +mean to me without you?" + +Then Henry felt ashamed. "Lord, don't worry," he said, roughly. "A +man can't say anything to you without upsetting you. I can't tell how +long I'll live. Sometimes a man lives through everything. All I meant +was, sometimes when good-luck comes to a man it comes so darned late +it might just as well not come at all." + +"Henry, you don't mean to be wicked and ungrateful?" + +"If I am I can't help it. I ain't a hypocrite, anyway. We've got some +good-fortune, and I'm glad of it, but I'd been enough sight gladder +if it had come sooner, before bad fortune had taken away my rightful +taste for it." + +"You won't have to work in the shop any longer, Henry." + +"I don't know whether I shall or not. What in creation do you suppose +I'm going to do all day--sit still and suck my thumbs?" + +"You can work around the place." + +"Of course I can; but there'll be lots of time when there won't be +any work to be done--then what? To tell you the truth of it, Sylvia, +I've had my nose held to the grindstone so long I don't know as it's +in me to keep away from it and live, now." + +Henry had not been at work since Abrahama White's death. He had been +often in Sidney Meeks's office; only Sidney Meeks saw through Henry +Whitman. One day he laughed in his face, as the two men sat in his +office, and Henry had been complaining of the lateness of his +good-fortune. + +"If your property has come too late, Henry," said he, "what's the use +in keeping it? What's the sense of keeping property that only +aggravates you because it didn't come in your time instead of the +Lord's? I'll draw up a deed of gift on the spot, and Sylvia can sign +it when you go home, and you can give the whole biling thing to +foreign missions. The Lord knows there's no need for any mortal man +to keep anything he doesn't want--unless it's taxes, or a quick +consumption, or a wife and children. And as for those last, there +doesn't seem to be much need of that lately. I have never seen the +time since I came into the world when it was quite so hard to get +things, or quite so easy to get rid of them, as it is now. Say the +word, Henry, and I'll draw up the deed of gift." + +Henry looked confused. His eyes fell before the lawyer's sarcastic +glance. "You are talking tomfool nonsense," he said, scowling. "The +property isn't mine; it's my wife's." + +"Sylvia never crossed you in anything. She'd give it up fast enough +if she got it through her head how downright miserable it was making +you," returned the lawyer, maliciously. Then Sidney relented. There +was something pathetic, even tragic, about Henry Whitman's sheer +inability to enjoy as he might once have done the good things of +life, and his desperate clutch of them in flat contradiction to his +words. "Let's drop it," said the lawyer. "I'm glad you have the +property and can have a little ease, even if it doesn't mean to you +what it once would. Let's have a glass of that grape wine." + +Sidney Meeks had his own small amusement in the world. He was one of +those who cannot exist without one, and in lieu of anything else he +had turned early in life toward making wines from many things which +his native soil produced. He had become reasonably sure, at an early +age, that he should achieve no great success in his profession. +Indeed, he was lazily conscious that he had no fierce ambition to do +so. Sidney Meeks was not an ambitious man in large matters. But he +had taken immense comfort in toiling in a little vineyard behind his +house, and also in making curious wines and cordials from many +unusual ingredients. Sidney had stored in his cellar wines from elder +flowers, from elderberries, from daisies, from rhubarb, from clover, +and currants, and many other fruits and flowers, besides grapes. He +was wont to dispense these curious brews to his callers with great +pride. But he took especial pride in a grape wine which he had made +from selected grapes thirty years ago. This wine had a peculiar +bouquet due to something which Sidney had added to the grape-juice, +the secret of which he would never divulge. + +It was some of this golden wine which Sidney now produced. Henry +drank two glasses, and the tense muscles around his mouth relaxed. +Sidney smiled. "Don't know what gives it that scent and taste, do +you?" asked Sidney. "Well, I know. It's simple enough, but nobody +except Sidney Meeks has ever found it out. I tell you, Henry, if a +man hasn't set the river on fire, realized his youthful dreams, and +all that, it is something to have found out something that nobody +else has, no matter how little it is, if you have got nerve enough to +keep it to yourself." + +Henry fairly laughed. His long, hollow cheeks were slightly flushed. +When he got home that night he looked pleasantly at Sylvia, preparing +supper. But Sylvia did not look as radiant as she had done since her +good-fortune. She said nothing ailed her, in response to his inquiry +as to whether she felt well or not, but she continued gloomy and +taciturn, which was most unusual with her, especially of late. + +"What in the world is the matter with you, Sylvia?" Henry asked. The +influence of Sidney Meeks's wine had not yet departed from him. His +cheeks were still flushed, his eyes brilliant. + +Then Sylvia roused herself. "Nothing is the matter," she replied, +irritably, and immediately she became so gay that had Henry himself +been in his usual mood he would have been as much astonished as by +her depression. Sylvia began talking and laughing, relating long +stories of new discoveries which she had made in the house, planning +for Horace Allen's return. + +"He's going to have that big southwest room and the little one out of +it," Sylvia said. "To-morrow you must get the bed moved into the +little one, and I'll get the big room fixed up for a study. He'll be +tickled to pieces. There's beautiful furniture in the room now. I +suppose he'll think it's beautiful. It's terrible old-fashioned. I'd +rather have a nice new set of bird's-eye maple to my taste, and a +brass bedstead, but I know he'll like this better. It's solid old +mahogany." + +"Yes, he'll be sure to like it," assented Henry. + +After supper, although Sylvia did not relapse into her taciturn mood, +Henry went and sat by himself on the square colonial porch on the +west side of the house. He sat gazing at the sky and the broad acres +of grass-land. Presently he heard feminine voices in the house, and +knew that two of the neighbors, Mrs. Jim Jones and Mrs. Sam Elliot, +had called to see Sylvia. He resolved that he would stay where he was +until they were gone. He loved Sylvia, but women in the aggregate +disturbed and irritated him; and for him three women were sufficient +to constitute an aggregate. + +Henry sat on the fine old porch with its symmetrical pillars. He had +an arm-chair which he tilted back against the house wall, and he was +exceedingly comfortable. The air was neither warm nor cold. There was +a clear red in the west and only one rose-tinged cloud the shape of a +bird's wing. He could hear the sunset calls of birds and the laughter +of children. Once a cow lowed. A moist sense of growing things, the +breath of spring, came into his nostrils. Henry realized that he was +very happy. He realized for the first time, with peaceful content, +not with joy so turbulent that it was painful and rebellious, that he +and his wife owned this grand old house and all those fair acres. He +was filled with that great peace of possession which causes a man to +feel that he is safe from the ills of life. Henry felt fenced in and +guarded. Then suddenly the sense of possession upon earth filled his +whole soul with the hope of possession after death. Henry felt, for +the first time in his life, as if he had a firm standing-ground for +faith. For the first time he looked at the sunset sky, he listened to +the birds and children, he smelled the perfume of the earth, and +there was no bitterness in his soul. He smiled a smile of utter peace +which harmonized with it all, and the conviction of endless happiness +and a hereafter seemed to expand all his consciousness. + + + +Chapter IV + + +The dining-room in the White homestead was a large, low room whose +southward windows were shaded at this season with a cloud of +gold-green young grape leaves. The paper was a nondescript pattern, a +large satin scroll on white. The room was wainscoted in white, and +the panel-work around the great chimney was beautiful. A Franklin +stove with a pattern of grape-vines was built into the chimney under +the high mantel. Sylvia regarded this dubiously. + +"I don't think much of that old-fashioned Franklin stove," she told +Henry. "Why Abrahama had it left in, after she had her nice furnace, +beats me. Seems to me we had better have it taken out, and have a +nice board, covered with paper to match this on the room, put there +instead. There's a big roll of the paper up garret, and it ain't +faded a mite." + +"Mr. Allen will like it just the way it is," said Henry, regarding +the old stove with a sneaking admiration of which he was ashamed. It +had always seemed to him that Sylvia's taste must be better than his. +He had always thought vaguely of women as creatures of taste. + +"I think maybe he'll like a fire in it sometimes," he said, timidly. + +"A fire, when there's a furnace?" + +"I mean chilly days in the fall, before we start the furnace." + +"Then we could have that nice air-tight that we had in the other +house put up. If we had a fire in this old thing the heat would all +go up chimney." + +"But it would look kind of pretty." + +"I was brought up to think a fire was for warmth, not for looks," +said Sylvia, tartly. She had lost the odd expression which Henry had +dimly perceived several days before, or she was able to successfully +keep it in abeyance; still, there was no doubt that a strange and +subtle change had occurred within the woman. Henry was constantly +looking at her when she spoke, because he vaguely detected unwonted +tones in her familiar voice; that voice which had come to seem almost +as his own. He was constantly surprised at a look in the familiar +eyes, which had seemed heretofore to gaze at life in entire unison +with his own. + +He often turned upon Sylvia and asked her abruptly if she did not +feel well, and what was the matter; and when she replied, as she +always did, that nothing whatever was the matter, continued to regard +her with a frown of perplexity, from which she turned with a switch +of her skirts and a hitch of her slender shoulders. Sylvia, while she +still evinced exultation over her new possessions, seemed to do so +fiercely and defiantly. + +When Horace Allen arrived she greeted him, and ushered him into her +new domain with a pride which had in it something almost repellent. +At supper-time she led him into the dining-room and glanced around, +then at him. + +"Well," said she, "don't you think it was about time we had something +nice like this, after we had pulled and tugged for nothing all our +lives? Don't you think we deserve it if anybody does?" + +"I certainly do," replied Horace Allen, warmly; yet he regarded her +with somewhat the same look of astonishment as Henry. It did not seem +to him that it could be Sylvia Whitman who was speaking. The thought +crossed his mind, as he took his place at the table, that possibly +coming late in life, after so many deprivations, good-fortune had +disturbed temporarily the even balance of her good New England sense. + +Then he looked about him with delight. "I say, this is great!" he +cried, boyishly. There was something incurably boyish about Horace +Allen, although he was long past thirty. "By George, that Chippendale +sideboard is a beauty," he said, gazing across at a fine old piece +full of dull high lights across its graceful surfaces. + +Sylvia colored with pleasure, but she had been brought up to disclaim +her possessions to others than her own family. "Mrs. Jim Jones has +got a beautiful one she bought selling Calkin's soap," she said. "She +thinks it's prettier than this, and I must say it's real handsome. +It's solid oak and has a looking-glass on it. This hasn't got any +glass." + +Horace laughed. He gazed at a corner-closet with diamond-paned doors. + +"That is a perfectly jolly closet, too," he said; "and those are +perfect treasures of old dishes." + +"I think they are rather pretty," said Henry. He was conscious of an +admiration for the old blue-and-white ware with its graceful shapes +and quaint decorations savoring of mystery and the Far East, but he +realized that his view was directly opposed to his wife's. This time +Sylvia spoke quite in earnest. As far as the Indian china was +concerned, she had her convictions. She was a cheap realist to the +bone. + +She sniffed. "I suppose there's those that likes it," said she, "but +as for me, I can't see how anybody with eyes in their heads can look +twice at old, cloudy, blue stuff like that when they can have nice, +clear, white ware, with flowers on it that _are_ flowers, like this +Calkin's soap set. There ain't a thing on the china in that closet +that's natural. Whoever saw a prospect all in blue, the trees and +plants, and heathen houses, and the heathen, all blue? I like things +to be natural, myself." + +Horace laughed, and extended his plate for another piece of pie. + +"It's an acquired taste," he said. + +"I never had any time to acquire tastes. I kept what the Lord gave +me," said Sylvia, but she smiled. She was delighted because Horace +had taken a second piece of pie. + +"I didn't know as you'd relish our fare after living in a Boston +hotel all your vacation," said she. + +"People can talk about hotel tables all they want to," declared +Horace. "Give me home cooking like yours every time. I haven't eaten +a blessed thing that tasted good since I went away." + +Henry and Sylvia looked lovingly at Horace. He was a large man, +blond, with a thick shock of fair hair, and he wore gray tweeds +rather loose for him, which had always distressed Sylvia. She had +often told Henry that it seemed to her if he would wear a nice suit +of black broadcloth it would be more in keeping with his position as +high-school principal. He wore a red tie, too, and Sylvia had an +inborn conviction that red was not to be worn by fair people, male or +female. + +However, she loved and admired Horace in spite of these minor +drawbacks, and had a fiercely maternal impulse of protection towards +him. She was convinced that every mother in East Westland, with a +marriageable daughter, and every daughter, had matrimonial designs +upon him; and she considered that none of them were good enough for +him. She did not wish him to marry in any case. She had suspicions +about young women whom he might have met while on his vacation. + +After supper, when the dishes had been cleared away, and they sat in +the large south room, and Horace had admired that and its +furnishings, Sylvia led up to the subject. + +"I suppose you know a good many people in Boston," she remarked. + +"Yes," replied Horace. "You know, I was born and brought up and +educated there, and lived there until my people died." + +"I suppose you know a good many young ladies." + +"Thousands," said Horace; "but none of them will look at me." + +"You didn't ask them?" + +"Not all, only a few, but they wouldn't." + +"I'd like to know why not?" + +Then Henry spoke. "Sylvia," he said, "Mr. Allen is only joking." + +"I hope he is," Sylvia said, severely. "He's too young to think of +getting married. It makes me sick, though, to see the way girls chase +any man, and their mothers, too, for that matter. Mrs. Jim Jones and +Mrs. Sam Elliot both came while you were gone, Mr. Allen. They said +they thought maybe we wouldn't take a boarder now we have come into +property, and maybe you would like to go there, and I knew just as +well as if they had spoken what they had in their minds. There's +Minnie Jones as homely as a broom, and there's Carrie Elliot getting +older, and--" + +"Sylvia!" said Henry. + +"I don't care. Mr. Allen knows what's going on just as well as I do. +Neither of those women can cook fit for a cat to eat, let alone +anything else. Lucy Ayres came here twice on errands, too, and--" + +But Horace colored, and spoke suddenly. "I didn't know that you would +take me back," he said. "I was afraid--" + +"We don't need to, as far as money goes," said Sylvia, "but Mr. +Whitman and I like to have the company, and you never make a mite of +trouble. That's what I told Mrs. Jim Jones and Mrs. Sam Elliot." + +"I'm glad he's got back," Henry said, after Horace had gone up-stairs +for the night and the couple were in their own room, a large one out +of the sitting-room. + +"So am I," assented Sylvia. "It seems real good to have him here +again, and he's dreadful tickled with his new rooms. I guess he's +glad he wasn't shoved off onto Mrs. Jim Jones or Mrs. Sam Elliot. I +don't believe he has an idea of getting married to any girl alive. He +ain't a mite silly over the girls, if they are all setting their caps +at him. I'm sort of sorry for Lucy Ayres. She's a pretty girl, and +real ladylike, and I believe she'd give all her old shoes to get him." + +"Look out, he'll hear you," charged Henry. Their room was directly +under the one occupied by Horace. + +Presently the odor of a cigar floated into their open window. + +"I should know he'd got home. Smoking is an awful habit," Sylvia +said, with a happy chuckle. + +"He'd do better if he smoked a pipe," said Henry. Henry smoked a pipe. + +"If a man is going to smoke at all, I think he had better smoke +something besides a smelly old pipe," said Sylvia. "It seems to me, +with all our means, you might smoke cigars now, Henry. I saw real +nice ones advertised two for five cents the other day, and you +needn't smoke more than two a day." + +Henry sniffed slightly. + +"I suppose you think women don't know anything about cigars," said +Sylvia; "but I can smell, anyhow, and I know Mr. Allen is smoking a +real good cigar." + +"Yes, he is," assented Henry. + +"And I don't believe he pays more than a cent apiece. His cigars have +gilt papers around them, and I know as well as I want to they're +cheap; I know a cent apiece is a much as he pays. He smokes so many +he can't pay more than that." + +Henry sniffed again, but Sylvia did not hear. She had one deaf ear, +and she was lying on her sound one. Then they fell asleep, and it was +some time before both woke suddenly. A sound had wakened Henry, an +odor Sylvia. Henry had heard a door open, forcing him into +wakefulness; Sylvia had smelled the cigar again. She nudged her +husband. Just then the tall clock in the sitting-room struck ten +deliberately. + +"It's late, and he's awake, smoking, now," whispered Sylvia. + +Henry said nothing. He only grunted. + +"Don't you think it's queer?" + +"Oh no. I guess he's only reading," replied Henry. He had a strong +masculine loyalty towards Horace, as another man. He waited until he +heard Sylvia's heavy, regular breathing again. Then he slipped out of +bed and stole to the window. It was a strange night, very foggy, but +the fog was shot through with shafts of full moonlight. The air was +heavy and damp and sweet. Henry listened a moment at the bedroom +window, then he tiptoed out into the sitting-room. He stole across +the hall into the best parlor. He raised a window in there +noiselessly, looked out, and listened. There was a grove of pines and +spruces on that side of the house. There was a bench under a pine. +Upon this bench Henry gradually perceived a whiteness more opaque +than that of the fog. He heard a voice, then a responsive murmur. +Then the fragrant smoke of a cigar came directly in his face. Henry +shook his head. He remained motionless a moment. Then he left the +room, and going into the hall stole up-stairs. The door of the +southwest chamber stood wide open. Henry entered. He was trembling +like a woman. He loved the young man, and suspicions, like dreadful, +misshapen monsters, filled his fancy. He peeped into the little room +which he and Sylvia had fitted up as a bedroom for Horace, and it was +vacant. + +Henry went noiselessly back down-stairs and into his own room. He lay +down without disturbing his wife, but he did not fall asleep. After +what seemed to him a long time he heard a stealthy footstep on the +stair, and again smelled the aroma of a cigar which floated down from +overhead. + +That awoke Sylvia. "I declare, he's smoking again," she murmured, +sleepily. "It's a dreadful habit." + +Henry made no reply. He breathed evenly, pretending to be asleep. + + + +Chapter V + + +Although it was easy for a man, especially for a young marriageable +man, to obtain board in East Westland, it was not so easy for a +woman; and the facts of her youth and good looks, and presumably +marriageable estate, rendered it still more difficult. There was in +the little village a hotel, so-called, which had formerly been the +tavern. It was now the East Westland House. Once it had been the Sign +of the Horse. The old sign-board upon which a steed in flaming red, +rampant upon a crude green field against a crude blue sky, had been +painted by some local artist, all unknown to fame, and long since at +rest in the village graveyard, still remained in the hotel attic, +tilted under the dusty eaves. + +The Sign of the Horse had been in former days a flourishing hostelry, +before which, twice a day, the Boston and the Alford stages had drawn +up with mighty flourishes of horns and gallant rearings of jaded +steeds. Scarcely a night but it had been crowded by travellers who +stayed overnight for the sake of the good beds and the good table and +good bar. Now there was no bar. East Westland was a strictly +temperance village, and all the liquor to be obtained was exceedingly +bad, and some declared diluted by the waters of the village pond. + +There was a very small stock of rum, gin, and whiskey, and very young +and morbid California wines, kept at the village drug store, and +dispensed by Albion Bennet. Albion required a deal of red-tape before +he would sell even these doubtful beverages for strictly medicinal +purposes. He was in mortal terror of being arrested and taken to the +county-seat at Newholm for violation of the liquor law. Albion, +although a young and sturdy man not past his youth, was exceedingly +afraid of everything. He was unmarried, and boarded at the hotel. +There he was divided between fear of burglars, if he slept on the +first floor, and of fire if he slept on the second. He compromised by +sleeping on the second, with a sufficient length of stout, knotted +muslin stowed away in his trunk, to be attached to the bed-post and +reach the ground in case of a conflagration. + +There was no bank in East Westland, none nearer than Alford, six +miles away, and poor Albion was at his wit's end to keep his daily +receipts with safety to them and himself. He had finally hit upon the +expedient of leaving them every night with Sidney Meeks, who was +afraid of nothing. "If anything happens to your money, Albion," said +Sidney, "I'll make it good, even if I have to sell my wine-cellar." +Albion was afraid even to keep a revolver. His state of terror was +pitiable, and the more so because he had a fear of betraying it, +which was to some extent the most cruel fear of all. Sidney Meeks was +probably the only person in East Westland who understood how it was +with him, and he kept his knowledge to himself. Sidney was astute on +a diagnosis of his fellow-men's mentalities, and he had an almost +womanly compassion even for those weaknesses of which he himself was +incapable. + +"Good; I'll keep what you have in your till every night for you, and +welcome, Albion," he had said. "I understand how you feel, living in +the hotel the way you do." + +"Nobody knows who is coming and going," said Albion, blinking +violently. + +"Of course one doesn't, and nobody would dream of coming to my house. +Everybody knows I am as poor as Job's off ox. You might get a +revolver, but I wouldn't recommend it. You look to me as if you might +sleep too sound to make it altogether safe." + +"I do sleep pretty sound," admitted Albion, although he did not quite +see the force of the other man's argument. + +"Just so. Any man who sleeps very sound has no right to keep a loaded +revolver by him. He seldom, if ever, wakes up thoroughly if he hears +a noise, and he's mighty apt to blaze away at the first one he sees, +even if it's his best friend. No, it is not safe." + +"I don't think it's very safe myself," said Albion, in a relieved +tone. "Miss Hart is always prowling around the house. She doesn't +sleep very well, and she's always smelling smoke or hearing burglars. +She's timid, like most women. I might shoot her if I was only half +awake and she came opposite my door." + +"Exactly," said Sidney Meeks. When Albion went away he stared after +his bulky, retreating back with a puzzled expression. He shook his +head. Fear was the hardest thing in the world for him to understand. +"That great, able-bodied man must feel mighty queer," he muttered, as +he stowed away the pile of greasy bank-notes and the nickels +collected at the soda-fountain in a pile of disordered linen in a +bureau drawer. He chuckled to himself at the eagerness with which +Albion had seized upon the fancy of his shooting Miss Hart. + +Lucinda Hart kept the hotel. She had succeeded to its proprietorship +when her father died. She was a middle-aged woman who had been pretty +in a tense, nervous fashion. Now the prettiness had disappeared under +the strain of her daily life. It was a hard struggle to keep the East +Westland House and make both ends meet. She had very few regular +boarders, and transients were not as numerous as they had been in the +days of the stage-coaches. Now commercial travellers and business men +went to Alford overnight instead of remaining at East Westland. Miss +Hart used the same feather-beds which had once been esteemed so +luxurious. She kept them clean, well aired, and shaken, and she would +not have a spring-bed or a hair mattress in the house. She was +conservatism itself. She could no more change and be correct to her +own understanding than the multiplication table. + +"Feather-beds are good enough for anybody who stays in this hotel, I +don't care who it is," she said. She would not make an exception, +even for Miss Eliza Farrel, the assistant teacher in the high school, +although she had, with a distrust of the teacher's personality, a +great respect for her position. She was inexorable even when the +teacher proposed furnishing a spring-bed and mattress at her own +expense. "I'd be willing to accommodate, and buy them myself, but it +is a bad example," she said, firmly. "Things that were good enough +for our fathers and mothers are good enough for us. Good land! people +ain't any different from what they used to be. We haven't any +different flesh nor any different bones." + +Miss Hart had a theory that many of the modern diseases might be +traced directly to the eschewing of feather-beds. "Never heard of +appendicitis in my father's time, when folks slept on good, soft +feather-beds, and got their bones and in'ards rested," she said. + +Miss Hart was as timid in her way as Albion Bennet. She never got +enough control of her nervous fears to secure many hours of sound +sleep. She never was able to wholly rid herself of the conviction +that her own wakefulness and watchfulness was essential to the right +running of all the wheels of the universe, although she would have +been shocked had she fairly known her own attitude. She patrolled the +house by night, moving about the low, uneven corridors with a +flickering candle--for she was afraid to carry a kerosene lamp--like +a wandering spirit. + +She was suspicious, too. She never lodged a stranger overnight but +she had grave doubts of his moral status. She imagined him a murderer +escaped from justice, and compared his face with the pictures of +criminals in the newspapers, or she was reasonably sure that he was +dishonest, although she had little to tempt him. She employed one +chambermaid and a stable-boy, and did the cooking herself. Miss Hart +was not a good cook. She used her thin, tense hands too quickly. She +was prone to over-measures of saleratus, to under-measures of sugar +and coffee. She erred both from economy and from the haste which +makes waste. Miss Eliza Farrel often turned from the scanty, poorly +cooked food which was place before her with disgust, but she never +seemed to lose an ounce of her firm, fair flesh, nor a shade of her +sweet color. + +Miss Eliza Farrel was an anomaly. She was so beautiful that her +beauty detracted from her charm for both sexes. It was so perfect as +to awaken suspicion in a world where nothing is perfect from the hand +of nature. Then, too, she was manifestly, in spite of her beauty, not +in the first flush of youth, and had, it seemed, no right to such +perfection of body. Also her beauty was of a type which people +invariably associate with things which are undesirable to the rigidly +particular, and East Westland was largely inhabited by the rigidly +particular. + +East Westland was not ignorant. It read of the crimes and follies of +the times, but it read of them with a distinct and complacent sense +of superiority. It was as if East Westland said: "It is desirable to +read of these things, of these doings among the vicious and the +worldly, that we may understand what _we_ are." East Westland looked +upon itself in its day and generation as a lot among the cities of +the plain. + +It seemed inconceivable that East Westland people should have +recognized the fact that Miss Farrel's beauty was of a suspicious +type, but they must have had an instinctive knowledge of it. From the +moment that Miss Farrel appeared in the village, although she had the +best of references, not a woman would admit her into her house as a +boarder, and the hotel, with its feather-beds and poor table, was her +only resource. Women said of her that she was made up, that no woman +of her age ever looked as she did and had a perfectly irreproachable +moral character. + +As for the men, they admired her timidly, sheepishly, and also a +trifle contemptuously. They did not admit openly the same opinion as +the women with regard to the legitimacy of her charms, but they did +maintain it secretly. It did not seem possible to many of them that a +woman could look just as Eliza Farrel did and be altogether natural. +As for her character, they also agreed with the feminine element +secretly, although they openly declared the women were jealous of +such beauty. It did not seem that such a type could be anything +except a dangerous one. + +Miss Eliza Farrel was a pure blonde, as blond as a baby. There was +not a line nor blemish in her pure, fine skin. The flush on her +rounded cheeks and her full lips was like a baby's. Her dimples were +like a baby's. Her blond hair was thick and soft with a pristine +softness and thickness which is always associated with the hair of a +child. Her eyebrows were pencilled by nature, as if nature had been +art. Her smile was as fixedly radiant as a painted cherub's. Her +figure had that exuberance and slenderness at various portions which +no woman really believes in. She looked like a beautiful doll, with +an unvarying loveliness of manner and disposition under all +vicissitudes of life, but she was undoubtedly something more than a +doll. + +Even the women listened dubiously and incredulously when she talked. +They had never heard a woman talk about such things in the way she +did. She had a fine education, being a graduate of one of the women's +colleges. She was an accomplished musician and a very successful +teacher. Her pupils undoubtedly progressed, although they did not +have the blind love and admiration which pupils usually have for a +beautiful teacher. To this there was one exception. + +Miss Farrel always smiled, never frowned or reprimanded. It was said +that Miss Farrel had better government than Miss Florence Dean, the +other assistant. Miss Dean was plain and saturnine, and had no +difficulty in obtaining a good boarding-place, even with the mother +of a marriageable daughter, who had taken her in with far-sighted +alacrity. She dreamed of business calls concerning school matters, +which Mr. Horace Allen, the principal, might be obliged to make, and +she planned to have her daughter, who was a very pretty girl, in +evidence. But poor Miss Farrel was thrown back upon the mercies of +Miss Hart and the feather-beds and the hotel. + +There were other considerations besides the feather-beds and the poor +fare which conspired to render the hotel an undesirable +boarding-place. Miss Farrel might as well have been under the +espionage of a private detective as with Miss Hart. If Miss Hart was +suspicious of dire mischief in the cases of her other boarders, she +was certain in the case of Eliza Farrel. She would not have admitted +her under her roof at all had she not been forced thereto by the +necessity for money. Miss Hart herself took care of Miss Farrel's +room sometimes. She had no hesitation whatever in looking through her +bureau drawers; indeed, she considered it a duty which she owed +herself and the character of her house. She had taken away the keys +on purpose, and had told miss Farrel, without the slightest +compunction, that they were lost. The trunks were locked, and she had +never been able to possess herself of the keys, but she felt sure +that they contained, if not entire skeletons, at least scattered +bones. + +She discovered once, quite in open evidence on Miss Farrel's +wash-stand, a little porcelain box of pink-tinted salve, and she did +not hesitate about telling Hannah, her chambermaid, the daughter of a +farmer in the vicinity, and a girl who was quite in her confidence. +She called Hannah into the room and displayed the box. "This is what +she uses," she said, solemnly. + +Hannah, who was young, but had a thick, colorless skin, nodded with +an inscrutable expression. + +"I have always thought she used something on her face," said Miss +Hart. "You can't cheat _me_." + +Hannah took up a little, ivory-backed nail-polisher which was also on +the wash-stand. "What do you suppose this is?" she asked, timidly, in +an awed whisper. + +"How do I know? I never use such things myself, and I never knew +women who did before," said Miss Hart, severely. "I dare say, after +she puts the paint on, she has to use something to smooth it down +where the natural color of the skin begins. How do I know?" + +Hannah laid the nail-polisher beside the box of salve. She was very +much in love with the son of the farmer who lived next to her +father's. The next Thursday afternoon was her afternoon off. She +watched her chance, and stole into Miss Farrel's room, applied with +trembling fingers a little of the nail-salve to her cheeks, then +carefully rubbed it all off with the polisher. She then went to her +own room, put on a hat and thick veil, and succeeded in getting out +of the hotel without meeting Miss Hart. She was firmly convinced that +she was painted, and that her cheeks had the lovely peach-bloom of +Miss Farrel's. + +It seems sometimes as if one's own conviction concerning one's self +goes a long way towards establishing that of other people. Hannah, +that evening, when she met the young man whom she loved, felt that +she was a beauty like Miss Eliza Farrel, and before she went home he +had told her how pretty she was and asked her to marry him, and +Hannah had consented, reserving the right to work enough longer to +earn a little more money. She wished to be married in a white lace +gown like one in Miss Farrel's closet. Miss Hart had called Hannah in +to look at it one morning when Miss Farrel was at school. + +"What do you suppose a school-teacher can want of a dress like this +here in East Westland?" Miss Hart had asked, severely. "She can't +wear it to meeting, or a Sunday-school picnic, or a church sociable, +or even to a wedding in this place. Look at it. It's cut low-neck." + +Hannah had looked. That night she had, in the secrecy of her own +room, examined her own shoulders, and decided that although they +might not be as white as Miss Farrel's, they were presumably as well +shaped. She had resolved then and there to be married in a dress like +that. Along with her love-raptures came the fairy dream of the lace +gown. For once in her life she would be dressed like a princess. + +When she told Miss Hart she was going to be married, her mistress +sniffed. "You can do just as you like, and you will do just as you +like, whether or no," she said; "but you are a poor fool. Here you +are getting good wages, and having it all to spend on yourself; and +you ain't overworked, and you'll find out you'll be overworked and +have a whole raft of young ones, and not a cent of wages, except +enough to keep soul and body together, and just enough to wear so you +won't be took up for going round indecent. I've seen enough of such +kind of work." + +"Amos will make a real good husband; everybody says he's the best +match anywhere around," replied Hannah, crimson with blushes and half +crying. + +Miss Hart sniffed again. "Jump into the fire if you want to," said +she. "I hope you ain't going before fall, and leave me in the lurch +in hot weather, and preserves to be put up." + +Hannah said she would not think of getting married before November. +She did not say a word about the white lace gown, but that evening +the desire to look at it again waxed so strong within her that she +could not resist it. She was sitting in her own room, after lighting +the kerosene lamp in the corridor opposite Miss Farrel's room, which +was No. 20, and she was thinking hard about the lace gown, and +wondering how much it cost, when she started suddenly. As she sat +beside her window, her own lamp not yet lit, she had seen a figure +flit past in the misty moonlight, and she was sure it was Miss +Farrel. She reflected quickly that it was Thursday evening, when Miss +Hart always went to prayer-meeting. Hannah had a cold and had stayed +at home, although it was her day off. Miss Hart cherished the belief +that her voice was necessary to sustain the singing at any church +meeting. She had, in her youth, possessed a fine contralto voice. She +possessed only the remnant of one now, but she still sang in the +choir, because nobody had the strength of mind to request her to +resign. Sunday after Sunday she stood in her place and raised her +voice, which was horribly hoarse and hollow, in the sacred tunes, and +people shivered and endured. Miss Hart never missed a Sunday service, +a choir rehearsal, or a Thursday prayer-meeting, and she did not on +that Thursday evening. + +Hannah went to her door and listened. She heard laughter down in the +room which had been the bar but was now the office. A cloud of +tobacco smoke floated from there through the corridor. Hannah drew it +in with a sense of delicious peace. Her lover smoked, and somehow the +odor seemed to typify to her domestic happiness and mystery. She +listened long, looking often at the clock on the wall. "She must be +gone," she thought, meaning Miss Hart. She was almost sure that the +figure which she had seen flitting under her window in the moonlight +was that of the school-teacher. Finally she could not resist the +temptation any longer. She hurried down the corridor until she +reached No. 20. She tapped and waited, then she tapped and waited +again. There was no response. Hannah tried the door. It was locked. +She took her chambermaid's key and unlocked the door, looking around +her fearfully. Then she opened the door and slid in. She locked the +door behind her. Then straight to the closet she went, and that +beautiful lace robe seemed to float out towards her. Hannah slipped +off her own gown, and in a few moments she stood before the +looking-glass, transformed. + +She was so radiant, so pleased, that a flush came out on her thick +skin; her eyes gleamed blue. The lace gown fitted her very well. She +turned this way and that. After all, her neck was not bad, not as +white, perhaps, as Miss Farrel's, but quite lovely in shape. She +walked glidingly across the room, looking over her shoulder at the +trail of lace. She was unspeakably happy. She had a lover, and she +was a woman in a fine gown for the first time in her life. The gown +was not her own, but she would have one like it. She did not realize +that this gown was not hers. She was fairly radiant with the +possession of her woman's birthright, this poor farmer's daughter, in +whom the instincts of her kind were strong. She glided across the +room many times. She surveyed herself in the glass. Every time she +looked she seemed to herself more beautiful, and there was something +good and touching in this estimation of herself, for she seemed to +see herself with her lover's eyes as well as her own. + +Finally she sat down in Miss Farrel's rocker; she crossed her knees +and viewed with delight the fleecy fall of lace to the floor. Then +she fell to dreaming, and her dreams were good. In that gown of +fashion she dreamed the dreams of the life to which the women of her +race were born. She dreamed of her good housewifery; she dreamed of +the butter she would make; she dreamed of her husband coming home to +meals all ready and well cooked. She dreamed, underneath the other +dreams, of children coming home. She had no realization of the time +she sat there. At last she started and turned white. She had heard a +key turn in the lock. Then Miss Farrel entered the room--Miss Eliza +Farrel, magnificent in pale gray, with a hat trimmed with roses +crowning her blond head. Hannah cowered. She tried to speak, but only +succeeded in making a sound as if she were deaf and dumb. + +Then Miss Farrel spoke. There was a weary astonishment and amusement +in her tone, but nothing whatever disturbed or harsh. "Oh, is it you, +Hannah?" she said. + +Hannah murmured something unintelligible. + +Miss Farrel went on, sweetly: "So you thought you would try on my +lace gown, Hannah?" she said. "It fits you very well. I see your +hands are clean. I am glad of that. Now please take it off and put on +your own dress." + +Hannah stood up. She was abject. + +"There is nothing for you to be afraid of," said Miss Farrel. "Only +take off the gown and put on your own, or I am afraid Miss Hart--" + +Miss Hart's name acted like a terrible stimulus. Hannah unfastened +the lace gown with fingers trembling with haste. She stepped out of +the shimmering circle which it made; she was in her own costume in an +incredibly short space of time, and the lace gown was in its +accustomed place in the closet. Then suddenly Miss Hart opened the +door. + +"I thought I saw a light," said she. She looked from one to the +other. "It is after eleven o'clock," she said, further. + +"Yes," said Miss Farrel, sweetly. "I have been working. I had to look +over some exercises. I think I am not quite well. Have you any +digitalis in the house, Miss Hart? Hannah here does not know. I was +sorry to disturb her, and she does not know. I have an irritable +heart, and digitalis helps it." + +"No, I have not got any digitalis," replied Miss Hart, shortly. She +gave the hard sound to the _g_, and she looked suspiciously at both +women. However, Miss Farrel was undoubtedly pale, and Miss Hart's +face relaxed. + +"Go back to your room," she said to Hannah. "You won't be fit for a +thing to-morrow." Then she said to Miss Farrel: "I don't know what +you mean by digitalis. I haven't got any, but I'll mix you up some +hot essence of peppermint, and that's the best thing I know of for +anything." + +"Thank you," said Miss Farrel. She had sank into a chair, and had her +hand over her heart. + +"I'll have it here in a minute," said Miss Hart. She went out, and +Hannah followed her, but not before she and Miss Eliza Farrel had +exchanged looks which meant that each had a secret of the other to +keep as a precious stolen jewel. + + + +Chapter VI + + +The next morning Henry was very quiet at the breakfast-table. He said +good-morning to Horace in almost a surly manner, and Sylvia glanced +from one to the other of the two men. After Horace had gone to school +she went out in the front yard to interview Henry, who was pottering +about the shrubs which grew on either side of the gravel walk. + +"What on earth ailed you and Mr. Allen this morning?" she began, +abruptly. + +Henry continued digging around the roots of a peony. "I don't know as +anything ailed us. I don't know what you are driving at," he replied, +lying unhesitatingly. + +"Something did ail you. You can't cheat me." + +"I don't know what you are driving at." + +"Something did ail you. You'll spoil that peony. You've got all the +weeds out. What on earth are you digging round it that way for? What +ailed you?" + +"I don't know what you are driving at." + +"You can't cheat me. Something is to pay. For the land's sake, leave +that peony alone, and get the weeds out from around that syringa +bush. You act as if you were possessed. What ailed you and Mr. Allen +this morning? I want to know." + +"I don't know what you are driving at," Henry said again, but he +obediently turned his attention to the syringa bush. He always obeyed +a woman in small matters, and reserved his masculine prerogatives for +large ones. + +Sylvia returned to the house. Her mouth was set hard. Nobody knew how +on occasions Sylvia longed for another woman to whom to speak her +mind. She loved her husband, but no man was capable of entirely +satisfying all her moods. She started to go to the attic on another +exploring expedition; then she stopped suddenly, reflecting. The end +of her reflection was that she took off her gingham apron, tied on a +nice white one trimmed with knitted lace, and went down the street to +Mrs. Thomas P. Ayres's. Thomas P. Ayres had been dead for the last +ten years, but everybody called his widow Mrs. T. P. Ayres. Mrs. +Ayres kept no maid. She had barely enough income to support herself +and her daughter. She came to the door herself. She was a small, +delicate, pretty woman, and her little thin hands were red with +dish-water. + +"Good-morning," she said, in a weary, gentle fashion. "Come in, Mrs. +Whitman, won't you?" As she spoke she wrinkled her forehead between +her curves of gray hair. She had always wrinkled her forehead, but in +some inscrutable fashion the wrinkles had always smoothed out. Her +forehead was smooth as a girl's. She smiled, and the smile was +exactly in accord with her voice; it was weary and gentle. There was +not the slightest joy in it, only a submission and patience which +might evince a slight hope of joy to come. + +"I've got so much to do I ought not to stop long," said Sylvia, "but +I thought I'd run in a minute." + +"Walk right in," said Mrs. Ayres, and Sylvia followed her into the +sitting-room, which was quite charming, with a delicate flowered +paper and a net-work of green vines growing in bracket-pots, which +stood all about. There were also palms and ferns. The small room +looked like a bower, although it was very humbly furnished. Sylvia +sat down. + +"You always look so cool in here," she said, "and it's a warm morning +for so early in the season." + +"It's the plants and vines, I guess," replied Mrs. Ayres, sitting +down opposite Mrs. Whitman. "Lucy has real good luck with them." + +"How is Lucy this morning?" + +Mrs. Ayres wrinkled her forehead again. "She's in bed with a sick +headache," she said. "She has an awful lot of them lately. I'm afraid +she's kind of run down." + +"Why don't you get a tonic?" + +"Well, I have been thinking of it, but Dr. Wallace gives such +dreadful strong medicines, and Lucy is so delicate, that I have +hesitated. I don't know but I ought to take her to Alford to Dr. +Gilbert, but she doesn't want to go. She says it is too expensive, +and she says there's nothing the matter with her; but she has these +terrible headaches almost every other day, and she doesn't eat enough +to keep a sparrow alive, and I can't help being worried about her." + +"It doesn't seem right," agreed Mrs. Whitman. "Last time I was here I +thought she didn't look real well. She's got color, a real pretty +color, but it isn't the right kind." + +"That's just it," said Mrs. Ayres, wrinkling her forehead. "The +color's pretty, but you can see too plain where the red leaves off +and where the white begins." + +"Speaking about color," said Mrs. Whitman, "I am going to ask you +something." + +"What?" + +"Do you really think Miss Farrel's color is natural?" + +"I don't know. It looks so." + +"I know it does, but I had it real straight that she keeps some pink +stuff that she uses in a box as bold as can be, right in sight on her +wash-stand." + +"I don't know anything about it," said Mrs. Ayres, in her weary, +gentle fashion. "I have heard, of course, that some women do use such +things, but none of my folks ever did, and I never knew anybody else +who did." + +Then Sylvia opened upon the subject which had brought her there. She +had reached it by a process as natural as nature itself. + +"I know one thing," said she: "I have no opinion of that woman. I +can't have. When I hear a woman saying such things as I have heard of +her saying about a girl, when I know it isn't true, I make up my mind +those things are true about the woman herself, and she's talking +about herself, because she's got to let it out, and she makes believe +it's somebody else." + +Mrs. Ayres's face took on a strange expression. Her sweet eyes +hardened and narrowed. "What do you mean?" she asked, sharply. + +"I guess I had better not tell you what I mean. Miss Farrel gives +herself clean away just by her looks. No living woman was ever made +so there wasn't a flaw in her face but that there was a flaw in her +soul. We're none of us perfect. If there ain't a flaw outside, +there's a flaw inside; you mark my words." + +"What was it she said?" asked Mrs. Ayres. + +"I don't mean to make trouble. I never did, and I ain't going to +begin now," said Sylvia. Her face took on a sweet, hypocritical +expression. + +"What did she say?" + +Sylvia fidgeted. She was in reality afraid to speak, and yet her very +soul itched to do so. She answered, evasively. "When a woman talks +about a girl running after a man, I think myself she lives in a glass +house and can't afford to throw stones," said she. She nodded her +head unpleasantly. + +Mrs. Ayres reddened. "I suppose you mean she has been talking about +my Lucy," said she. "Well, I can tell you one thing, and I can tell +Miss Farrel, too. Lucy has never run after Mr. Allen or any man. When +she went on those errands to your house I had to fairly make her go. +She said that folks would think she was running after Mr. Allen, even +if he wasn't there, and she has never been, to my knowledge, more +than three times when he was there, and then I made her. I told her +folks wouldn't be so silly as to think such things of a girl like +her." + +"Folks are silly enough for anything. Of course, I knew better; you +know that, Mrs. Ayres." + +"I don't know what I know," replied Mrs. Ayres, with that forceful +indignation of which a gentle nature is capable when aroused. + +Mrs. Whitman looked frightened. She opened her lips to speak, when a +boy came running into the yard. "Why, who is that?" she cried, +nervously. + +"It's Tommy Smith from Gray & Snow's with some groceries I ordered," +said Mrs. Ayres, tersely. She left the room to admit the boy at the +side door. Then Sylvia Whitman heard voices in excited conversation. +At the same time she began to notice that the road was filled with +children running and exclaiming. She herself hurried to the kitchen +door, and Mrs. Ayres turned an ashy face in her direction. At the +same time Lucy Ayres, with her fair hair dishevelled, appeared at the +top of the back stairs listening. "Oh, it is awful!" gasped Mrs. +Ayres. "It is awful! Miss Eliza Farrel is dead, and--" + +Sylvia grasped the other woman nervously by the arm. "And what?" she +cried. + +Lucy gave an hysterical sob and sank down in a slender huddle on the +stairs. The grocer's boy looked at them. He had a happy, important +expression. "They say--" he began, but Mrs. Ayres forestalled him. + +"They say Lucinda Hart murdered her," she screamed out. + +"Good land!" said Sylvia. Lucy sobbed again. + +The boy gazed at them with intense relish. He realized the joy of a +coup. He had never been very important in his own estimation nor that +of others. Now he knew what it was to be important. "Yes," he said, +gayly; "they say she give her rat poison. They've sent for the +sheriff from Alford." + +"She never did it in the world. Why, I went to school with her," +gasped Mrs. Ayres. + +Sylvia had the same conviction, but she backed it with logic. "What +should she do it for?" she demanded. "Miss Farrel was a steady +boarder, and Lucinda ain't had many steady boarders lately, and she +needed the money. Folks don't commit murder without reason. What +reason was there?" + +"School ain't going to keep to-day," remarked the boy, with glee. + +"Of course it ain't," said Sylvia, angrily. "What reason do they +give?" + +"I 'ain't heard of none," said the boy. "S'pose that will come out at +the trial. Hannah Simmons is going to be arrested, too. They think +she knowed something about it." + +"Hannah Simmons wouldn't hurt a fly," said Sylvia. "What makes them +think she knew anything about it?" + +"Johnny Soule, that works at the hotel stable, says she did," said +the boy. "They think he knows a good deal." + +Sylvia sniffed contemptuously. "That Johnny Soule!" said she. "He's +half Canadian. Father was French. I wouldn't take any stock in what +he said." + +"Lucinda never did it," said Mrs. Ayres. "I went to school with her." + +Lucy sobbed again wildly, then she laughed loudly. Her mother turned +and looked at her. "Lucy," said she, "you go straight back up-stairs +and put this out of your mind, or you'll be down sick. Go straight +up-stairs and lie down, and I'll bring you up some of that nerve +medicine Dr. Wallace put up for you. Maybe you can get to sleep." + +Lucy sobbed and laughed again. "Stop right where you are," said her +mother, with a wonderful, firm gentleness--"right where you are. Put +this thing right out of your mind. It's nothing you can help." + +Lucy sobbed and laughed again, and this time her laugh rang so wildly +that the grocer's boy looked at her with rising alarm. He admired +Lucy. "I say," he said. "Maybe she ain't dead, after all. I heard all +this, but you never can tell anything by what folks say. You had +better mind your ma and put it all out of your head." The grocer's +boy and Lucy had been in the same class at school. She had never +noticed him, but he had loved her as from an immeasurable distance. +Both were very young. + +Lucy lifted a beautiful, frightened face, and stared at him. "Isn't +it so?" she cried. + +"I dare say it ain't. You had better mind your ma." + +"I dare say it's all a rumor," said Sylvia, soothingly. + +Mrs. Ayres echoed her. "All a made-up story, I think," said she. "Go +right up-stairs, Lucy, and put it out of your head." + +Lucy crept up-stairs with soft sobs, and they heard a door close. +Then the boy spoke again. "It's so, fast enough," he said, in a +whisper, "but there ain't any need for her to know it yet." + +"No, there isn't, poor child," said Sylvia. + +"She's dreadful nervous," said Mrs. Ayres, "and she thought a lot of +Miss Farrel--more, I guess, than most. The poor woman never was a +favorite here. I never knew why, and I guess nobody else ever did. I +don't care what she may have intimated--I mean what you were talking +about, Sylvia. That's all over. Lucy always seemed to like her, and +the poor child is so sensitive and nervous." + +"Yes, she is dreadful nervous," said Sylvia. + +"And I think she ate too much candy yesterday, too," said Mrs. Ayres. +"She made some candy from a recipe she found in the paper. I think +her stomach is sort of upset, too. I mean to make her think it's all +talk about Miss Farrel until she's more herself." + +"I would," said Sylvia. "Poor child." + +The grocer's boy made a motion to go. "I wonder if they'll hang her," +he said, cheerfully. + +"Hang her!" gasped Mrs. Ayres. "She never did it any more than I did. +I went to school with Lucinda Hart." + +"Why should she kill a steady boarder, when the hotel has run down so +and she's been so hard up for money?" demanded Sylvia. "Hang her! +You'd better run along, sonny; the other customers will be waiting; +and you had better not talk too much till you are sure what you are +talking about." + +The boy went out and closed the door, and they heard his merry +whistle as he raced out of the yard. + + + +Chapter VII + + +Sylvia Whitman, walking home along the familiar village street, felt +like a stranger exploring it for the first time. She had never before +seen it under the glare of tragedy which her own consciousness threw +before her eyes. No tragedy had ever been known in East Westland +since she could remember. It had been a peaceful little community, +with every day much like the one before and after, except for the +happenings of birth and death, which are the most common happenings +of nature. + +But now came death by violence, and even the wayside weeds seemed to +wave in a lurid light. Now and then Sylvia unconsciously brushed her +eyes, as if to sweep away a cobweb which obstructed her vision. When +she reached home, that also looked strange to her, and even her +husband's face in the window had an expression which she had never +seen before. So also had Horace Allen's. Both men were in the south +room. There was in their faces no expression which seemed to denote a +cessation of conversation. In fact, nothing had passed between the +two men except the simple statement to each other of the news which +both had heard. Henry had made no comment, neither had Horace. Both +had set, with gloomy, shocked faces, entirely still. But Sylvia, when +she entered, forced the situation. + +"Why should she kill a steady boarder, much as she needed one?" she +queried. + +And Horace responded at once. "There is no possible motive," he said. +"The arrest is a mere farce. It will surely prove so." + +Then Henry spoke. "I don't understand, for my part, why she is +arrested at all," he said, grimly. + +Horace laughed as grimly. "Because there is no one else to arrest, +and the situation seems to call for some action," he replied. + +"But they must have some reason." + +"All the reason was the girl's (Hannah Simmons, I believe her name +is) seeming to be keeping something back, and saying that Miss Hart +gave Miss Farrel some essence of peppermint last night, and the fact +that the stable-boy seems to be in love with Hannah, and jealous and +eager to do her mistress some mischief, and has hinted at knowing +something, which I don't believe, for my part, he does." + +"It is all nonsense," said Sylvia. "Whatever Hannah Simmons is +keeping to herself, it isn't killing another woman, or knowing that +Lucinda Hart did it. There was no reason for either of those women to +kill Miss Farrel, and folks don't do such awful things without +reason, unless they're crazy, and it isn't likely that Lucinda and +Hannah have both come down crazy together, and I know it ain't in the +Hart family, or the Simmons. What if poor Lucinda did give Miss +Farrel some essence of peppermint? I gave some to Henry night before +last, when he had gas in his stomach, and it didn't kill him." + +"What they claim is that arsenic was in the peppermint," said Horace, +in an odd, almost indifferent voice. + +"Arsenic in the peppermint!" repeated Sylvia. "You needn't tell me +Lucinda Hart put arsenic in the peppermint, though I dare say she had +some in the house to kill rats. It's likely that old tavern was +overrun with them, and I know she lost her cat a few weeks ago. She +told me herself. He was shot when he was out hunting. Lucinda thought +somebody mistook him for a skunk. She felt real bad about it. I feel +kind of guilty myself. I can't help thinking if I'd just looked round +then and hunted up a kitten for poor Lucinda, she never would have +had any need to keep rat poison, and nobody would have suspected her +of such an awful thing. I suppose Albion Bennet right up and told +she'd bought it, first thing. I think he might have kept still, as +long as he'd boarded with Lucinda, and as many favors as she'd showed +him. He knew as well as anybody that she never gave it to Miss +Farrel." + +"Now, Sylvia, he had to tell if he was asked," Henry said, +soothingly, for Sylvia was beginning to show signs of hysterical +excitement. "He couldn't do anything else." + +"He could have forgot," Sylvia returned, shrilly. "Men ain't so awful +conscientious about forgetting. He could have forgot." + +"He had to tell," repeated Henry. "Don't get all wrought up over it, +Sylvia." + +"I can't help it. I begin to feel guilty myself. I know I might have +found a kitten. I had a lot on my mind, with moving and everything, +but I might have done it. Albion Bennet never had the spunk to do +anything but tell all he knew. I suppose he was afraid of his own +precious neck." + +"Ain't it most time to see about dinner?" asked Henry. + +Then Sylvia went out of the room with a little hysterical twitter +like a scared bird, and the two men were left alone. Silence came +over them again. Both men looked moodily at nothing. Finally Henry +spoke. + +"One of the worst features of any terrible thing like this is that +burdens innumerable are either heaped upon the shoulders of the +innocent, or they assume them. There's my poor wife actually trying +to make out that she is in some way to blame." + +"Women are a queer lot," said Horace, in a miserable tone. + +Then the door opened suddenly, and Sylvia's think, excited face +appeared. + +"You don't suppose they'll send them to prison?" she said. + +"They'll both be acquitted," said Horace. "Don't worry, Mrs. Whitman." + +"I've got to worry. How can I help worrying? Even if poor Lucinda is +acquitted, lots of folks will always believe it, and her boarders +will drop away, and as for Hannah Simmons, I shouldn't be a mite +surprised if it broke her match off." + +"It's a dreadful thing," said Henry; "but don't you fret too much +over it, Sylvia. Maybe she killed herself, and if they think that +Lucinda won't have any trouble afterwards." + +"I think some have that opinion now," said Horace. + +Sylvia sniffed. "A woman don't kill herself as long as she's got +spirit enough to fix herself up," she said. "I saw her only yesterday +in a brand-new dress, and her hair was crimped tight enough to last a +week, and her cheeks--" + +"Come, Sylvia," said Henry, admonishingly. + +"You needn't be afraid. I ain't going to talk about them that's dead +and gone, and especially when they've gone in such a dreadful way; +and maybe it wasn't true," said Sylvia. "But it's just as I say: when +a woman is fixed up the way Miss Eliza Farrel was yesterday, she +ain't within a week of making way with herself. Seems as if I might +have had forethought enough to have got that kitten for poor Lucinda." + +Sylvia went out again. The men heard the rattle of dishes. Horace +rose with a heavy sigh, which was almost a sob, and went out by the +hall door, and Henry heard his retreating steps on the stair. He +frowned deeply as he sat by the window. He, too, was bearing in some +measure the burden of which he had spoken. It seemed to him very +strange that under the circumstances Horace had not explained his +mysterious meeting with the woman in the grove north of the house the +night before. Henry had a certainty as to her identity--a certainty +which he could not explain to himself, but which was none the less +fixed. + +No suspicion of Horace, as far as the murder was concerned--if murder +it was--was in his mind, but he did entertain a suspicion of another +sort: of some possibly guilty secret which might have led to the +tragedy. "I couldn't feel worse if he was my own son," he thought. He +wished desperately that he had gone out in the grove and interrupted +the interview. "I'm old enough to be his father," he told himself, +"and I know what young men are. I'm to blame myself." + +When he heard Horace's approaching footsteps on the stair he turned +his face stiffly towards the window, and did not look up when the +young man entered the room. But Horace sat down opposite and began +speaking rapidly in a low voice. + +"I don't know but I ought to go to Mr. Meeks with this instead of +you," he said; "and I don't know that I ought to go to anybody, but, +hang it, I can't keep the little I know to myself any longer--that +is, I can't keep the whole of it. Some I never will tell. Mr. +Whitman, I don't know the exact minute Miss Hart gave her that +confounded peppermint, and Miss Hart seems rather misty about it, and +if the girl knows she won't tell; but I suspect I may be the last +person who saw that poor woman alive. I found a note waiting for me +from her when I arrived yesterday, and--well, she wanted to see me +alone about something very particular, and she--" Horace paused and +reddened. "Well, you know what women are, and of course there was +really no place at the hotel where I could have been sure of a +private interview with her. I couldn't go to her room, and one might +as well talk in a trolley-car as that hotel parlor; and she didn't +want to come here to the house and be closeted with me, and she +didn't want to linger after school, for those school-girls are the +very devil when it comes to seeing anything; and though I will admit +it does sound ridiculous and romantic, I don't see myself what else +she could have done. She asked me in her note to step out in the +grove about ten o'clock, when the house was quiet. She wrote she had +something very important to say to me. So I felt like a fool, but I +didn't go to bed, and I stole down the front stairs, and she was out +there in the grove waiting for me, and we sat down on the bench there +and she told me some things." + +Henry nodded gravely. He now looked at Horace, and there was relief +in his frowning face. + +"I can tell you some of the things that she said to me," continued +Horace, "and I am going to. You are connected with it--that is, you +are through your wife. Miss Farrel wasn't Miss at all. She was a +married woman." Henry nodded again. "She had not lived with her +husband long, however, and she had been married some twenty years +ago. She was older than she looked. For some reason she did not get +on with him, and he left her. I don't myself feel that I know what +the reason was, although she pretended to tell me. She seemed to have +a feeling, poor soul, that, beautiful as she was, she excited +repulsion rather than affection in everybody with whom she came in +contact. 'I might as well be a snake as a woman.' Those were just her +words, and, God help her, I do believe there was something true about +them, although for the life of me I don't know why it was." + +Henry looked at Horace with the eyes of a philosopher. "Maybe it was +because she wanted to charm," he said. + +Horace shot a surprised glance at him. He had not expected anything +like that from Henry, even though he had long said to himself that +there were depths below the commonplace surface. + +"Perhaps you are right," he said, reflectively. "I don't know but you +are. She was a great beauty, and possibly the knowledge of it made +her demand too much, long for too much, so that people dimly realized +it and were repelled instead of being attracted. I think she loved +her husband for a long time after he left her. I think she loved many +others, men and women. I think she loved women better than a woman +usually does, and women could not abide her. That I know; even the +school-girls fought shy of her." + +"I have seen the Ayres girl with her," said Henry. + +Horace changed color. "She is not one of the school-girls," he +replied, hastily. + +"I think I have heard Sylvia say that Mrs. Ayres had asked her there +to tea." + +"Yes, I believe she has. I think perhaps the Ayres family have paid +some attention to her," Horace said, constrainedly. + +"I have seen the Ayres girl with her a good deal, I know," said Henry. + +"Very possibly, I dare say. Well, Miss Farrel did not think she or +any one else cared about her very much. She told me that none of her +pupils did, and I could not gainsay her, and then she told me what I +feel that I must tell you." Horace paused. Henry waited. + +Then Horace resumed. He spoke briefly and to the purpose. + +"Miss Abrahama White, who left her property to your wife, had a +sister," he said. "The sister went away and married, and there was a +daughter. First the father died, then the mother. The daughter, a +mere child at the time, was left entirely destitute. Miss Farrel took +charge of her. She did not tell her the truth. She wished to +establish if possible some claim upon her affection. She considered +that to claim a relationship would be the best way to further her +purpose. The girl was told that Miss Farrel was her mother's cousin. +She was further told that she had inherited a very considerable +property from her mother, whereas she had not inherited one cent. +Miss Farrel gave up her entire fortune to the child. She then, with +the nervous dread of awakening dislike instead of love which filled +her very soul, managed to have the child, in her character of an +heiress, established in a family moving in the best circles, but +sadly in need of money. Then she left her, and began supporting +herself by teaching. The girl is now grown to be a young woman, and +Miss Farrel has not dared see her more than twice since she heaped +such benefits upon her. It has been her dream that some day she might +reveal the truth, and that gratitude might induce love, but she has +never dared put it to the test. Lately she has not been very well, +and the thought has evidently come to her more than once that she +might die and never accomplish her purpose. I almost think the poor +woman had a premonition. She gave me last night the girl's address, +and she made me promise that in case of her death she should be sent +for. 'I can't bear to think that nobody will come,' she said. Of +course I laughed at her. I thought her very morbid, but--well, I have +telegraphed to the girl to come in time for the funeral. She is in +New York. She and the people with whom she lives have just returned +from the South." + +"She must come here," Henry said. + +"I could think of no other place," said Horace. "You think Mrs. +Whitman--" + +"Of course," Henry said. He started up to speak to Sylvia, but Horace +stopped him. + +"I forgot," he said, quickly. "Miss Farrel asked me to promise that I +should not tell the girl, in case of her death before she had an +opportunity of doing so, of what she had done for her. 'Let her come +just because she thinks I am her relative,' she said, 'and because +she may possibly feel kindly towards me. If I can have no comfort +from it while I am alive, there is no need for her to know her +obligation.'" + +"It sounds like a mighty queer story to tell Sylvia," Henry said. +Then he opened the door and called, and Mrs. Whitman immediately +responded. Her hands were white with flour. She had been making +biscuits. She still looked nervous and excited. + +"What is to pay now?" said she. + +Henry told her in few words. + +"You mean that Abrahama's niece was taken care of by Miss Farrel when +her mother died, and Miss Farrel got a place for her to live with +some New York folks, and you mean Miss Farrel was related to her +mother?" said Sylvia. She looked sharply at Henry. + +"Yes," he replied, feebly. Horace stood looking out of the window. + +"She wa'n't," said Sylvia. + +"Now, Sylvia." + +"If that poor woman that's gone wanted the girl to think she was her +relation enough to lie about it I sha'n't tell her, you can depend on +that; but it's a lie," said Sylvia. "Miss Farrel wa'n't no relation +at all to Susy White. She couldn't have been unless she was related +to me, too, on my mother's side, and she wa'n't. I know all about my +mother's family. But I sha'n't tell her. I'm glad Miss Farrel got a +home for her. It was awful that the child was left without a cent. Of +course she must come here, and stay, too. She ought to live with her +folks. We've got enough to take care of her. If we can't do as much +as rich folks, I guess it will be full as well for the girl." + +Henry opened his lips to speak, but a glance from Horace checked him. +Sylvia went on talking nervously. The odd manner and tone which Henry +had noticed lately in everything she said and did seemed intensified. +She talked about what room she should make ready for the girl. She +made plan after plan. She was very pale, then she flushed. She walked +aimlessly about gesturing with her floury hands. + +Finally Henry took her firmly by the shoulder. "Come, Sylvia," he +said, "she won't be here until night. Now you had better get dinner. +It's past twelve." Sylvia gave a quick, frightened glance at him. +Then she went silently out of the room. + +"Mrs. Whitman does not seem well," Horace said, softly. + +"I think her nerves are all out of order with what she has gone +through with lately," said Henry. "It has been a great change that +has come to us both, Mr. Allen. When a man and woman have lived past +their youth, and made up their minds to bread and butter, and nothing +else, and be thankful if you get that much, it seems more like a slap +than a gift of Providence to have mince-pie thrust into their mouths. +It has been too much for Sylvia, and now, of course, this awful thing +that has happened has upset her, and--" + +He stopped, for Sylvia opened the door suddenly. "If she wa'n't dead +and gone, I wouldn't believe one word of such a tomfool story," said +she, with vicious energy. Then she shut the door again. + +At dinner Sylvia ate nothing, and did not talk. Neither Henry nor +Horace said much. In the afternoon Horace went out to make some +arrangements which he had taken upon himself with regard to the dead +woman, and presently Henry followed him. Sylvia worked with feverish +energy all the afternoon setting a room in order for her expected +guest. It was a pretty room, with an old-fashioned paper--a sprawling +rose pattern on a tarnished satin ground. The room overlooked the +grove, and green branches pressed close against two windows. There +was a pretty, old-fashioned dressing-table between the front windows, +and Sylvia picked a bunch of flowers and put them in a china vase, +and set it under the glass, and thought of the girl's face which it +would presently reflect. + +"I wonder if she looks like her mother," she thought. She stood +gazing at the glass, and shivered as though with cold. Then she +started at a sound of wheels outside. In front of the house was +Leander Willard, who kept the livery-stable of East Westland. He was +descending in shambling fashion over the front wheels, steadying at +the same time a trunk on the front seat; and Horace Allen sprang out +of the back of the carriage and assisted a girl in a flutter of +dark-blue skirts and veil. "She's come!" said Sylvia. + + + +Chapter VIII + + +Sylvia gave a hurried glance at her hair in the glass. It shone like +satin with a gray-gold lustre, folded back smoothly from her temples. +She eyed with a little surprise the red spots of excitement which +still remained on her cheeks. The changelessness of her elderly +visage had been evident to her so long that she was startled to see +anything else. "I look as if I had been pulled through a knot-hole," +she muttered. + +She took off her gingham apron, thrust it hastily into a bureau +drawer in the next room, and tied on a clean white one with a +hemstitched border. Then she went down-stairs, the starched white bow +of the apron-strings covering her slim back like a Japanese sash. She +heard voices in the south room, and entered with a little cough. +Horace and the new-comer were standing there talking. The moment +Sylvia entered, Horace stepped forward. "I hardly know how to +introduce you," he said; "I hardly know the relationship. But, Mrs. +Whitman, here is Miss Fletcher--Miss Rose Fletcher." + +"Who accepts your hospitality with the utmost gratitude," said Miss +Rose Fletcher, extending a little hand in a wonderful loose gray +travelling glove. Mrs. Whitman took the offered hand and let it drop. +She was rigid and prim. She smiled, but the smile was merely a +widening of her thin, pale, compressed lips. She looked at the girl +with gray eyes, which had a curious blank sharpness in them. Rose +Fletcher was so very well dressed, so very redolent of good breeding +and style, that it was difficult at first to comprehend if that was +all. Finally one perceived that she was a very pretty girl, of a +sweet, childish type, in spite of her finished manners and her very +sophisticated clothes. Sylvia at first saw nothing except the +clothes, and realized nothing except the finished manner. She +immediately called to the front her own manners, which were as +finished as the girl's, albeit of a provincial type. Extreme manners +in East Westland required a wholly artificial voice and an expression +wholly foreign to the usual one. Horace had never before seen Sylvia +when all her manners were in evidence, and he gazed at her now in +astonishment and some dismay. + +"Her mother was own sister to Miss Abrahama White, and Abrahama +White's mother and my mother were own cousins on the mother's side. +My mother was a White," she said. The voice came like a slender, +reedy whistle from between her moveless, widened lips. She stood as +if encased in armor. Her apron-strings stood out fiercely and were +quite evident over each hip. She held her head very high, and the +cords on her long, thin neck stood out. + +Poor Rose Fletcher looked a little scared and a little amused. She +cast a glance at Horace, as if for help. He did not know what to say, +but tried manfully to say it. "I have never fully known, in such a +case," he remarked, "whether the relationship is second cousin or +first cousin once removed." It really seemed to him that he had never +known. He looked up with relief as Henry entered the room, and Sylvia +turned to him, still with her manners fully in evidence. + +"Mr. Whitman, this is Miss Abrahama White's niece," said she. + +She bowed stiffly herself as Henry bowed. He was accustomed to +Sylvia's company manners, but still he was not himself. He had never +seen a girl like this, and he was secretly both angry and alarmed to +note the difference between her and Sylvia, and all women to which he +had been used. However, his expression changed directly before the +quick look of pretty, childish appeal which the girl gave him. It was +Rose's first advance to all men whom she met, her little feeler put +out to determine their dispositions towards her. It was quite +involuntary. She was unconscious of it, but it was as if she said in +so many words, "Do you mean to be kind to me? Don't you like the look +of me? I mean entirely well. There is no harm in me. Please don't +dislike me." + +Sylvia saw the glance and interpreted it. "She looks like her +mother," she announced, harshly. It was part of Sylvia's extreme +manners to address a guest in the third person. However, in this +case, it was in reality the clothes which had occasioned so much +formality. She immediately, after she had spoken and Henry had +awkwardly murmured his assent to her opinion, noticed how tired the +girl looked. She was a slender little thing, and looked delicate in +spite of a babyish roundness of face, which was due to bone-formation +rather than flesh. + +Sylvia gave an impression of shoving the men aside as she approached +the girl. "You look tired to death," said she, and there was a sweet +tone in her force voice. + +Rose brightened, and smiled at her like a pleased child. "Oh, I am +very tired!" she cried. "I must confess to being very tired, indeed. +The train was so fast. I came on the limited from New York, you know, +and the soft-coal smoke made me ill, and I couldn't eat anything, +even if there had been anything to eat which wasn't all full of +cinders. I shall be so very glad of a bath and an opportunity to +change my gown. I shall have to beg you to allow your maid to assist +me a little. My own maid got married last week, unexpectedly, and I +have not yet replaced her." + +"I don't keep a hired girl," said Sylvia. She looked, as Henry had, +both angry and abashed. "I will fasten up your dress in the neck if +that is what you want," said she. + +"Oh, that is all," Rose assured her, and she looked abashed, too. +Even sophistication is capable of being daunted before utterly +unknown conditions. She followed Sylvia meekly up-stairs, and Henry +and Horace carried the trunk, which had been left on the front walk, +up after them. + +Leander Willard was a man of exceeding dignity. He was never willing +to carry a trunk even into a house. "If the folks that the trunk +belongs to can't heft it in after I've brought it up from the depot, +let it set out," he said. "I drive a carriage to accommodate, but I +ain't no porter." + +Therefore, Henry and Horace carried up the trunk and unstrapped it. +Rose looked around her with delight. "Oh, what a lovely room!" she +cried. + +"It gets the morning sun," said Sylvia. "The paper is a little mite +faded, but otherwise it's just as good as it ever was." + +"It is perfectly charming," said Rose. She tugged at the jewelled +pins in her hat. Sylvia stood watching her. When she had succeeded in +removing the hat, she thrust her slender fingers through her fluff of +blond hair and looked in the glass. Her face appeared over the bunch +of flowers, as Sylvia had thought of its doing. Rose began to laugh. +"Good gracious!" she said. "For all I took such pains to wash my face +in the lavatory, there is a great black streak on my left cheek. +Sometimes I think the Pullmans are dirtier than the common +coaches--that more soft-coal smoke comes in those large windows; +don't you think so?" + +Sylvia colored, but her honesty was fearless. "I don't know what a +Pullman is," she said. + +Rose stared for a second. "Oh, a parlor-car," she said. "A great many +people always say parlor-car." Rose was almost apologetic. + +"Did you come in a parlor-car?" asked Sylvia. Rose wondered why her +voice was so amazed, even aggressive. + +"Why, of course; I always do," said Rose. + +"I've seen them go through here," said Sylvia. + +"Do you mind telling me where my bath-room is?" asked Rose, looking +vaguely at the doors. She opened one. "Oh, this is a closet!" she +cried. "What a lovely large one!" + +"There ain't such a thing as a bath-room in this house," replied +Sylvia. "Abrahama White, your aunt, had means, but she always thought +she had better ways for her money than putting in bath-rooms to +freeze up in winter and run up plumbers' bills. There ain't any +bath-room, but there's plenty of good, soft rain-water from the +cistern in your pitcher on the wash-stand there, and there's a new +cake of soap and plenty of clean towels." + +Rose reddened. Again sophistication felt abashed before dauntless +ignorance. She ran to the wash-stand. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" she +cried. "Of course this will do beautifully. What a charming old +wash-stand!--and the water is delightfully soft." Rose began +splashing water over her face. She had taken off her blue +travelling-gown and flung it in a heap over a chair. Sylvia +straightened it out carefully, noting with a little awe the rustle of +its silk linings; then she hung it in the closet. "I'll hang it here, +where it won't get all of a muss," said she. Already she began to +feel a pleasure which she had never known--the pleasure of chiding a +young creature from the heights of her own experience. She began +harshly, but before she had finished her voice had a tender cadence. + +"Oh, thank you," said the girl, still bending over the wash-basin. "I +know I am careless with my things. You see, I have always been so +dependent upon my maid to straighten out everything for me. You will +do me good. You will teach me to be careful." + +She turned around, wiping her face, and smiling at Sylvia, who felt +her very soul melt within her, although she still remained rigidly +prim, with her stiff apron-strings standing out at right angles. She +looked at the girl's slender arms and thin neck, which was pretty +though thin. "You don't weigh much, do you?" she said. + +"A little over a hundred, I think." + +"You must eat lots of fresh vegetables and eggs, and drink milk, and +get more flesh on your bones," said Sylvia, and her voice was full of +delight, although now--as always, lately--a vague uneasiness lurked +in her eyes. Rose, regarding her, thought, with a simple shrewdness +which was inborn, that her new cousin must have something on her +mind. She wondered if it was her aunt's death. "I suppose you thought +a good deal of my aunt who died," she ventured, timidly. + +Sylvia regarded her with quick suspicion. She paled a little. "I +thought enough of her," she replied. "She had always lived here. We +were distant-related, and we never had any words, but I didn't see +much of her. She kept herself to herself, especially of late years. +Of course, I thought enough of her, and it makes me feel real bad +sometimes--although I own I can't help being glad to have so many +nice things--to think she had to go away and leave them." + +"I know you must feel so," said Rose. "I suppose you feel sometimes +as if they weren't yours at all." + +Sylvia turned so pale that Rose started. "Why, what is the matter? +Are you ill?" she cried, running to her. "Let me get some water for +you. You are so white." + +Sylvia pushed her away. "There's nothing the matter with me," she +said. "Folks can't always be the same color unless they're painted." +She gave her head a shake as if to set herself right, and turned +resolutely towards Rose's trunk. "Can you unpack, yourself, or do you +want me to help you?" she asked. + +Rose eyed the trunk helplessly, then she looked doubtfully at Sylvia. +A woman who was a relative of hers, and who lived in a really grand +old house, and was presumably well-to-do, and had no maids at +command, but volunteered to do the service herself, was an anomaly to +her. + +"I'm afraid it will be too much trouble," she said, hesitatingly. +"Marie always unpacked my trunk, but you have no--" + +"I guess if I had a girl I wouldn't set her to unpacking your trunk," +said Sylvia, vigorously. "Where is your key?" + +"In my bag," replied Rose, and she searched for the key in her +dark-blue, gold-trimmed bag. "Mrs. Wilton's maid, Anne, packed my +trunk for me," she said. "Anne packs very nicely. Mr. Wilton and her +sister, Miss Pamela Mack, did not know whether I ought to put on +mourning or not for Cousin Eliza, but they said it would be only +proper for me to wear black to the funeral. So I have a ready-made +black gown and hat in the trunk. I hardly knew how much to bring. I +did not know--" She stopped. She had intended to say--"how long I +should stay," but she was afraid. + +Sylvia finished for her. "You can stay just as long as you are a mind +to," said she. "You can live here all the rest of your life, as far +as that is concerned. You are welcome. It would suit me, and it would +suit Mr. Whitman." + +Rose looked at Sylvia in amazement as she knelt stiffly on the floor +unlocking her trunk. "Thank you, you are very kind," she said, +feebly. She had a slight sensation of fear at such a wealth of +hospitality offered her from a stranger, although she was a distant +relative. + +"You know this was your own aunt's house and your own aunt's things," +said Sylvia, beginning to remove articles from the trunk, "and I want +you to feel at home here--just as if you had a right here." The words +were cordial, but there was a curious effect as if she were repeating +a well-rehearsed lesson. + +"Thank you," Rose said again, more feebly than before. She watched +Sylvia lifting out gingerly a fluffy white gown, which trailed over +her lean arm to the floor. "That is a tea-gown; I think I will put it +on now," said Rose. "It will be so comfortable, and you are not +formal here, are you?" + +"Eh?" + +"You are not formal here in East Westland, are you?" + +"No," replied Sylvia, "we ain't formal. So you want to put on--this?" + +"Yes, I think I will." + +Sylvia laid the tea-gown on the bed, and turned to the trunk again. + +"You know, of course, that Aunt Abrahama and mamma were estranged for +years before mamma died," said Rose. She sat before the white +dressing-table watching Sylvia, and the lovely turn of her neck and +her blond head were reflected in the glass above the vase of flowers. + +"Yes, I knew something about it." + +"I never did know much, except that Aunt Abrahama did not approve of +mamma's marriage, and we never saw her nor heard of her. Wasn't it +strange," she went on, confidentially, "how soon after poor mamma's +death all my money came to me?" + +Sylvia turned on her. "Have you got money?" said she. "I thought you +were poor." + +"Yes, I think I have a great deal of money. I don't know how much. My +lawyers take care of it, and there is a trustee, who is very kind. He +is a lawyer, too. He was a friend of poor Cousin Eliza's. His name is +McAllister. He lives in Chicago, but he comes to New York quite +often. He is quite an old gentleman, but very nice indeed. Oh yes, I +have plenty of money. I always have had ever since mamma died--at +least, since a short time after. But we were very poor, I think, +after papa died. I think we must have been. I was only a little girl +when mamma died, but I seem to remember living in a very little, +shabby place in New York--very little and shabby--and I seem to +remember a great deal of noise. Sometimes I wonder if we could have +lived beside the elevated road. It does not seem possible that we +could have been as poor as that, but sometimes I do wonder. And I +seem to remember a close smell about our rooms, and that they were +very hot, and I remember when poor mamma died, although I was so +young. I remember a great many people, who seemed very kind, came in, +and after that I was in a place with a good many other little girls. +I suppose it was a school. And then--" Rose stopped and turned white, +and a look of horror came over her face. + +"What then?" asked Sylvia. "Don't you feel well, child?" + +"Yes, I feel well--as well as I ever feel when I almost remember +something terrible and never quite do. Oh, I hope I never shall quite +remember. I think I should die if I did." + +Sylvia stared at her. Rose's face was fairly convulsed. Sylvia rose +and hesitated a moment, then she stepped close to the girl and pulled +the fair head to her lean shoulder. "Don't; you mustn't take on so," +she said. "Don't try to remember anything if it makes you feel like +that. You'll be down sick." + +"I am trying not to remember, and always the awful dread lest I shall +comes over me," sobbed the girl. "Mr. McAllister says not to try to +remember, too, but I am so horribly afraid that I shall try in spite +of me. Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela don't know anything about it. I +never said anything about it to them. I did once to Mr. McAllister, +and I did to Cousin Eliza, and she said not to try, and now I am +telling you, I suppose because you are related to me. It came over me +all of a sudden." + +Rose sobbed again. Sylvia smoothed her hair, then she shook her by +the slender, soft shoulders, and again that overpowering delight +seized her. "Come, now," she said, "don't you cry another minute. You +get up and lay your underclothes away in the bureau drawers. It's +almost time to get supper, and I can't spend much more time here." + +Rose obeyed. She packed away piles of laced and embroidered things in +the bureau drawers, and under Sylvia's directions hung up her gowns +in the closet. As she did this she volunteered further information. + +"I do remember one thing," she said, with a shudder, "and I always +know if I could remember back of that the dreadful thing would come +to me." She paused for a moment, then she said, in a shocked voice: +"Mrs. Whitman." + +"What is it?" + +"I really do remember that I was in a hospital once when I was +little. I remember the nurses and the little white beds. That was not +dreadful at all. Everybody petted me, but that was when the trying +not to remember began." + +"Don't you think of it another minute," Sylvia said, sternly. + +"I won't; I won't, really. I--" + +"For goodness' sake, child, don't hang that heavy coat over that lace +waist--you'll ruin it!" cried Sylvia. + +Rose removed the coat hurriedly, and resumed, as Sylvia took it out +of her hand: "It was right after that Cousin Eliza Farrel came, and +then all that money was left to me by a cousin of father's, who died. +Then I went to live with Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela, and I went to +school, and I went abroad, and I always had plenty, and never any +trouble, except once in a while being afraid I should remember +something dreadful. Poor Cousin Eliza Farrel taught school all the +time. I never saw her but twice after the first time. When I grew +older I tried to have her come and live with me. Mrs. Wilton and Miss +Pamela have always been very nice to me, but I have never loved them. +I could never seem to get at enough of them to love." + +"You had better put on that now," said Sylvia, indicating the fluffy +mass on the bed. "I'll help you." + +"I don't like to trouble you," Rose said, almost pitifully, but she +stood still while Sylvia, again with that odd sensation of delight, +slipped over the young head a lace-trimmed petticoat, and fastened +it, and then the tea-gown. The older woman dressed the girl with +exactly the same sensations that she might have experienced in +dressing her own baby for the first time. When the toilet was +completed she viewed the result, however, with something that savored +of disapproval. + +Rose, after looking in the glass at her young beauty in its setting +of lace and silk, looked into Sylvia's face for the admiration which +she felt sure of seeing there, and shrank. "What is the matter? Don't +I look nice?" she faltered. + +Sylvia looked critically at the sleeves of the tea-gown, which were +mere puffs of snowy lace, streaming with narrow ribbons, reaching to +the elbow. "Do they wear sleeves like that now in New York?" asked +she. + +"Why, yes!" replied Rose. "This tea-gown came home only last week +from Madame Felix." + +"They wear sleeves puffed at the bottom instead of the top, and a +good deal longer, in East Westland," said Sylvia. + +"Why, this was made from a Paris model," said Rose, meekly. Again +sophistication was abashed before the confidence of conservatism. + +"I don't know anything about Paris models," said Sylvia. "Mrs. +Greenaway gets all her patterns right from Boston." + +"I hardly think madame would have made the sleeves this way unless it +was the latest," said Rose. + +"I don't know anything about the latest," said Sylvia. "We folks here +in East Westland try to get the _best_." Sylvia felt as if she were +chiding her own daughter. She spoke sternly, but her eyes beamed with +pleasure. The young girl's discomfiture seemed to sweeten her very +soul. + +"For mercy's sake, hold up your dress going down-stairs," she +admonished. "I swept the stairs this morning, but the dust gathers +before you can say boo, and that dress won't do up." + +Rose gathered up the tail of her gown obediently, and she also +experienced a certain odd pleasure. New England blood was in her +veins. It was something new and precious to be admonished as a New +England girl might be admonished by a fond mother. + +When she went into the south room, still clinging timidly to her lace +train, Horace rose. Henry sat still. He looked at her with pleased +interest, but it did not occur to him to rise. Horace always rose +when Sylvia entered a room, and Henry always rather resented it. +"Putting on society airs," he thought to himself, with a sneer. + +However, he smiled involuntarily; the girl was so very pretty and so +very unlike anything which he had ever seen. "Dressed up as if she +were going to a ball, in a dress made like a night-gown," he thought, +but he smiled. As for Horace, he felt dazzled. He had scarcely +realized how pretty Rose was under the dark-blue mist of her veil. He +placed a chair for her, and began talking about the journey and the +weather while Sylvia got supper. Henry was reading the local paper. +Rose's eyes kept wandering to that. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, +was across the room in a white swirl, and snatched the paper from +Henry's hands. + +"What is this, oh, what is this?" she cried out. + +She had read before Horace could stop her. She turned upon him, then +upon Henry. Her face was very pale and working with emotion. + +"Oh," she cried, "you only telegraphed me that poor Cousin Eliza was +dead! You did not either of you tell me she was murdered. I loved +her, although I had not seen her for years, because I have so few to +whom my love seemed to belong. I was sorry because she was dead, but +murdered!" + +Rose threw herself on a chair, and sobbed and sobbed. + +"I loved her; I did love her," she kept repeating, like a distressed +child. "I did love her, poor Cousin Eliza, and she was murdered. I +did love her." + + + +Chapter IX + + +Horace was right in his assumption that the case against Lucinda Hart +and Hannah Simmons would never be pressed. Although it was proved +beyond a doubt that Eliza Farrel had swallowed arsenic in a +sufficiently large quantity to cause death, the utter absence of +motive was in the favor of the accused, and then the suspicion that +the poison might have been self-administered, if not with suicidal +intent, with another, steadily gained ground. Many thought Miss +Farrel's wonderful complexion might easily have been induced by the +use of arsenic. + +At all events, the evidence against Lucinda and Hannah, when sifted, +was so exceedingly flimsy, and the lack of motive grew so evident, +that there was no further question of bringing them to trial. Still +the suspicion, once raised, grew like a weed, as suspicion does grow +in the ready soil of the human heart. For a month after the tragedy +it seemed as if Sylvia Whitman's prophecy concerning the falling off +of the hotel guests was destined to fail. The old hostelry was +crowded. Newspaper men and women from all parts of the country +flocked there, and also many not connected with the press, who were +morbidly curious and revelled in the sickly excitement of thinking +they might be living in the house of a poisoner. Lucinda Hart sent in +her resignation from the church choir. Her experience, the first time +she had sung after Eliza Farrel's death, did not exactly daunt her; +she was not easily daunted. But she had raised her husky contralto, +and lifted her elderly head in its flowered bonnet before that +watchful audience of old friends and neighbors, and had gone home and +written her stiffly worded note of resignation. + +She attended church the following Sunday. She said to herself that +her absence might lead people to think there was some ground for the +awful charge which had been brought against her. She bought a smart +new bonnet and sat among the audience, and heard Lucy Ayres, who had +a beautiful contralto, sing in her place. Lucy sang well, and looked +very pretty in her lace blouse and white hat, but she was so pale +that people commented on it. Sylvia, who showed a fairly antagonistic +partisanship for Lucinda, spoke to her as she came out of church, and +walked with her until their roads divided. Sylvia left Henry to +follow with Rose Fletcher, who was still staying in East Westland, +and pressed close to Lucinda. + +"How are you?" she said. + +"Well enough; why shouldn't I be?" retorted Lucinda. + +It was impossible to tell from her manner whether she was grateful +for, or resented, friendly advances. She held her head very high. +There was a stiff, jetted ornament on her new bonnet, and it stood up +like a crest. She shot a suspicious glance at Sylvia. Lucinda in +those days entertained that suspicion of suspicion which poisons the +very soul. + +"I don't know why you shouldn't be," replied Sylvia. She herself cast +an angry glance at the people around them, and that angry glance was +like honey to Lucinda. "You were a fool to give up your place in the +choir," said Sylvia, still with that angry, wandering gaze. "I'd +sung. I'd shown 'em; and I'd sung out of tune if I'd wanted to." + +"You don't know what it was like last Sunday," said Lucinda then. She +did not speak complainingly or piteously. There was proud strength in +her voice, but it was emphatic. + +"I guess I do know," said Sylvia. "I saw everybody craning their +necks, and all them strangers. You've got a lot of strangers at the +hotel, haven't you, Lucinda?" + +"Yes," said Lucinda, and there was an echo in her monosyllable like +an expletive. + +Sylvia nodded sympathizingly. "Some of them write for the papers, I +suppose?" said she. + +"Some of them. I know it's my bread-and-butter to have them, but I +never saw such a parcel of folks. Talk about eyes in the backs of +heads, they're all eyes and all ears. Sometimes I think they ain't +nothing except eyes and ears and tongue. But there's a lot besides +who like to think maybe they're eating poison. I know I'm watched +every time I stir up a mite of cake, but I stir away." + +"You must have your hands full." + +"Yes; I had to get Abby Smith to come in and help." + +"She ain't good for much." + +"No, she ain't. She's thinkin' all the time of how she looks, instead +of what she's doing. She waits on table, though, and helps wash +dishes. She generally forgets to pass the vegetables till the meat is +all et up, and they're lucky if they get any butter; but I can't help +it. They only pay five dollars a week, and get a lot of enjoyment out +of watching me and Hannah, and they can't expect everything." + +The two women walked along the country road. There were many other +people besides the church-going throng in their Sunday best, but they +seemed isolated, although closely watched. Presently, however, a +young man, well dressed in light gray, with a white waistcoat, +approached them. + +"Why, good-day, Miss Hart!" he said, raising his hat. + +Lucinda nodded stiffly and walked on. She did not speak to him, but +to Sylvia. "He is staying at the hotel. He writes for a New York +paper," she informed Sylvia, distinctly. + +The young man laughed. "And Miss Hart is going to write for it, too," +he said, pleasantly and insinuatingly. "She is going to write an +article upon how it feels to be suspected of a crime when one is +innocent, and it will be the leading feature in next Sunday's paper. +She is to have her picture appear with it, too, and photographs of +her famous hotel and the room in which the murder was said to have +been committed, aren't you, Miss Hart?" + +"Yes," replied Lucinda, with stolidity. + +Sylvia stared with amazement. "Why, Lucinda!" she gasped. + +"When I find out folks won't take no, I give 'em yes," said Lucinda, +grimly. + +"I knew I could finally persuade Miss Hart," said the young man, +affably. He was really very much of a gentleman. He touched his hat, +striking into a pleasant by-path across a field to a wood beyond. + +"He's crazy over the country," remarked Lucinda; and then she was +accosted again, by another gentleman. This time he was older and +stouter, and somewhat tired in his aspect, but every whit as genially +persuasive. + +"He writes for a New York paper," said Lucinda to Sylvia, in exactly +the same tone which she had used previously. "He wants me to write a +piece for his paper on my first twenty-four hours under suspicion of +crime." + +"And you are going to write it, aren't you, Miss Hart?" asked the +gentleman. + +"Yes," replied Lucinda, with alacrity. + +This time the gentleman looked a trifle suspicious. He pressed his +inquiry. "Can you let us have the copy by Wednesday?" he asked. + +"Yes," said Lucinda. Her "yes" had the effect of a snap. + +The gentleman talked a little more at length with regard to his +article, and Lucinda never failed with her ready "yes." + +They were almost at the turn of the road, where Sylvia would leave +Lucinda, when a woman appeared. She was young, but she looked old, +and her expression was one of spiritual hunger. + +"This lady writes for a Boston paper," said Lucinda. "She came +yesterday. She wants me to write a piece for her paper upon women's +unfairness to women." + +"Based upon the late unfortunate occurrence at Miss Hart's hotel," +said the woman. + +"Yes," said Lucinda, "of course; everything is based on that. She +wants me to write a piece upon how ready women are to accuse other +women of doing things they didn't do." + +"And you are going to write it?" said the woman, eagerly. + +"Yes," said Lucinda. + +"Oh, thank you! you are a perfect dear," said the woman. "I am so +much pleased, and so will Mr. Evans be when he hears the news. Now I +must ask you to excuse me if I hurry past, for I ought to wire him at +once. I can get back to Boston to-night." + +The woman had left them, with a swish of a frilled silk petticoat +under a tailored skirt, when Sylvia looked at Lucinda. "You ain't +goin' to?" said she. + +"No." + +"But you said so." + +"You'd say anything to get rid of them. I've said no till I found out +they wouldn't take it, so then I began to say yes. I guess I've said +yes, in all, to about seventeen." + +"And you don't mean to write a thing?" + +"I guess I ain't going to begin writing for the papers at my time of +life." + +"But what will they do?" + +"They won't get the pieces." + +"Can't they sue you, or anything?" + +"Let them sue if they want to. After what I've been through lately I +guess I sha'n't mind that." + +"And you are telling every one of them you'll write a piece?" + +"Of course I am. It's the only thing they'll let me tell them. I want +to get rid of them somehow." + +Sylvia looked at Lucinda anxiously. "Is it true that Albion Bennet +has left?" she said. + +"Yes; he was afraid of getting poisoned. Mrs. Jim Jones has taken +him. I reckon I sha'n't have many steady boarders after this has +quieted down." + +"But how are you going to get along, Lucinda?" + +"I shall get along. Everybody gets along. What's heaped on you you +have to get along with. I own the hotel, and I shall keep more hens +and raise more garden truck, and let Hannah go if I can't pay her. I +shall have some business, enough to keep me alive, I guess." + +"Is it true that Amos Quimby has jilted Hannah on account of--?" + +"Guess so. He hasn't been near her since." + +"Ain't it a shame?" + +"Hannah's got to live with what's heaped on her shoulders, too," said +Lucinda. "Folks had ought to be thankful when the loads come from +other people's hands, instead of their own, and make the best of it. +Hannah has got a good appetite. It ain't going to kill her. She can +go away from East Westland by-and-by if she wants to, and get another +beau. Folks didn't suspect her much, anyway. I've got the brunt of +it." + +"Lucinda," said Sylvia, earnestly. "Folks can't really believe you'd +go and do such a thing." + +"It's like flies after molasses," said Lucinda. "I never felt I was +so sweet before in my life." + +"What can they think you'd go and poison a good, steady boarder like +that for?" + +"She paid a dollar a day," said Lucinda. + +"I know she did." + +"And I liked her," said Lucinda. "I know lots of folks didn't, but I +did. I know what folks said, and I'll own I found things in her room, +but I don't care what folks do to their outsides as long as their +insides are right. Miss Farrel was a real good woman, and she had a +kind of hard time, too." + +"Why, I thought she had a real good place in the high-school; and +teachers earn their money dreadful easy." + +"It wasn't that." + +"What was it?" + +Lucinda hesitated. "Well," she said, finally, "it can't do her any +harm, now she's dead and gone, and I don't know as it was anything +against her, anyway. She just set her eyes by your boarder." + +"Not Mr. Allen? You don't mean Mr. Allen, Lucinda?" + +"What other boarder have you had? I've known about it for a long +time. Hannah and me both have known, but we never opened our lips, +and I don't want it to go any further now." + +"How did you find out?" + +"By keeping my eyes and ears open. How does anybody find out +anything?" + +"I don't believe Mr. Allen ever once thought of her," said Sylvia, +and there was resentment in her voice. + +"Of course he didn't. Maybe he'll take a shine to that girl you've +got with you now." + +"Neither one of them has even thought of such a thing," declared +Sylvia, and her voice was almost violent. + +"Well, I don't know," Lucinda said, indifferently. "I have had too +much to look out for of my own affairs since the girl came to know +anything about that. I only thought of their being in the same house. +I always had sort of an idea myself that maybe Lucy Ayres would be +the one." + +"I hadn't," said Sylvia. "Not but she--well, she looked real sick +to-day. She didn't look fit to stand up there and sing. I should +think her mother would be worried about her. And she don't sing half +as well as you do." + +"Yes, she does," replied Lucinda. "She sings enough sight better than +I do." + +"Well, I don't know much about music," admitted Sylvia. "I can't tell +if anybody gets off the key." + +"I can," said Lucinda, firmly. "She sings enough sight better than I +can, but I sang plenty well enough for them, and if I hadn't been so +mad at the way I've been treated I'd kept on. Now they can get on +without me. Lucy Ayres does look miserable. There's consumption in +her family, too. Well, it's good for her lungs to sing, if she don't +overdo it. Good-bye, Sylvia." + +"Good-bye," said Sylvia. She hesitated a moment, then she said: +"Don't you mind, Lucinda. Henry and I think just the same of you as +we've always thought, and there's a good many besides us. You haven't +any call to feel bad." + +"I don't feel bad," said Lucinda. "I've got spunk enough and grit +enough to bear any load that I 'ain't heaped on my own shoulders, and +the Lord knows I 'ain't heaped this. Don't you worry about me, +Sylvia. Good-bye." + +Lucinda went her way. She held her nice black skirt high, but her +plodding feet raised quite a cloud of dust. Her shoulders were thrown +back, her head was very erect, the jetted ornament on her bonnet +shone like a warrior's crest. She stepped evenly out of sight, as +evenly as if she had been a soldier walking in line and saying to +himself, "Left, right; left, right." + + + +Chapter X + + +When Sylvia reached home she found Rose Fletcher and Horace Allen +sitting on the bench under the oak-trees of the grove north of the +house. She marched out there and stood before them, holding her +fringed parasol in such a way that it made a concave frame for her +stern, elderly face and thin shoulders. "Rose," said she, "you had +better go into the house and lay down till dinner-time. You have been +walking in the sun, and it is warm, and you look tired." + +She spoke at once affectionately and severely. It seemed almost +inconceivable that this elderly country woman could speak in such +wise to the city-bred girl in her fashionable attire, with her air of +self-possession. + +But the girl looked up at her as if she loved her, and answered, in +just the way in which Sylvia liked her to answer, with a sort of +pretty, childish petulance, defiant, yet yielding. "I am not in the +least tired," said she, "and it did not hurt me to walk in the sun, +and I like to sit here under the trees." + +Rose was charming that morning. Her thick, fair hair was rolled back +from her temples, which had at once something noble and childlike +about them. Her face was as clear as a cameo. She was dressed in +mourning for her aunt, but her black robe was thin and the fine +curves of her shoulders and arms were revealed, and the black lace of +her wide hat threw her fairness into relief like a setting of onyx. + +"You had better go into the house," said Sylvia, her eyes stern, her +mouth smiling. A maternal instinct which dominated her had awakened +suddenly in the older woman's heart. She adored the girl to such an +extent that the adoration fairly pained her. Rose herself might +easily have found this exacting affection, this constant +watchfulness, irritating, but she found it sweet. She could scarcely +remember her mother, but the memory had always been as one of lost +love. Now she seemed to have found it again. She fairly coquetted +with this older woman who loved her, and whom she loved, with that +charming coquettishness sometimes seen in a daughter towards her +mother. She presumed upon this affection which she felt to be so +staple. She affronted Sylvia with a delicious sense of her own power +over her and an underlying affection, which had in it the protective +instinct of youth which dovetailed with the protective instinct of +age. + +It had been planned that she was to return to New York immediately +after Miss Farrel's funeral. In fact, her ticket had been bought and +her trunk packed, when a telegram arrived rather late at night. Rose +had gone to bed when Sylvia brought it up to her room. "Don't be +scared," she said, holding the yellow envelope behind her. Rose +stared at her, round-eyed, from her white nest. She turned pale. + +"What is it?" she said, tremulously. + +"There's no need for you to go and think anything has happened until +you read it," Sylvia said. "You must be calm." + +"Oh, what is it?" + +"A telegram," replied Sylvia, solemnly. "You must be calm." + +Rose laughed. "Oh, Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela are forever sending +telegrams," she said. "Very likely it is only to say somebody will +meet me at the Grand Central." + +Sylvia looked at the girl in amazement, as she coolly opened and read +the telegram. Rose's face changed expression. She regarded the yellow +paper thoughtfully a moment before she spoke. + +"If anything has happened, you must be calm," said Sylvia, looking at +her anxiously. "Of course you have lived with those people so many +years you have learned to think a good deal of them; that is only +natural; but, after all, they ain't your own." + +Rose laughed again, but in rather a perplexed fashion. "Nothing has +happened," she said--"at least, nothing that you are thinking +of--but--" + +"But what?" + +"Why, Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela are going to sail for Genoa +to-morrow, and that puts an end to my going to New York to them." + +A great brightness overspread Sylvia's face. "Well, you ain't left +stranded," she said. "You've got your home here." + +Rose looked gratefully at her. "You do make me feel as if I had, and +I don't know what I should do if you did not, but"--she frowned +perplexedly--"all the same, one would not have thought they would +have gone off in this way without giving me a moment's notice," she +said, in rather an injured fashion, "after I have lived with them so +long. I never thought they really cared much about me. Mrs. Wilton +and Miss Pamela look too hard at their own tracks to get much +interest in anybody or anything outside; but starting off in this +way! They might have thought that I would like to go--at least they +might have told me." + +Suddenly her frown of perplexity cleared away. "I know what has +happened," she said, with a nod to Sylvia. "I know exactly what has +happened." + +"What?" + +"Mrs. Wilton's and Miss Pamela's aunt Susan has died, and they've got +the money. They have been waiting for it ever since I have been with +them. Their aunt was over ninety, and it did begin to seem as if she +would never die." + +"Was she very rich?" + +"Oh, very; millions; and she never gave a cent to Mrs. Wilton and +Miss Pamela. She has died, and they have just made up their minds to +go away. They have always said they should live abroad as soon as +they were able." Rose looked a little troubled for a moment, then she +laughed. "They kept me as long as they needed me," said she, with a +pleasant cynicism, "and I don't know but I had lived with them long +enough to suit myself. Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela were always nice +to me, but sometimes--well, sometimes I felt so outside them that I +was awfully lonesome. And Mrs. Wilton always did just what you knew +she would, and so did Miss Pamela, and it was a little like living +with machines that were wound up to do the right thing by you, but +didn't do it of their own accord. Now they have run down, just like +machines. I know as well as I want to that Aunt Susan has died and +left them her money. I shall get a letter to-morrow telling me about +it. I think myself that Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela will get married +now. They never gave up, you know. Mrs. Wilton's husband died ages +ago, and she was as much of an old maid as Miss Pamela, and neither +of them would give up. They will be countesses or duchesses or +something within a year." + +Rose laughed, and Sylvia beamed upon her. "If you feel that you can +stay here," she said, timidly. + +"_If_ I feel that I can," said Rose. She stretched out her slender +arms, from which the lace-trimmed sleeves of her night-gown fell away +to the shoulder, and Sylvia let them close around her thin neck and +felt the young cheek upon her own with a rapture like a lover's. + +"Those folks she lived with in New York are going to Europe +to-morrow," she told Henry, when she was down-stairs again, "and they +have treated that poor child mean. They have never told her a word +about it until now. She says she thinks their rich aunt has died and +left them her money, and they have just cleared out and left her." + +"Well, she can stay with us as long as she is contented," said Henry. + +"I rather guess she can," said Sylvia. + +Henry regarded her with the wondering expression which was often on +his face nowadays. He had glimpses of the maternal depths of his +wife's heart, which, while not understanding, he acquiesced in; but +there was something else which baffled him. + +But now for Sylvia came a time of contentment, apparently beyond +anything which had ever come into her life. She fairly revelled in +her possession of Rose, and the girl in her turn seemed to +reciprocate. Although the life in East Westland was utterly at +variance with the life she had known, she settled down in it, of +course with sundry hitches of adjustment. For instance, she could not +rid herself at first of the conviction that she must have, as she had +always had, a maid. + +"I don't know how to go to work," she said to Sylvia one day. "Of +course I must have a maid, but I wonder if I had better advertise or +write some of my friends. Betty Morrison may know of some one, or +Sally Maclean. Betty and Sally always seem to be able to find ways +out of difficulties. Perhaps I had better write them. Maybe it would +be safer than to advertise." + +Sylvia and Rose were sitting together in the south room that +afternoon. Sylvia looked pathetically and wistfully at the girl. +"What do you want a maid for?" she asked, timidly. + +Rose stared. "What for? Why, what I always want a maid for: to attend +to my wardrobe and assist me in dressing, to brush my hair, +and--everything," ended Rose, comprehensively. + +Sylvia continued to regard her with that wistful, pathetic look. + +"I can sew braid on your dresses, and darn your stockings, and button +up your dresses, and brush your hair, too, just as well as anybody," +she said. + +Rose ran over to her and went down on her knees beside her. "You +dear," she said, "as if you didn't have enough to do now!" + +"This is a very convenient house to do work in," said Sylvia, "and +now I have my washing and ironing done, I've got time on my hands. I +like to sew braid on and darn stockings, and always did, and it's +nothing at all to fasten up your waists in the back; you know that." + +"You dear," said Rose again. She nestled her fair head against +Sylvia's slim knees. Sylvia thrilled. She touched the soft puff of +blond hair timidly with her bony fingers. "But I have always had a +maid," Rose persisted, in a somewhat puzzled way. Rose could hardly +conceive of continued existence without a maid. She had managed very +well for a few days, but to contemplate life without one altogether +seemed like contemplating the possibility of living without a comb +and hair-brush. Sylvia's face took on a crafty expression. + +"Well," said she, "if you must have a maid, write your friends, and I +will have another leaf put in the dining-table." + +Rose raised her head and stared at her. "Another leaf in the +dining-table?" said she, vaguely. + +"Yes. I don't think there's room for more than four without another +leaf." + +"But--my maid would not eat at the table with us." + +"Would she be willing to eat in the kitchen--cold victuals--after we +had finished?" + +Rose looked exceedingly puzzled. "No, she would not; at least, no +maid I ever had would have," she admitted. + +"Where is she going to eat, then? Would she wait till after we were +through and eat in the dining-room?" + +"I don't believe she would like that, either." + +"Where is she going to eat?" demanded Sylvia, inexorably. + +Rose gazed at her. + +"She could have a little table in here, or in the parlor," said +Sylvia. + +Rose laughed. "Oh, that would never do!" said she. "Of course there +was a servants' dining-room at Mrs. Wilton's, and there always is in +a hotel, you know. I never thought of that." + +"She has got to eat somewhere. Where is she going to eat?" asked +Sylvia, pressing the question. + +Rose got up and kissed her. "Oh, well, I won't bother about it for a +while, anyway," said she. "Now I think of it, Betty is sure to be off +to Newport by now, and Sally must be about to sail for Paris to buy +her trousseau. She is going to marry Dicky van Snyde in the autumn +(whatever she sees in him)! So I doubt if either of them could do +anything about a maid for me. I won't bother at all now, but I am not +going to let you wait upon me. I am going to help you." + +Sylvia took one of Rose's little hands and looked at it. "I guess you +can't do much with hands like yours," said she, admiringly, and with +an odd tone of resentment, as if she were indignant at the mere +suggestion of life's demanding service from this dainty little +creature, for whom she was ready to immolate herself. + +However, Rose had in her a vein of persistency. She insisted upon +wiping the dishes and dusting. She did it all very badly, but Sylvia +found the oddest amusement in chiding her for her mistakes and in +setting them right herself. She would not have been nearly as well +pleased had Rose been handy about the house. One evening Henry caught +Sylvia wiping over all the dishes which Rose had wiped, and which +were still damp, the while she was fairly doubled up with suppressed +mirth. + +"What in creation ails you, Sylvia?" asked Henry. + +She extended towards him a plate on which the water stood in drops. +"Just see this plate that dear child thinks she has wiped," she +chuckled. + +"You women do beat the Dutch," said Henry. + +However, Rose did prove herself an adept in one respect. She had +never sewed much, but she had an inventive genius in dress, and, when +she once took up her needle, used it deftly. + +When Sylvia confided to her her aspiration concerning the pink silk +which she had found among Abrahama's possessions, Rose did not laugh +at all, but she looked at her thoughtfully. + +"Don't you think it would be suitable if I had it made with some +black lace?" asked Sylvia, wistfully. "Henry thinks it is too young +for me, but--" + +"Not black," Rose said, decisively. The two were up in the attic +beside the old chest of finery. Rose took out an old barege of an +ashes-of-roses color. She laid a fold of the barege over the pink +silk, then she looked radiantly at Sylvia. + +"It will make a perfectly lovely gown for you if you use the pink for +a petticoat," said she, "and have the gown made of this delicious old +stuff." + +"The pink for a petticoat?" gasped Sylvia. + +"It is the only way," said Rose; "and you must have gray gloves, and +a bonnet of gray with just one pale-pink rose in it. Don't you +understand? Then you will harmonize with your dress. Your hair is +gray, and there is pink in your cheeks. You will be lovely in it. +There must be a very high collar and some soft creamy lace, because +there is still some yellow left in your hair." + +Rose nodded delightedly at Sylvia, and the dressmaker came and made +the gown according to Rose's directions. Sylvia wore it for the first +time when she walked from church with Lucinda Hart and found Rose and +Horace sitting in the grove. After Rose had replied to Sylvia's +advice that she should go into the house, she looked at her with the +pride of proprietorship. "Doesn't she look simply lovely?" she asked +Horace. + +"She certainly does," replied the young man. He really gazed +admiringly at the older woman, who made, under the glimmering shadows +of the oaks, a charming nocturne of elderly womanhood. The faint pink +on her cheeks seemed enhanced by the pink seen dimly through the +ashen shimmer of her gown; the creamy lace harmonized with her +yellow-gray hair. She was in her own way as charming as Rose in hers. + +Sylvia actually blushed, and hung her head with a graceful sidewise +motion. "I'm too old to be made a fool of," said she, "and I've got a +good looking-glass." But she smiled the smile of a pretty woman +conscious of her own prettiness. Then all three laughed, although +Horace but a moment before had looked very grave, and now he was +quite white. Sylvia noticed it. "Why, what ails you, Mr. Allen?" she +said. "Don't you feel well?" + +"Perfectly well." + +"You look pale." + +"It is the shadow of the oaks." + +Sylvia noticed a dainty little white box in Rose's lap. "What is +that?" she asked. + +"It is a box of candy that dear, sweet Lucy Ayres who sang to-day +made her own self and gave to me," replied Rose. "She came up to me +on the way home from church and slipped it into my hand, and I hardly +know her at all. I do think it is too dear of her for anything. She +is such a lovely girl, and her voice is beautiful." Rose looked +defiantly at Horace. "Mr. Allen has been trying to make me promise +not to eat this nice candy," she said. + +"I don't think candy is good for anybody, and girls eat altogether +too much of it," said Horace, with a strange fervor which the +occasion hardly seemed to warrant. + +"Wouldn't I know he was a school-teacher when I heard him speak like +that, even if nobody had ever told me?" said Rose. "Of course I am +going to eat this candy that dear Lucy made her own self and gave me. +I should be very ungrateful not to, and I love candy, too." + +"I will send for some to Boston to-morrow," cried Horace, eagerly. + +Rose regarded him with amazement. "Why, Mr. Allen, you just said you +did not approve of candy at all, and here you are proposing to send +for some for me," she said, "when I have this nice home-made candy, a +great deal purer, because one knows exactly what is in it, and you +say I must not eat this." + +Rose took up a sugared almond daintily and put it to her lips, but +Horace was too quick for her. Before she knew what he was about he +had dashed it from her hand, and in the tumult the whole box of candy +was scattered. Horace trampled on it, it was impossible to say +whether purposely or accidentally, in the struggle. + +Both Rose and Sylvia regarded him with amazement, mixed with +indignation. + +"Why, Mr. Allen!" said Rose. Then she added, haughtily: "Mr. Allen, +you take altogether too much upon yourself. You have spoiled my +candy, and you forget that you have not the least right to dictate to +me what I shall or shall not eat." + +Sylvia also turned upon Horace. "Home-made candy wouldn't hurt her," +she said. "Why, Mr. Allen, what do you mean?" + +"Nothing. I am very sorry," said Horace. Then he walked away without +another word, and entered the house. The girl and the woman stood +looking at each other. + +"What did he do such a thing for?" asked Rose. + +"Goodness knows," said Sylvia. + +Rose was quite pale. She began to look alarmed. "You don't suppose +he's taken suddenly insane or anything?" said she. + +"My land! no," said Sylvia. "Men do act queer sometimes." + +"I should think so, if this is a sample of it," said Rose, eying the +trampled candy. "Why, he ground his heel into it! What right had he +to tell me I should or should not eat it?" she said, indignantly, +again. + +"None at all. Men are queer. Even Mr. Whitman is queer sometimes." + +"If he is as queer as that, I don't see how you have lived with him +so long. Did he ever make you drop a nice box of candy somebody had +given you, and trample on it, and then walk off?" + +"No, I don't know as he ever did; but men do queer things." + +"I don't like Mr. Allen at all," said Rose, walking beside Sylvia +towards the house. "Not at all. I don't like him as well as Mr. James +Duncan." + +Sylvia looked at her with quick alarm. "The man who wrote you last +week?" + +"Yes, and wanted to know if there was a hotel here so he could come." + +"I thought--" began Sylvia. + +"Yes, I had begun the letter, telling him the hotel wasn't any good, +because I knew he would know what that meant--that there was no use +in his asking me to marry him again, because I never would; but now I +think I shall tell him the hotel is not so bad, after all," said Rose. + +"But you don't mean--" + +"I don't know what I do mean," said Rose, nervously. "Yes, I do know +what I mean. I always know what I mean, but I don't know what men +mean making me drop candy I have had given me, and trampling on it, +and men don't know that I know what I mean." Rose was almost crying. + +"Go up-stairs and lay down a little while before dinner," said +Sylvia, anxiously. + +"No," replied Rose; "I am going to help you. Don't, please, think I +am crying because I feel badly. It is because I am angry. I am going +to set the table." + +But Rose did not set the table. She forgot all about it when she had +entered the south room and found Henry Whitman sitting there with the +Sunday paper. She sat down opposite and looked at him with her clear, +blue, childlike eyes. She had come to call him Uncle Henry. + +"Uncle Henry?" said she, interrogatively, and waited. + +Henry looked across at her and smiled with the somewhat abashed +tenderness which he always felt for this girl, whose environment had +been so very different from his and his wife's. "Well?" he said. + +"Uncle Henry, do you think a man can tell another man's reasons for +doing a queer thing better than a woman can?" + +"Perhaps." + +"I almost know a woman could tell why a woman did a queer thing, +better than a man could," said Rose, reflectively. She hesitated a +little. + +Henry waited, his worn, pleasant face staring at her over a vividly +colored page of the paper. + +"Suppose," said Rose, "another woman had given Aunt Sylvia a box of +candy which she had made herself, real nice candy, and suppose the +woman who had given it to her was lovely, and you had knocked a piece +of candy from Aunt Sylvia's mouth just as she was going to taste it, +and had startled her so you made her drop the whole box, and then set +your heel hard on the pieces; what would you have done it for?" + +The girl's face wore an expression of the keenest inquiry. Henry +looked at her, wrinkling his forehead. "If another woman had given +Sylvia a box of candy she had made, and I knocked a piece from her +hand just as she was going to taste it, and made her drop the whole +box, and had trampled all the rest of the candy underfoot, what +should I have done it for?" he repeated. + +"Yes." + +Henry looked at her. He heard a door shut up-stairs. "I shouldn't +have done it," he said. + +"But suppose you had done it?" + +"I shouldn't have." + +Rose shrugged her shoulders. "You are horrid, Uncle Henry," she said. + +"But I shouldn't have done it," repeated Henry. He heard Horace's +step on the stair. Rose got up and ran out of the room by another +door from that which Horace entered. Horace sat down in the chair +which Rose had just vacated. He looked pale and worried. The eyes of +the two men met. Henry's eyes asked a question. Horace answered it. + +"I am in such a devil of a mess as never man was yet, I believe," he +said. + +Henry nodded gravely. + +"The worst of it is I can't tell a living mortal," Horace said, in a +whisper. "I am afraid even to think it." + +At dinner Rose sat with her face averted from Horace. She never spoke +once to him. As they rose from the table she made an announcement. "I +am going to run over and see Lucy Ayres," she said. "I am going to +tell her an accident happened to my candy, and maybe she will give me +some more." + +Henry saw Horace's face change. "Candy is not good for girls; it +spoils their complexion. I have just been reading about it in the +Sunday paper," said Henry. Sylvia unexpectedly proved his ally. Rose +had not eaten much dinner, although it had been an especially nice +one, and she felt anxious about her. + +"I don't think you ought to eat candy when you have so little +appetite for good, wholesome meat and vegetables," she said. + +"I want to see Lucy, too," said Rose. "I am going over there. It is a +lovely afternoon. I have nothing I want to read and nothing to do. I +am going over there." + +Henry's eyes questioned Horace's, which said, plainly, to the other +man, "For God's sake, don't let her go; don't let her go!" + +Rose had run up-stairs for her parasol. Horace turned away. He +understood that Henry would help him. "Don't let her go over there +this afternoon," said Henry to Sylvia, who looked at him in the +blankest amazement. + +"Why not, I'd like to know?" asked Sylvia. + +"Don't let her go," repeated Henry. + +Sylvia looked suspiciously from one man to the other. The only +solution which a woman could put upon such a request immediately +occurred to her. She said to herself, "Hm! Mr. Allen wants Rose to +stay at home so he can see her himself, and Henry knows it." + +She stiffened her neck. Down deep in her heart was a feeling more +seldom in women's hearts than in men's. She would not have owned that +she did not wish to part with this new darling of her heart--who had +awakened within it emotions of whose strength the childless woman had +never dreamed. There was also another reason, which she would not +admit even to herself. Had Rose been, indeed, her daughter, and she +had possessed her from the cradle to womanhood, she would probably +have been as other mothers, but now Rose was to her as the infant she +had never borne. She felt the intense jealousy of ownership which the +mother feels over the baby in her arms. She wished to snatch Rose +from every clasp except her own. + +She decided at once that it was easy to see through the plans of +Horace and her husband, and she determined to thwart them. "I don't +see why she shouldn't go," she said. "It is a lovely afternoon. The +walk will do her good. Lucy Ayres is a real nice girl, and of course +Rose wants to see girls of her own age now and then." + +"It is Sunday," said Henry. He felt and looked like a hypocrite as he +spoke, but the distress in Horace's gaze was too much for him. + +Sylvia sniffed. "Sunday," said she. "Good land! what has come over +you, Henry Whitman? It has been as much as I could do to get you to +go to meeting the last ten years, and now all of a sudden you turn +around and think it's wicked for a young girl to run in and see +another young girl Sunday afternoon." Sylvia sniffed again very +distinctly, and then Rose entered the room. + +Her clear, fair face looked from one to another from under her black +hat. "What is the matter?" she asked. + +Sylvia patted her on the shoulder. "Nothing is the matter," said she. +"Run along and have a good time, but you had better be home by five +o'clock. There is a praise meeting to-night, and I guess we'll all +want to go, and I am going to have supper early." + +After Rose had gone and Sylvia had left the room, the two men looked +at each other. Horace was ashy pale. Henry's face showed alarm and +astonishment. "What is it?" he whispered. + +"Come out in the grove and have a smoke," said Horace, with a look +towards the door through which Sylvia had gone. + +Henry nodded. He gathered up his pipe and tobacco from the table, and +the two men sauntered out of the house into the grove. But even there +not much was said. Both smoked in silence, sitting on the bench, +before Horace opened his lips in response to Henry's inquiry. + +"I don't know what it is, and I don't know that it is anything, and +that is the worst of it," he said, gloomily; "and I can't see my way +to telling any mortal what little I do know that leads me to fear +that it is something, although I would if I were sure and actually +knew beyond doubt that there was--" He stopped abruptly and blew a +ring of smoke from his cigar. + +"Something is queer about my wife lately," said Henry, in a low voice. + +"What?" + +"That's just it. I feel something as you do. It may be nothing at +all. I tell you what, young man, when women talk, as women are +intended by an overruling Providence to talk, men know where they are +at, but when a woman doesn't talk men know where they ain't." + +"In my case there has been so much talk that I seem to be in a fog of +it, and can't see a blessed thing sufficiently straight to know +whether it is big enough to bother about or little enough to let +alone; but I can't repeat the talk--no man could," said Horace. + +"In my case there ain't talk enough," said Henry. "I ain't in a fog; +I'm in pitch darkness." + + + +Chapter XI + + +The two men sat for some time out in the grove. It was very pleasant +there. The air was unusually still, and only the tops of the trees +whitened occasionally in a light puff of wind like a sigh. Now and +then a carriage or an automobile passed on the road beyond, but not +many of them. It was not a main thoroughfare. The calls and quick +carols of the birds, punctuated with sharp trills of insects, were +almost the only sounds heard. Now and then Sylvia's face glanced at +them from a house window, but it was quickly withdrawn. She never +liked men to be in close conclave without a woman to superintend, yet +she could not have told why. She had a hazy impression, as she might +have had if they had been children, that some mischief was afoot. + +"Sitting out there all this time, and smoking, and never seeming to +speak a word," she said to herself, as she returned to her seat +beside a front window in the south room and took up her book. She was +reading with a mild and patronizing interest a book in which the +heroine did nothing which she would possibly have done under given +circumstances, and said nothing which she would have said, and was, +moreover, a distinctly different personality from one chapter to +another, yet the whole had a charm for the average woman reader. +Henry had flung it aside in contempt. Sylvia thought it beautiful, +possibly for the reason that her own hard sense was sometimes a +strenuous burden, and in reading this she was forced to put it behind +her. However, the book did not prevent her from returning every now +and then to her own life and the happenings in it. Hence her stealthy +journeys across the house and peeps at the men in the grove. If they +were nettled by a sense of feminine mystery, she reciprocated. "What +on earth did they want to stop Rose from going to see Lucy for?" +seemed to stare at her in blacker type than the characters of the +book. + +Presently, when she saw Horace pass the window and disappear down the +road, she laid the book on the table, with a slip of paper to keep +the place, and hurried out to the grove. She found Henry leisurely +coming towards the house. "Where has he gone?" she inquired, with a +jerk of her shoulder towards the road. + +"Mr. Allen?" + +"Yes." + +"How should I know?" + +"Don't you know?" + +"Maybe I do," said Henry, smiling at Sylvia with his smile of +affection and remembrance that she was a woman. + +"Why don't you tell?" + +"Now, Sylvia," said Henry, "you must remember that Mr. Allen is not a +child. He is a grown man, and if he takes it into his head to go +anywhere you can't say anything." + +Sylvia looked at Henry with a baffled expression. "I think he might +spend his time a good deal more profitably Sunday afternoon than +sitting under the trees and smoking, or going walking," said she, +rashly and inconsequentially. "If he would only sit down and read +some good book." + +"You can't dictate to Mr. Allen what he shall or shall not do," Henry +repeated. + +"Why didn't you want Rose to go to Lucy's?" asked Sylvia, making a +charge in an entirely different quarter. + +Henry scorned to lie. "I don't know," he replied, which was the +perfect truth as far as it went. It did not go quite far enough, for +he did not add that he did not know why Horace Allen did not want her +to go, and that was his own reason. + +However, Sylvia could not possibly fathom that. She sniffed with her +delicate nostrils, as if she actually smelled some questionable odor +of character. "You men have mighty queer streaks, that's all I've got +to say," she returned. + +When they were in the house again she resumed her book, reading every +word carefully, and Henry took up the Sunday paper, which he had not +finished. The thoughts of both, however, turned from time to time +towards Horace. Sylvia did not know where he had gone. She did not +suspect. Henry knew, but he did not know why. Horace had sprung +suddenly to his feet and caught up his hat as the two men had been +sitting under the trees. Henry had emitted a long puff of tobacco +smoke and looked inquiringly at him through the filmy blue of it. + +"I can't stand it another minute," said Horace, almost with violence. +"I've got to know what is going on. I am going to the Ayres's myself. +I don't care what they think. I don't care what she thinks. I don't +care what anybody thinks." With that he was gone. + +Henry took another puff at his pipe. It showed the difference between +the masculine and the feminine point of view that Henry did not for +one moment attach a sentimental reason to Horace's going. He realized +Rose's attractions. The very probable supposition that she and Horace +might fall in love with and marry each other had occurred to him, but +this he knew at once had nothing to do with that. He turned the whole +over and over in his mind, with no result. He lacked enough premises +to arrive at conclusions. He had started for the house and his Sunday +paper when he met Sylvia, and had resolved to put it all out of his +mind. But he was not quite able. There is a masculine curiosity as +well as a feminine, and one is about as persistent as the other. + +Meantime Horace was walking down the road towards the Ayres house. It +was a pretty, much-ornamented white cottage, with a carefully kept +lawn and shade trees. At one side was an old-fashioned garden with an +arbor. In this arbor, as Horace drew near, he saw the sweep of +feminine draperies. It seemed to him that the arbor was full of +women. In reality there were only three--Lucy, her mother, and Rose. + +When Rose had rung the door-bell she had been surprised by what +sounded like a mad rush to answer her ring. Mrs. Ayres opened the +door. She looked white and perturbed, and behind her showed Lucy's +face, flushed and angry. + +"I knew it was Miss Fletcher; I told you so, mother," said Lucy, and +her low, sweet voice rang out like an angry bird's with a sudden +break for the high notes. + +Mrs. Ayres kept her self-possession of manner, although her +face showed not only nervousness but something like terror. +"Good-afternoon, Miss Fletcher," she said. "Please walk in." + +"She said for me to call her Rose," cried Lucy. "Please come in, +Rose. I am glad to see you." + +In spite of the cordial words the girl's voice was strange. Rose +stared from daughter to mother and back again. "If you were engaged," +she said, rather coldly, "if you would prefer that I come some other +time--" + +"No, indeed," cried Lucy, "no other time. Yes, every other time. What +am I saying? But I want you now, too. Come right up to my room, Rose. +I know you will excuse my wrapper and my bed's being tumbled. I have +been lying down. Come right up." + +Rose followed Lucy, and to her astonishment became aware that Lucy's +mother was following her. Mrs. Ayres entered the room with the two +girls. Lucy looked impatiently at her, and spoke as Rose wondered any +daughter could speak. "Rose and I have some things to talk over, +mother," she said. + +"Nothing, I guess, that your mother cannot hear," returned Mrs. +Ayres, with forced pleasantry. She sat down, and Lucy flung herself +petulantly upon the bed, where she had evidently been lying, but +seemingly not reposing, for it was much rumpled, and the pillows gave +evidence of the restless tossing of a weary head. Lucy herself had a +curiously rumpled aspect, though she was not exactly untidy. Her +soft, white, lace-trimmed wrapper carelessly tied with blue ribbons +was wrinkled, her little slippers were unbuttoned. Her mass of soft +hair was half over her shoulders. There were red spots on the cheeks +which had been so white in the morning, and her eyes shone. She kept +tying and untying two blue ribbons at the neck of her wrapper as she +lay on the bed and talked rapidly. + +"I look like a fright, I know," she said. "I was tired after church, +and slipped off my dress and lay down. My hair is all in a muss." + +"It is such lovely hair that it looks pretty anyway," said Rose. + +Lucy drew a strand of her hair violently over her shoulder. It almost +seemed as if she meant to tear it out by the roots. + +"Lucy!" said her mother. + +"Oh, mother, do let me alone!" cried the girl. Then she said, looking +angrily at her tress of hair, then at Rose: "It is not nearly as +pretty as yours. You know it isn't. All men are simply crazy over +hair your color. I hate my hair. I just hate it." + +"Lucy!" said her mother again, in the same startled but admonitory +tone. + +Lucy made an impatient face at her. She threw back the tress of hair. +"I hate it," said she. + +Rose began to feel awkward. She noticed Mrs. Ayres's anxious regard +of her daughter, and she thought with disgust that Lucy Ayres was not +so sweet a girl as she had seemed. However, she felt an odd kind of +sympathy and pity for her. Lucy's pretty face and her white wrapper +seemed alike awry with nervous suffering, which the other girl dimly +understood, although it was the understanding of a normal character +with regard to an abnormal one. + +Rose resolved to change the subject. "I did enjoy your singing so +much this morning," she said. + +"Thank you," replied Lucy, but a look of alarm instead of pleasure +appeared upon her face, which Rose was astonished to see in the +mother's likewise. + +"I feel so sorry for poor Miss Hart, because I cannot think for a +moment that she was guilty of what they accused her of," said Rose, +"that I don't like to say anything about her singing. But I will say +this much: I did enjoy yours." + +"Thank you," said Lucy again. Her look of mortal terror deepened. +From being aggressively nervous, she looked on the verge of a +collapse. + +Mrs. Ayres rose, went to Lucy's closet, and returned with a bottle of +wine and a glass. "Here," she said, as she poured out the red liquor. +"You had better drink this, dear. You know Dr. Wallace said you must +drink port wine, and you are all tired out with your singing this +morning." + +Lucy seized the glass and drank the wine eagerly. + +"It must be a nervous strain," said Rose, "to stand up there, before +such a crowded audience as there was this morning, and sing." + +"Yes, it is," agreed Mrs. Ayres, in a harsh voice, "and especially +when anybody isn't used to it. Lucy is not at all strong." + +"I hope it won't be too much for her," said Rose; "but it is such a +delight to listen to her after--" + +"Oh, I am tired and sick of hearing Miss Hart's name!" cried Lucy, +unpleasantly. + +"Lucy!" said Mrs. Ayres. + +"Well, I am," said Lucy, defiantly. "It has been nothing but Miss +Hart, Miss Hart, from morning until night lately. Nobody thinks she +poisoned Miss Farrel, of course. It was perfect nonsense to accuse +her of it, and when that is said, I think myself that is enough. I +see no need of this eternal harping upon it. I have heard nothing +except 'poor Miss Hart' until I am nearly wild. Come, Rose, I'll get +dressed and we'll go out in the arbor. It is too pleasant to stay +in-doors. This room is awfully close." + +"I think perhaps I had better not stay," Rose replied, doubtfully. It +seemed to her that she was having a very strange call, and she began +to be indignant as well as astonished. + +"Of course you are going to stay," Lucy said, and her voice was sweet +again. "We'll let Miss Hart alone and I'll get dressed, and we'll go +in the arbor. It is lovely out there to-day." + +With that Lucy sprang from the bed and let her wrapper slip from her +shoulders. She stood before her old-fashioned black-walnut bureau and +began brushing her hair. Her white arms and shoulders gleamed through +it as she brushed with what seemed a cruel violence. + +Rose laughed in a forced way. "Why, dear, you brush your hair as if +it had offended you," she said. + +"Don't brush so hard, Lucy," said Mrs. Ayres. + +"I just hate my old hair, anyway," said Lucy, with a vicious stroke +of the brush. She bent her head over, and swept the whole dark mass +downward until it concealed her face and nearly touched her knees. +Then she gave it a deft twist, righted herself, and pinned the coil +in place. + +"How beautifully you do up your hair," said Rose. + +Lucy cast an appreciative glance at herself in the glass. The wine +had deepened the glow on her cheeks. Her eyes were more brilliant. +She pulled her hair a little over one temple, and looked at herself +with entire satisfaction. Lucy had beautiful neck and arms, +unexpectedly plump for a girl so apparently slender. Her skin was +full of rosy color, too. She gazed at the superb curve of her +shoulders rising above the dainty lace of her corset-cover, and +smiled undisguisedly. + +"I wish my neck was as plump as yours," said Rose. + +"Yes, she has a nice, plump neck," said Mrs. Ayres. While the words +showed maternal pride, the tone never relaxed from its nervous +anxiety. + +Lucy's smile vanished suddenly. "Well, what if it is plump?" said +she. "What is the use of it? A girl living here in East Westland can +never wear a dress to show her neck. People would think she had gone +out of her mind." + +Rose laughed. "I have some low-neck gowns," said she, "but I can't +wear them, either. Maybe that is fortunate for me, my neck is so +thin." + +"You will wear them in other places," said Lucy. "You won't stay here +all your days. You will have plenty of chances to wear your low-neck +gowns." She spoke again in her unnaturally high voice. She turned +towards her closet to get her dress. + +"Lucy!" said Mrs. Ayres. + +"Well, it is the truth," said Lucy. "Don't preach, mother. If you +were a girl, and somebody told you your neck was pretty, and you knew +other girls had chances to wear low-neck dresses, you wouldn't be +above feeling it a little." + +"My neck was as pretty as yours when I was a girl, and I never wore a +low-neck dress in my life," said Mrs. Ayres. + +"Oh, well, you got married when you were eighteen," said Lucy. There +was something almost coarse in her remark. Rose felt herself flush. +She was sophisticated, and had seen the world, although she had been +closely if not lovingly guarded; but she shrank from some things as +though she had never come from under a country mother's wing in her +life. + +Lucy got a pale-blue muslin gown from the closet and slipped it over +her shoulders. Then she stood for her mother to fasten it in the +back. Lucy was lovely in this cloud of blue, with edgings of lace on +the ruffles and knots of black velvet. She fastened her black velvet +girdle, and turned herself sidewise with a charming feminine motion, +to get the effect of her slender waist between the curves of her +small hips and bust. Again she looked pleased. + +"You are dear in that blue gown," said Rose. + +Lucy smiled. Then she scowled as suddenly. She could see Rose over +her shoulder in the glass. "It is awful countrified," said she. "Look +at the sleeves and look at yours. Where was yours made?" + +"My dressmaker in New York made it," faltered Rose. She felt guilty +because her gown was undeniably in better style. + +"There's no use trying to have anything in East Westland," said Lucy. + +While she was fastening a little gold brooch at her throat, Rose +again tried to change the subject. "That candy of yours looked +perfectly delicious," said she. "You must teach me how you make it." + +Mrs. Ayres went dead white in a moment. She looked at Lucy with a +look of horror which the girl did not meet. She went on fastening her +brooch. "Did you like it?" she asked, carelessly. + +"An accident happened to it, I am sorry to say," explained Rose. "Mr. +Allen and I were out in the grove, and somehow he jostled me, and the +candy got scattered on the ground, and he stepped on it." + +"Were you and he alone out there?" asked Lucy, in a very quiet voice. + +Rose looked at her amazedly. "Why, no, not when that happened!" she +replied. "Aunt Sylvia was there, too." She spoke a little +resentfully. "What if Mr. Allen and I had been alone; what is that to +her?" she thought. + +"There is some more candy," said Lucy, calmly. "I will get it, and +then we will go out in the arbor. I will teach you to make the candy +any day. It is very simple. Come, Rose dear. Mother, we are going out +in the arbor." + +Mrs. Ayres rose immediately. She preceded the two girls down-stairs, +and came through the sitting-room door with a dish of candy in her +hand just as they reached it. "Here is the candy, dear," she said to +Lucy, and there was something commanding in her voice. + +Lucy took the dish, a pretty little decorated affair, with what +seemed to Rose an air of suspicion and a grudging "thank you, mother." + +"Come, Rose," she said. She led the way and Rose followed. Mrs. Ayres +returned to the sitting-room. The girls went through the +old-fashioned garden with its flower-beds outlined with box, in which +the earlier flowers were at their prime, to the arbor. It was a +pretty old structure, covered with the shaggy arms of an old +grape-vine whose gold-green leaves were just uncurling. Lucy placed +the bowl of candy on the end of the bench which ran round the +interior, and, to Rose's surprise, seated herself at a distance from +it, and motioned Rose to sit beside her, without offering her any +candy. Lucy leaned against Rose and looked up at her. She looked +young and piteous and confiding. Rose felt again that she was sweet +and that she loved her. She put her arm around Lucy. + +"You are a dear," said she. + +Lucy nestled closer. "I know you must have thought me perfectly +horrid to speak as I did to mother," said she, "but you don't +understand." + +Lucy hesitated. Rose waited. + +"You see, the trouble is," Lucy went on, "I love mother dearly, of +course. She is the best mother that ever a girl had, but she is +always so anxious about me, and she follows me about so, and I get +nervous, and I know I don't always speak as I should. I am often +ashamed of myself. You see--" + +Lucy hesitated again for a longer period. Rose waited. + +"Mother has times of being very nervous," Lucy said, in a whisper. "I +sometimes think, when she follows me about so, that she is not for +the time being quite herself." + +Rose started and looked at the other girl in horror. "Why don't you +have a doctor?" said she. + +"Oh, I don't mean that she--I don't mean that there is anything +serious, only she has always been over-anxious about me, and at times +I fancy she is nervous, and then the anxiety grows beyond limit. She +always gets over it. I don't mean that--" + +"Oh, I didn't know," said Rose. + +"I never mean to be impatient," Lucy went on, "but to-day I was very +tired, and I wanted to see you especially. I wanted to ask you +something." + +"What?" + +Lucy looked away from Rose. She seemed to shrink within herself. The +color faded from her face. "I heard something," she said, faintly, +"but I said I wouldn't believe it until I had asked you." + +"What is it?" + +"I heard that you were engaged to marry Mr. Allen." + +Rose flushed and moved away a little from Lucy. "You can contradict +the rumor whenever you hear it again," said she. + +"Then it isn't true?" + +"No, it isn't." + +Lucy nestled against Rose, in spite of a sudden coldness which had +come over the other girl. "You are so dear," said she. + +Rose looked straight ahead, and sat stiffly. + +"I am thoroughly angry at such rumors, merely because a girl happens +to be living in the same house with a marriageable man," said she. + +"Yes, that is so," said Lucy. She remained quiet for a few moments, +leaning against Rose, her blue-clad shoulder pressing lovingly the +black-clad one. Then she moved away a little, and reared her pretty +back with a curious, snakelike motion. Rose watched her. Lucy's eyes +fastened themselves upon her, and something strange happened. Either +Lucy Ayres was a born actress, or she had become actually so imbued, +through abnormal emotion and love, with the very spirit of the man +that she was capable of projecting his own emotions and feelings into +her own soul and thence upon her face. At all events, she looked at +Rose, and slowly Rose became bewildered. It seemed to her that Horace +Allen was looking at her through the eyes of this girl, with a look +which she had often seen since their very first meeting. She felt +herself glowing from head to foot. She was conscious of a deep +crimson stealing all over her face and neck. Her eyes fell before the +other girl's. Then suddenly it was all over. Lucy rose with a little +laugh. "You sweet, funny creature," she said. "I can make you blush, +looking at you, as if I were a man. Well, maybe I love you as well as +one." Lucy took the bowl of candy from the bench and extended it to +Rose. "Do have some candy," said she. + +"Thank you," said Rose. She looked bewildered, and felt so. She took +a sugared almond and began nibbling at it. "Aren't you going to eat +any candy yourself?" said she. + +"I have eaten so much already that it has made my head ache," replied +Lucy. "Is it good?" + +"Simply delicious. You must teach me how you make such candy." + +"Lucy will be glad to teach you any day," said Mrs. Ayres's voice. +She had come swiftly upon them, and entered the arbor with a +religious newspaper in her hand. Lucy no longer seemed annoyed by her +mother's following her. She only set the candy behind her with a +quick movement which puzzled Rose. + +"Aren't you going to offer your mother some?" she asked, laughing. + +"Mother can't eat candy. Dr. Wallace has forbidden it," Lucy said, +quickly. + +"Yes, that is quite true," assented Mrs. Ayres. She began reading her +paper. Lucy offered the bowl again to Rose, who took a bonbon. She +was just swallowing it when Horace Allen appeared. He made a motion +which did not escape Mrs. Ayres. She rose and confronted him with +perfect calmness and dignity. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Allen," she said. + +Lucy had sprung up quickly. She was very white. Horace said +good-afternoon perfunctorily, and looked at Rose. + +Mrs. Ayres caught up the bowl of candy. "Let me offer you some, Mr. +Allen," she said. "It is home-made candy, and quite harmless, I +assure you." + +Her fair, elderly face confronted him smilingly, her voice was calm. + +"Thank you," said Horace, and took a sugared almond. + +Lucy made a movement as if to stop him, but her mother laid her hand +with gentle firmness on her arm. "Sit down, Lucy," she said, and Lucy +sat down. + + + +Chapter XII + + +Henry Whitman and his wife Sylvia remained, the one reading his +Sunday paper, the other her book, while Horace and Rose were away. +Henry's paper rustled, Sylvia turned pages gently. Occasionally she +smiled the self-satisfied smile of the reader who thinks she +understands the author, to her own credit. Henry scowled over his +paper the scowl of one who reads to disapprove, to his own credit. + +Both were quite engrossed. Sylvia had reached an extremely +interesting portion of her book, and Henry was reading a section of +his paper which made him fairly warlike. However, the clock striking +four aroused both of them. + +"I think it is very funny that they have not come home," said Sylvia. + +"I dare say they will be along pretty soon," said Henry. + +Sylvia looked keenly at him. "Henry Whitman, did he go to the +Ayres's?" said she. + +Henry, cornered, told the truth. "Well, I shouldn't wonder," he +admitted. + +"I think it is pretty work," said Sylvia, angry red spots coming in +her cheeks. + +Henry said nothing. + +"The idea that a young man can't be in the house with a girl any +longer than this without his fairly chasing her," said Sylvia. + +"Who knows that he is?" + +"Do you think he is interested in the Ayres girl?" + +"No, I don't." + +"Then it is Rose," said Sylvia. "Pretty work, I call it. Here she is +with her own folks in this nice home, with everything she needs." + +Henry looked at Sylvia with astonishment. "Why," he said, "girls get +married! You got married yourself." + +"I know I did," said Sylvia, "but that hasn't got anything to do with +it. Of course he has to chase her the minute she comes within +gunshot." + +"Still, there's one thing certain, if she doesn't want him he can +take it out in chasing, if he is chasing, and I don't think he is," +said Henry. "Nobody is going to make Rose marry any man." + +"She don't act a mite in love with him," said Sylvia, ruminatingly. +"She seemed real mad with him this noon about that candy. Henry, that +was a funny thing for him to do." + +"What?" asked Henry, who had so far only gotten Rose's rather vague +account of the candy episode. + +Sylvia explained. "He actually knocked that candy out of her hand, +and made her spill the whole box, and then trampled on it. I saw him." + +Henry stared at Sylvia. "It must have been an accident," said he. + +"It looked like an accident on purpose," said Sylvia. "Well, I guess +I'll go out and make some of that salad they like so much for supper." + +After Sylvia had gone Henry sat for a while reflecting, then he went +noiselessly out of the front door and round to the grove. He found +the scattered pieces of candy and the broken box quickly enough. He +cast a wary glance around, and gathered the whole mass up and thrust +it into the pocket of his Sunday coat. Then he stole back to the +house and got his hat and went out again. He was hurrying along the +road, when he met Horace and Rose returning. Rose was talking, +seemingly, with a cold earnestness to her companion. Horace seemed to +be listening passively. Henry thought he looked pale and anxious. +When he saw Henry he smiled. "I have an errand, a business errand," +explained Henry. "Please tell Mrs. Whitman I shall be home in time +for supper. I don't think she knew when I went out. She was in the +kitchen." + +"All right," replied Horace. + +After he had passed them Henry caught the words, "I think you owe me +an explanation," in Rose's voice. + +"It is about this blamed candy," thought Henry, feeling the crumpled +mass in his pocket. He had a distrust of candy, and it occurred to +him that he would have an awkward explanation to make if the candy +should by any possibility melt and stick to the pocket of his Sunday +coat. He therefore took out the broken box and carried it in his +hand, keeping the paper wrapper firmly around it. "What in creation +is it all about?" he thought, irritably. He felt a sense of personal +injury. Henry enjoyed calm, and it seemed to him that he was being +decidedly disturbed, as by mysterious noises breaking in upon the +even tenor of his life. + +"Sylvia is keeping something to herself that is worrying her to +death, in spite of her being so tickled to have the girl with us, and +now here is this candy," he said to himself. He understood that for +some reason Horace had not wanted Rose to eat the candy, that he had +resorted to fairly desperate measures to prevent it, but he could not +imagine why. He had no imagination for sensation or melodrama, and +the candy affair was touching that line. He had been calmly prosaic +with regard to Miss Farrel's death. "They can talk all they want to +about murder and suicide," he had said to Sylvia. "I don't believe a +word of it." + +"But the doctors found--" began Sylvia. + +"Found nothing," interposed Henry. "What do doctors know? She et +something that hurt her. How do doctors know but what anybody might +eat something that folks think is wholesome, that, if the person +ain't jest right for it, acts like poison? Doctors don't know much. +She et something that hurt her." + +"Poor Lucinda's cooking is enough to hurt 'most anybody," admitted +Sylvia; "but they say they found--" + +"Don't talk such stuff," said Henry, fiercely. "She et something. I +don't know what you women like best to suck at, candy or horrors." + +Now Henry was forced to admit that he himself was confronted by +something mysterious. Why had Horace fairly flung that candy on the +ground, and trampled on it, unless he had suddenly gone mad, or--? +There Henry brought himself up with a jolt. He absolutely refused to +suspect. "I'd jest as soon eat all that's left of the truck myself," +he thought, "only I couldn't bear candy since I was a child, and I +ain't going to eat it for anybody." + +Henry had to pass the Ayres house. Just as he came abreast of it he +heard a hysterical sob, then another, from behind the open windows of +a room on the second floor, whose blinds were closed. Henry made a +grimace and went his way. He was bound for Sidney Meeks's. He found +the lawyer in his office in an arm-chair, which whirled like a top at +the slightest motion of its occupant. Around him were strewn Sunday +papers, all that could be bought. On the desk before him stood a +bottle of clear yellow wine, half-emptied. + +Sidney looked up and smiled as Henry entered. "Here I am in a vortex +of crime and misrule," he said, "and I should have been out of my +wits if it had not been for that wine. There's another glass over +there, Henry; get it and help yourself." + +"Guess I won't take any now, thank you," said Henry. "It's just +before supper." + +"Maybe you are wise," admitted the lawyer. He slouched before Henry +in untidy and unmended, but clean, Sunday attire. Sidney Meeks was as +clean as a gentleman should be, but there was never a crease except +of ease in his clothes, and he was so buttonless that women feared to +look at him closely. "It might go to your head," said Sidney. "It +went to mine a little, but that was unavoidable. After one of those +papers there my head was mighty near being a vacuum." + +"What do you read the papers for?" asked Henry. + +"Because," said Sidney, "I feel it incumbent upon me to be well +informed concerning two things, although I verily believe it to be +true that I have precious little of either, and they cannot directly +concern me. I want to know about the stock market, although I don't +own a blessed share in anything except an old mine out West on a map; +and I want to know what evil is fermenting in the hearts of men, +though I am pretty sure, in spite of the original sin part of it, +that precious little is fermenting in mine. About three o'clock this +afternoon I came to the conclusion that we were in hell or Sodom, or +else the newspaper men got saved from the general destruction along +with Lot. So I got a bottle of this blessed wine, and now I am fully +convinced that I am on a planet which is the work of the Lord +Almighty, and only created for an end of redemption and eternal +bliss, and that the newspaper men are enough sight better than Lot +ever thought of being, and are spending Sunday as they should, +peacefully in the bosoms of their own families. In fact, Henry, my +mental and spiritual outlook has cleared. What in creation is that +wad of broken box you are carrying as if it would go off any minute?" + +Henry told him the story in a few words. + +"Gee whiz!" said Meeks. "I thought I had finished the Sunday papers +and here you are with another sensation. Let's see the stuff." + +Henry gave the crumpled box with the mass of candy to Meeks, who +examined it closely. He smelled of it. He even tasted a bit. "It's +all beyond me," he said, finally. "I am loath to admit that a +sensation has lit upon us here in East Westland. Leave it with me, +and I'll see what is the matter with it, if there's anything. I don't +think myself there's anything, but I'll take it to Wallace. He's an +analytical chemist, and holds his tongue, which is worth more than +the chemistry." + +"You will not say a word--" began Henry, but Meeks interrupted him. + +"Don't you know me well enough by this time?" he demanded, and Henry +admitted that he did. + +"Do you suppose I want all this blessed little town in a tumult, and +the devil to pay?" said Meeks. "It is near time for me to start some +daisy wine, too. I shouldn't have a minute free. There'd be suits for +damages, and murder trials, and the Lord knows what. I'd rather make +my daisy wine. Leave this damned sticky mess with me, and I'll see to +it. What in creation any young woman in her senses wants to spend her +time in making such stuff for, anyway, beats me. Women are all more +or less fools, anyhow. I suppose they can't help it, but we ought to +have it in mind." + +"I suppose there's something in it," said Henry, rather doubtfully. + +Meeks laughed. "Oh, I don't expect any man with a wife to agree with +me," he said. "You might as well try to lift yourself by your +boot-straps; but I've got standing-ground outside the situation and +you haven't. Good-night, Henry. Don't fret yourself over this. I'll +let you know as soon as I know myself." + +Henry, passing the Ayres house on his way home, fancied he heard +again a sob, but this time it was so stifled that he was not sure. +"It's mighty queer work, anyway," he thought. He thought also that +though he should have liked a son, he was very glad that he and +Sylvia had not owned a daughter. He was fond of Rose, but, although +she was a normal girl, she often gave him a sense of mystery which +irritated him. + +Had Henry Whitman dreamed of what was really going on in the Ayres +house, he would have been devoutly thankful that he had no daughter. +He had in reality heard the sob which he had not been sure of. It had +come from Lucy's room. Her mother was there with her. The two had +been closeted together ever since Rose had gone. Lucy had rushed +up-stairs and pulled off her pretty gown with a hysterical fury. She +had torn it at the neck, because the hooks would not unfasten easily, +before her mother, who moved more slowly, had entered the room. + +"What are you doing, Lucy?" Mrs. Ayres asked, in a voice which was at +once tender and stern. + +"Getting out of this old dress," replied Lucy, fiercely. + +"Stand round here by the light," said her mother, calmly. Lucy +obeyed. She stood, although her shoulders twitched nervously, while +her mother unfastened her gown. Then she began almost tearing off her +other garments. "Lucy," said Mrs. Ayres, "you are over twenty years +old, and a woman grown, but you are not as strong as I am, and I used +to take you over my knee and spank you when you were a child and +didn't behave, and I'll do it now if you are not careful. You +unfasten that corset-cover properly. You are tearing the lace." + +Lucy gazed at her mother a moment in a frenzy of rage, then suddenly +her face began to work piteously. She flung herself face downward +upon her bed, and sobbed long, hysterical sobs. Then Mrs. Ayres waxed +tender. She bent over the girl, and gently untied ribbons and +unfastened buttons, and slipped a night-gown over her head. Then she +rolled her over in the bed, as if she had been a baby, and laid her +own cheek against the hot, throbbing one of the girl. "Mother's +lamb," she said, softly. "There, there, dear, mother knows all about +it." + +"You don't," gasped the girl. "What do you know? You--you were +married when you were years younger than I am." There was something +violently accusing in her tone. She thrust her mother away and sat up +in bed, and looked at her with fierce eyes blazing like lamps in her +soft, flushed face. + +"I know it," said Mrs. Ayres. "I know it, and I know what you mean, +Lucy; but there is something else which I know and you do not." + +"I'd like to know what!" + +"How a mother reads the heart of her child." + +Lucy stared at her mother. Her face softened. Then it grew burning +red and angrier. "You taunt me with that," she said, in a +whisper--"with that and everything." She buried her face in her +crushed pillow again and burst into long wails. + +Mrs. Ayres smoothed her hair. "Lucy," said she, "listen. I know what +is going on within you as you don't know it yourself. I know the +agony of it as you don't know it yourself." + +"I'd like to know how." + +"Because you are my child; because I can hardly sleep for thinking of +you; because every one of my waking moments is filled with you. Lucy, +because I am your mother and you are yourself. I am not taunting you. +I understand." + +"You can't." + +"I do. I know just how you felt about that young man from the city +who boarded at the hotel six years ago. I know how you felt about Tom +Merrill, who called here a few times, and then stopped, and married a +girl from Boston. I have known exactly how you have felt about all +the others, and--I know about this last." Her voice sank to a whisper. + +"I have had some reason," Lucy said, with a terrible eagerness of +self-defence. "I have, mother." + +"What?" + +"One day, the first year he came, I was standing at the gate beside +that flowering-almond bush, and it was all in flower, and he came +past and he looked at the bush and at me, then at the bush again, and +he said, 'How beautiful that is!' But, mother, he meant me." + +"What else?" + +"You remember he called here once." + +"Yes, Lucy, to ask you to sing at the school entertainment." + +"Mother, it was for more than that. You did not hear him speak at the +door. He said, 'I shall count on you; you cannot disappoint me.' You +did not hear his voice, mother." + +"What else, Lucy?" + +"Once, one night last winter, when I was coming home from the +post-office, it was after dark, and he walked way to the house with +me, and he told me a lot about himself. He told me how all alone in +the world he was, and how hard it was for a man to have nobody who +really belonged to him in the wide world, and when he said good-night +at the gate he held my hand--quite a while; he did, mother." + +"What else, Lucy?" + +"You remember that picnic, the trolley picnic to Alford. He sat next +to me coming home, and--" + +"And what?" + +"There were only--four on the seat, and he--he sat very close, and +told me some more about himself: how he had been alone ever since he +was a little boy, and--how hard it had been. Then he asked how long +ago father died, and if I remembered, and if I missed him still." + +"I don't quite understand, dear, how that--" + +"You didn't hear the way he spoke, mother." + +"What else, Lucy?" + +"He has always looked at me very much across the church, and whenever +I have met him it has not been so much what--he said as--his manner. +You have not known what his manner was, and you have not heard how he +spoke, nor seen his eyes when--he looked at me--" + +"Yes, dear, you are right. I have not. Then you have thought he was +in love with you?" + +"Sometimes he has made me think so, mother," Lucy sobbed. + +Mrs. Ayres gazed pitifully at the girl. "Then when you thought +perhaps he was not you felt badly." + +"Oh, mother!" + +"You were not yourself." + +"Oh, mother!" + +Mrs. Ayres took the girl by her two slender shoulders; she bent her +merciful, loving face close to the younger one, distraught, and full +of longing, primeval passion. "Lucy," she whispered, "your mother +never lost sight of--anything." + +Lucy turned deadly white. She stared back at her mother. + +"You thought perhaps he was in love with Miss Farrel, didn't you?" +Mrs. Ayres said, in a very low whisper. + +Lucy nodded, still staring with eyes of horrified inquiry at her +mother. + +"You had seen him with her?" + +"Ever so many times, walking, and he took her to ride, and I saw him +coming out of the hotel. I thought--" + +"Listen, Lucy." Mrs. Ayres's whisper was hardly audible. "Mother made +some candy and sent it to Miss Farrel. She--never had any that +anybody else made. It--was candy that would not hurt anybody that she +had." + +Lucy's face lightened as if with some veritable illumination. + +"Mother perhaps ought not to have let you think--as you did, so +long," said Mrs. Ayres, "but she thought perhaps it was best, and, +Lucy, mother has begun to realize that it was. Now you think, +perhaps, he is in love with this other girl, don't you?" + +"They are living in the same house," returned Lucy, in a stifled +shriek, "and--and--I found out this afternoon that she--she is in +love with him. And she is so pretty, and--" Lucy sobbed wildly. + +"Mother has been watching every minute," said Mrs. Ayres. + +"Mother, I haven't killed him?" + +"No, dear. Mother made the candy." + +Lucy sobbed and trembled convulsively. Mrs. Ayres stroked her hair +until she was a little quieter, then she spoke. "Lucy," she said, +"the time has come for you to listen to mother, and you must listen." + +Lucy looked up at her with her soft, terrible eyes. + +"You are not in love with this last man," said Mrs. Ayres, quietly. +"You were not in love with any of the others. It is all because you +are a woman, and the natural longings of a woman are upon you. The +time has come for you to listen and understand. It is right that you +should have what you want, but if the will of God is otherwise you +must make the best of it. There are other things in life, or it would +be monstrous. It will be no worse for you than for thousands of other +women who go through life unmarried. You have no excuse to--commit +crime or to become a wreck. I tell you there are other things besides +that which has taken hold of you, soul and body. There are spiritual +things. There is the will of God, which is above the will of the +flesh and the will of the fleshly heart. It is for you to behave +yourself and take what comes. You are still young, and if you were +not there is always room in life for a gift of God. You may yet have +what you are crying out for. In the mean time--" + +Lucy interrupted with a wild cry. "Oh, mother, you will take care of +me, you will watch me!" + +"You need not be afraid, Lucy," said Mrs. Ayres, grimly and tenderly. +"I will watch you, and--" She hesitated a moment, then she continued, +"If I ever catch you buying that again--" + +But Lucy interrupted. + +"Oh, mother," she said, "this last time it was not--it really was +not--_that!_ It was only something that would have made her sick a +little. It would not have--It was not _that!_" + +"If I ever do catch you buying that again," said Mrs. Ayres, "you +will know what a whipping is." Her tone was almost whimsical, but it +had a terrible emphasis. + +Lucy shrank. "I didn't put enough of _that_ in to--to do much harm," +she murmured, "but I never will again." + +"No, you had better not," assented Mrs. Ayres. "Now slip on your +wrapper and come down-stairs with me. I am going to warm up some of +that chicken on toast the way you like it, for supper, and then I am +coming back up-stairs with you, and you are going to lie down, and +I'll read that interesting book we got out of the library." + +Lucy obeyed like a child. Her mother helped her slip the wrapper over +her head, and the two went down-stairs. + +After supper that night Sidney Meeks called at the Whitmans'. He did +not stay long. He had brought a bottle of elder-flower wine for +Sylvia. As he left he looked at Henry, who followed him out of the +house into the street. They paused just outside the gate. + +"Well?" said Henry, interrogatively. + +"All right," responded Meeks. "What it is all about beats me. The +stuff wouldn't hurt a babe in arms, unless it gave it indigestion. +Your boarder hasn't insanity in his family, has he?" + +"Not that I know of," replied Henry. Then he repeated Meeks's +comment. "It beats me," he said. + +When Henry re-entered the house Sylvia looked at him. "What were you +and Mr. Meeks talking about out in the street?" she asked. + +"Nothing," replied Henry, lying as a man may to a woman or a child. + +"He's in there with her," whispered Sylvia. "They went in there the +minute Mr. Meeks and you went out." Sylvia pointed to the best parlor +and looked miserably jealous. + +"Well," said Henry, tentatively. + +"If they've got anything to say I don't see why they can't say it +here," said Sylvia. + +"The door is open," said Henry. + +"I ain't going to listen, if it is, and you know I can't hear with +one ear," said Sylvia. "Of course I don't care, but I don't see why +they went in there. What were you and Mr. Meeks talking about, Henry?" + +"Nothing," answered Henry, cheerfully, again. + + + +Chapter XIII + + +Rose Fletcher had had a peculiar training. She had in one sense +belonged to the ranks of the fully sophisticated, who are supposed to +swim on the surface of things and catch all the high lights of +existence, like bubbles, and in another sense it had been very much +the reverse. She might, so far as one side of her character was +concerned, have been born and brought up in East Westland, as her +mother had been before her. She had a perfect village simplicity and +wonder at life, as to a part of her innermost self, which was only +veneered by her contact with the world. In part she was entirely +different from all the girls in the place, and the difference was +really in the grain. That had come from her assimilation at a very +tender age with the people who had had the care of her. They had +belonged by right of birth with the most brilliant social lights, but +lack of money had hampered them. They blazed, as it were, under +ground glass with very small candle-powers, although they were on the +same shelf with the brilliant incandescents. Rose's money had been +the main factor which enabled them to blaze at all. Otherwise they +might have still remained on the shelf, it is true, but as dark stars. + +Rose had not been sent away to school for two reasons. One reason was +Miss Farrel's, the other originated with her caretakers. Miss Farrel +had a jealous dread of the girl's forming one of those erotic +friendships, which are really diseased love-affairs, with another +girl or a teacher, and the Wiltons' reason was a pecuniary one. Among +the Wiltons' few assets was a distant female relative of pronounced +accomplishments and educational attainments, who was even worse off +financially than they. It had become with her a question of +bread-and-butter and the simplest necessaries of life, whereas Mrs. +Wilton and her sister, Miss Pamela, still owned the old family +mansion, which, although reduced from its former heights of fashion, +was grand, with a subdued and dim grandeur, it is true, but still +grand; and there was also a fine old country-house in a fashionable +summer resort. There were also old servants and jewels and laces and +all that had been. The difficulty was in retaining it with the +addition of repairs, and additions which are as essential to the mere +existence of inanimate objects as food is to the animate, these being +as their law of growth. Rose Fletcher's advent, although her fortune +was, after all, only a moderate one, permitted such homely but +necessary things as shingles to be kept intact upon roofs of old +family homes; it enabled servants to be paid and fuel and food to be +provided. Still, after all, had poor Eliza Farrel, that morbid victim +of her own hunger for love, known what economies were practised at +her expense, in order that all this should be maintained, she would +have rebelled. She knew that the impecunious female relative was a +person fully adequate to educate Rose, but she did not know that her +only stipend therefor was her bread-and-butter and the cast-off +raiment of Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela. She did not know that when +Rose came out her stock of party gowns was so limited that she had to +refuse many invitations or appear always as the same flower, as far +as garments were concerned. She did not know that during Rose's two +trips abroad the expenses had been so carefully calculated that the +girl had not received those advantages usually supposed to be derived +from foreign travel. + +While Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela would have scorned the imputation +of deceit or dishonesty, their moral sense in those two directions +was blunted by their keen scent for the conventionalities of life, +which to them had almost become a religion. They had never owned to +their inmost consciousness that Rose had not derived the fullest +benefit from Miss Farrel's money; it is doubtful if they really were +capable of knowing it. When a party gown for Rose was weighed in the +balance with some essential for maintaining their position upon the +society shelf, it had not the value of a feather. Mrs. Wilton and +Miss Pamela gave regular dinner-parties and receptions through the +season, but they invited people of undoubted social standing whom +Miss Farrel would have neglected for others on Rose's account. By a +tacit agreement, never voiced in words, young men or old who might +have made too heavy drains upon wines and viands were seldom invited. +The preference was for dyspeptic clergymen and elderly and genteel +females with slender appetites, or stout people upon diets. It was +almost inconceivable how Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela, with no actual +consultations to that end, practised economies and maintained +luxuries. They seemed to move with a spiritual unity like the +physical one of the Siamese twins. Meagre meals served magnificently, +the most splendid conservatism with the smallest possible amount of +comfort, moved them as one. + +Rose, having been so young when she went to live with them, had never +realized the true state of affairs. Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela had +not encouraged her making visits in houses where her eyes might have +been opened. Then, too, she was naturally generous, and not +sharp-eyed concerning her own needs. When there were no guests at +dinner, and she rose from the table rather unsatisfied after her +half-plate of watery soup, her delicate little befrilled chop and dab +of French pease, her tiny salad and spoonful of dessert, she never +imagined that she was defrauded. Rose had a singularly sweet, +ungrasping disposition, and an almost childlike trait of accepting +that which was offered her as the one and only thing which she +deserved. When there was a dinner-party, she sat between an elderly +clergyman and a stout judge, who was dieting on account of the danger +of apoplexy, with the same graceful agreeableness with which she +would have sat between two young men. + +Rose had not developed early as to her temperament. She had played +with dolls until Miss Pamela had felt it her duty to remonstrate. She +had charmed the young men whom she had seen, and had not thought +about them when once they were out of sight. Her pulses did not +quicken easily. She had imagination, but she did not make herself the +heroine of her dreams. She was sincerely puzzled at the expression +which she saw on the faces of some girls when talking with young men. +She felt a vague shame and anger because of it, but she did not know +what it meant. She had read novels, but the love interest in them was +like a musical theme which she, hearing, did not fully understand. +She was not in the least a boylike girl; she was wholly feminine, but +the feminine element was held in delicate and gentle restraint. +Without doubt Mrs. Wilton's old-fashioned gentility, and Miss +Pamela's, and her governess's, who belonged to the same epoch, had +served to mould her character not altogether undesirably. She was, on +the whole, a pleasant and surprising contrast to girls of her age, +with her pretty, shy respect for her elders, and lack of +self-assertion, along with entire self-possession and good breeding. +However, she had missed many things which poor Miss Farrel had +considered desirable for her, and which her hostesses with their +self-sanctified evasion had led her to think had been done. + +Miss Farrel, teaching in her country school, had had visions of the +girl riding a thoroughbred in Central Park, with a groom in +attendance; whereas the reality was the old man who served both as +coachman and butler, in carefully kept livery, guiding two horses apt +to stumble from extreme age through the shopping district, and the +pretty face of the girl looking out of the window of an ancient coupe +which, nevertheless, had a coat of arms upon its door. Miss Farrel +imagined Rose in a brilliant house-party at Wiltmere, Mrs. Wilton's +and Miss Pamela's country home; whereas in reality she was roaming +about the fields and woods with an old bull-terrier for guard and +companion. Rose generally carried a book on these occasions, and +generally not a modern book. Her governess had a terror of modern +books, especially of novels. She had looked into a few and shuddered. +Rose's taste in literature was almost Elizabethan. She was not +allowed, of course, to glance at early English novels, which her +governess classed with late English and American in point of +morality, but no poetry except Byron was prohibited. + +Rose loved to sit under a tree with the dog in a white coil beside +her, and hold her book open on her lap and read a word now and then, +and amuse herself with fancies the rest of the time. She grew in +those days of her early girlhood to have firm belief in those things +which she never saw nor heard, and the belief had not wholly deserted +her. She never saw a wood-nymph stretch out a white arm from a tree, +but she believed in the possibility of it, and the belief gave her a +curious delight. When she returned to the house for her scanty, +elegantly served dinner with the three elder ladies, her eyes would +be misty with these fancies and her mouth would wear the inscrutable +smile of a baby's at the charm of them. + +When she first came to East Westland she was a profound mystery to +Horace, who had only known well two distinct types of girls--the +purely provincial and her reverse. Rose, with her mixture of the two, +puzzled him. While she was not in the least shy, she had a reserve +which caused her to remain a secret to him for some time. Rose's +inner life was to her something sacred, not to be lightly revealed. +At last, through occasional remarks and opinions, light began to +shine through. He had begun to understand her the Sunday he had +followed her to Lucy Ayres's. He had, also, more than begun to love +her. Horace Allen would not have loved her so soon had she been more +visible as to her inner self. Things on the surface rarely interested +him very much. He had not an easily aroused temperament, and a veil +which stimulated his imagination and aroused his searching instinct +was really essential if he were to fall in love. He had fallen in +love before, he had supposed, although he had never asked one of the +fair ones to marry him. Now he began to call up various faces and +wonder if this were not the first time. All the faces seemed to dim +before this present one. He realized something in her very dear and +precious, and for the first time he felt as if he could not forego +possession. Hitherto it had been easy enough to bear the slight +wrench of leaving temptation and moving his tent. Here it was +different. Still, the old objection remained. How could he marry upon +his slight salary? + +The high-school in East Westland was an endowed institution. The +principal received twelve hundred a year. People in the village +considered that a prodigious income. Horace, of course, knew better. +He did not think that sum sufficient to risk matrimony. Here, too, he +was hampered by another consideration. It was intolerable for him to +think of Rose's wealth and his paltry twelve hundred per year. An +ambition which had always slumbered within his mind awoke to full +strength and activity. He began to sit up late at night and write +articles for the papers and magazines. He had got one accepted, and +received a check which to his inexperience seemed promisingly large. +In spite of all his anxiety he was exalted. He began to wonder if +circumstances would not soon justify him in reaching out for the +sweet he coveted. He made up his mind not to be precipitate, to wait +until he was sure, but his impatience had waxed during the last few +hours, ever since that delicious note of stilted, even cold, praise +and that check had arrived. When Rose had started to go up-stairs he +had not been able to avoid following her into the hall. The door of +the parlor stood open, and the whole room was full of the soft +shimmer of moonlight. It looked like a bower of romance. It seemed +full of soft and holy and alluring mysteries. Horace looked down at +Rose, Rose looked up at him. Her eyes fell; she trembled deliciously. + +"It is very early," he said, in a whispering voice which would not +have been known for his. It had in it the male cadences of wooing +music. + +Rose stood still. + +"Let us go in there a little while," whispered Horace. Rose followed +him into the room; he gave the door a little push. It did not quite +close, but nearly. Horace placed a chair for Rose beside a window +into which the moon was shining; then he drew up one beside it, but +not very close. He neither dared nor was sure that he desired. Alone +with the girl in this moonlit room, an awe crept over him. She looked +away from him out of the window, and he saw that this same awe was +over her also. All their young pulses were thrilling, but this awe +which was of the spirit held them in check. Rose, with the full white +moonlight shining upon her face, gained an ethereal beauty which gave +her an adorable aloofness. The young man seemed to see her through +the vista of all his young dreams. She was the goddess before which +his soul knelt at a distance. He thought he had never seen anything +half so lovely as she was in that white light, which seemed to crown +her with a frosty radiance like a nimbus. Her very expression was +changed. She was smiling, but there was something a little grave and +stern about her smile. Her eyes, fixed upon the clear crystal of the +moon sailing through the night blue, were full of visions. It did not +seem possible to him that she could be thinking of him at all, this +beautiful creature with her pure regard of the holy mystery of the +nightly sky; but in reality Rose, being the more emotional of the +two, and also, since she was not the one to advance, the more daring, +began to tremble with impatience for his closer contact, for the +touch of his hand upon hers. + +She would have died before she would have made the first advance, but +it filled her as with secret fire. Finally a sort of anger possessed +her, anger at herself and at Horace. She became horribly ashamed of +herself, and angry at him because of the shame. She gazed out at the +wonderful masses of shadows which the trees made, and she gazed up +again at the sky and that floating crystal, and it seemed impossible +that it was within her as it was. Her clear face was as calm as +marble, her expression as immovable, her gaze as direct. It seemed as +if a man must be a part of the wonderful mystery of the moonlit night +to come within her scope of vision at all. + +Rose chilled, when she did not mean to do so, by sheer maidenliness. +Horace, gazing at her calm face, felt in some way rebuked. He had led +a decent sort of life, but after all he was a man, and what right had +he to even think of a creature like that? He leaned back in his +chair, removing himself farther from her, and he also gazed at the +moon. That mysterious thing of silver light and shadows, which had +illumined all the ages of creation by their own reflected light, +until it had come to be a mirror of creation itself, seemed to give +him a sort of chill of the flesh. After all, what was everything in +life but a repetition of that which had been and a certainty of +death? Rose looked like a ghost to his fancy. He seemed like a ghost +to himself, and felt reproached for the hot ardor surging in his +fleshly heart. + +"That same moon lit the world for the builders of the Pyramids," he +said, tritely enough. + +"Yes," murmured Rose, in a faint voice. The Pyramids chilled her. So +they were what he had been thinking about, and not herself. + +Horace went on. "It shone upon all those ancient battle-fields of the +Old Testament, and the children of Israel in their exile," he said. + +Rose looked at him. "It shone upon the Garden of Eden after Adam had +so longed for Eve that she grew out of his longing and became +something separate from himself, so that he could see her without +seeing himself all the time; and it shone upon the garden in +Solomon's Song, and the roses of Sharon, and the lilies of the +valley, and the land flowing with milk and honey," said she, in a +childish tone of levity which had an undercurrent of earnestness in +it. All her emotional nature and her pride arose against Pyramids and +Old Testament battle-fields, when she had only been conscious that +the moon shone upon Horace and herself. She was shamed and angry as +she had never been shamed and angry before. + +Horace leaned forward and gazed eagerly at her. After all, was he +mistaken? He was shrewd enough, although he did not understand the +moods of women very well, and it did seem to him that there was +something distinctly encouraging in her tone. Just then the night +wind came in strongly at the window beside which they were sitting. +An ardent fragrance of dewy earth and plants smote them in the face. + +"Do you feel the draught?" asked Horace. + +"I like it." + +"I am afraid you will catch cold." + +"I don't catch cold at all easily." + +"The wind is very damp," argued Horace, with increasing confidence. +He grew very bold. He seized upon one of her little white hands. "I +won't believe it unless I can feel for myself that your hands are not +cold," said he. He felt the little soft fingers curl around his hand +with the involuntary, pristine force of a baby's. His heart beat +tumultuously. + +"Oh--" he began. Then he stopped suddenly as Rose snatched her hand +away and again gazed at the moon. + +"It is a beautiful night," she remarked, and the harmless deceit of +woman, which is her natural weapon, was in her voice and manner. + +Horace was more obtuse. He remained leaning eagerly towards the girl. +He extended his hand again, but she repeated, in her soft, deceitful +voice, "Yes, a perfectly beautiful night." + +Then he observed Sylvia Whitman standing beside them. "It is a nice +night enough," said she, "but you'll both catch your deaths of cold +at this open window. The wind is blowing right in on you." + +She made a motion to close it, stepping between Rose and Horace, but +the young man sprang to his feet. "Let me close it, Mrs. Whitman," +said he, and did so. + +"It ain't late enough in the season to set right beside an open +window and let the wind blow in on you," said Sylvia, severely. She +drew up a rocking-chair and sat down. She formed the stern apex of a +triangle of which Horace and Rose were the base. She leaned back and +rocked. + +"It is a pleasant night," said she, as if answering Rose's remark, +"but to me there's always something sort of sad about moonlight +nights. They make you think of times and people that's gone. I dare +say it is different with you young folks. I guess I used to feel +different about moonlight nights years ago. I remember when Mr. +Whitman and I were first married, we used to like to set out on the +front door-step and look at the moon, and make plans." + +"Don't you ever now?" asked Rose. + +"Now we go to bed and to sleep," replied Sylvia, decisively. There +was a silence. "I guess it's pretty late," said Sylvia, in a meaning +tone. "What time is it, Mr. Allen?" + +Horace consulted his watch. "It is not very late," said he. It did +not seem to him that Mrs. Whitman could stay. + +"It can't be very late," said Rose. + +"What time is it?" asked Sylvia, relentlessly. + +"About half-past ten," replied Horace, with reluctance. + +"I call that very late," said Sylvia. "It is late for Rose, anyway." + +"I don't feel at all tired," said Rose. + +"You must be," said Sylvia. "You can't always go by feelings." + +She swayed pitilessly back and forth in her rocking-chair. Horace +waited in an agony of impatience for her to leave them, but she had +no intention of doing so. She rocked. Now and then she made some +maddening little remark which had nothing whatever to do with the +situation. Then she rocked again. Finally she triumphed. Rose stood +up. "I think it is getting rather late," said she. + +"It is very late," agreed Sylvia, also rising. Horace rose. There was +a slight pause. It seemed even then that Sylvia might take pity upon +them and leave them. But she stood like a rock. It was quite evident +that she would settle again into her rocking-chair at the slightest +indication which the two young people made of a disposition to remain. + +Rose gave a fluttering little sigh. She extended her hand to Horace. +"Good-night, Mr. Allen," she said. + +"Good-night," returned Horace. "Good-night, Mrs. Whitman." + +"It is time you went to bed, too," said Sylvia. + +"I think I'll go in and have a smoke with Mr. Whitman first," said +Horace. + +"He's going to bed, too," said Sylvia. "He's tired. Good-night, Mr. +Allen. If you open that window again, you'll be sure and shut it down +before you go up-stairs, won't you?" + +Horace promised that he would. Sylvia went with Rose into her room to +unfasten her gown. A lamp was burning on the dressing-table. Rose +kept her back turned towards the light. Her pretty face was flushed +and she was almost in tears. Sylvia hung the girl's gown up +carefully, then she looked at her lovingly. Unless Rose made the +first advance, when Sylvia would submit with inward rapture but +outward stiffness, there never were good-night kisses exchanged +between the two. + +"You look all tired out," said Sylvia. + +"I am not at all tired," said Rose. She was all quivering with +impatience, but her voice was sweet and docile. She put up her face +for Sylvia to kiss. "Good-night, dear Aunt Sylvia," said she. + +"Good-night," said Sylvia. Rose felt merely a soft touch of thin, +tightly closed lips. Sylvia did not know how to kiss, but she was +glowing with delight. + +When she joined Henry in their bedroom down-stairs he looked at her +in some disapproval. "I don't think you'd ought to have gone in +there," he said. + +"Why not?" + +"Why, you must expect young folks to be young folks, and it was only +natural for them to want to set there in the moonlight." + +"They can set in there in the moonlight if they want to," said +Sylvia. "I didn't hinder them." + +"I think they wanted to be alone." + +"When they set in the moonlight, I'm going to set, too," said Sylvia. +She slipped off her gown carefully over her head. When the head +emerged Henry saw that it was carried high with the same rigidity +which had lately puzzled him, and that her face had that same +expression of stern isolation. + +"Sylvia," said Henry. + +"Well?" + +"Does anything worry you lately?" + +Sylvia looked at him with sharp suspicion. "I'd like to know why you +should think anything worries me," she said, "as comfortable as we +are off now." + +"Sylvia, have you got anything on your mind?" + +"I don't want to see young folks making fools of themselves," said +Sylvia, shortly, and her voice had the same tone of deceit which Rose +had used when she spoke of the beautiful night. + +"That ain't it," said Henry, quietly. + +"Well, if you want to know," said Sylvia, "she's been pestering me +with wanting to pay board if she stays along here, and I've put my +foot down; she sha'n't pay a cent." + +"Of course we can't let her," agreed Henry. Then he added, "This was +all her own aunt's property, anyway, and if there hadn't been a will +it would have come to her." + +"There was a will," said Sylvia, fastening her cotton night-gown +tightly around her skinny throat. + +"Of course she's going to stay as long as she's contented, and she +ain't going to pay board," said Henry; "but that ain't the trouble. +Have you got anything on your mind, Sylvia?" + +"I hope so," replied Sylvia, sharply. "I hope I've got a little +something on my mind. I ain't a fool." + +Henry said no more. Neither he nor Sylvia went to sleep at once. The +moon's pale influence lit their room and seemed disturbing in itself. +Presently they both smelled cigar smoke. + +"He's smoking," said Sylvia. "Well, nothing makes much difference to +you men, as long as you can smoke. I'd like to know what you'd do in +my place." + +"Have you got anything on your mind, Sylvia?" + +"Didn't I say I hoped I had? Everybody has something on her mind, +unless she's a tarnation fool, and I ain't never set up for one." + +Henry did not speak again. + + + +Chapter XIV + + +The next morning at breakfast Rose announced her intention of going +to see if Lucy Ayres would not go to drive with her. + +"There's one very nice little horse at the livery-stable," said she, +"and I can drive. It is a beautiful morning, and poor Lucy did not +look very well yesterday, and I think it will do her good." + +Horace turned white. Henry noticed it. Sylvia, who was serving +something, did not. Henry had thought he had arrived at a knowledge +of Horace's suspicions, which in themselves seemed to him perfectly +groundless, and now that he had, as he supposed, proved them to be +so, he was profoundly puzzled. Before he had gone to Horace's +assistance. Now he did not see his way clear towards doing so, and +saw no necessity for it. He ate his breakfast meditatively. Horace +pushed away his plate and rose. + +"Why, what's the matter?" asked Sylvia. "Don't you feel well, Mr. +Allen?" + +"Perfectly well; never felt better." + +"You haven't eaten enough to keep a sparrow alive." + +"I have eaten fast," said Horace. "I have to make an early start this +morning. I have some work to do before school." + +Rose apparently paid no attention. She went on with her plans for her +drive. + +"Are you sure you know how to manage a horse?" said Sylvia, +anxiously. "I used to drive, but I can't go with you because the +washerwoman is coming." + +"Of course I can drive," said Rose. "I love to drive. And I don't +believe there's a horse in the stable that would get out of a walk, +anyway." + +"You won't try to pass by any steam-rollers, and you'll look out for +automobiles, won't you?" said Sylvia. + +Horace left them talking and set out hurriedly. When he reached the +Ayres house he entered the gate, passed between the flowering shrubs +which bordered the gravel walk, and rang the bell with vigor. He was +desperate. Lucy herself opened the door. When she saw Horace she +turned red, then white. She was dressed neatly in a little blue +cotton wrapper, and her pretty hair was arranged as usual, with the +exception of one tiny curl-paper on her forehead. Lucy's hand went +nervously to this curl-paper. + +"Oh, good-morning!" she said, breathlessly, as if she had been +running. + +Horace returned her greeting gravely. "Can I see you a few moments, +Miss Lucy?" he said. + +A wild light came into the girl's eyes. Her cheeks flushed again. +Again she spoke in her nervous, panting voice, and asked him in. She +led the way into the parlor and excused herself flutteringly. She was +back in a few moments. Instead of the curl-paper there was a little, +soft, dark, curly lock on her forehead. She had also fastened the +neck of her wrapper with a gold brooch. The wrapper sloped well from +her shoulders and displayed a lovely V of white neck. She sat down +opposite Horace, and the simple garment adjusted itself to her slim +figure, revealing its tender outlines. + +Lucy looked at Horace, and her expression was tragic, foolish, and of +almost revolting wistfulness. She was youth and womanhood in its most +helpless and pathetic revelation. Poor Lucy could not help herself. +She was a thing always devoured and never consumed by a flame of +nature, because of the lack of food to satisfy an inborn hunger. + +Horace felt all this perfectly in an analytical way. He sympathized +in an analytical way, but in other respects he felt that curious +resentment and outrage of which a man is capable and which is fiercer +than outraged maidenliness. For a man to be beloved when his own +heart does not respond is not pleasant. He cannot defend himself, nor +even recognize facts, without being lowered in his own self-esteem. +Horace had done, as far as he could judge, absolutely nothing +whatever to cause this state of mind in Lucy. He was self-exonerated +as to that, but the miserable reason for it all, in his mere +existence as a male of his species, filled him with shame for himself +and her, and also with anger. + +He strove to hold to pity, but anger got the better of him. Anger and +shame coupled together make a balking team. Now the man was really at +a loss what to say. Lucy sat before him with her expression of +pitiable self-revelation, and waited, and Horace sat speechless. Now +he was there, he wondered what he had been such an ass as to come +for. He wondered what he had ever thought he could say, would say. +Then Rose's face shone out before his eyes, and his impulse of +protection made him firm. He spoke abruptly. "Miss Lucy--" he began. +Lucy cast her eyes down and waited, her whole attitude was that of +utter passiveness and yielding. "Good Lord! She thinks I have come +here at eight o'clock in the morning to propose!" Horace thought, +with a sort of fury. But he did not speak again at once. He actually +did not know how to begin, what to say. He did not, finally, say +anything. He rose. It seemed to him that he must prevent Rose from +going to drive with Lucy, but he saw no way of doing so. + +When he rose it was as if Lucy's face of foolish anticipation of joy +was overclouded. "You are not going so soon?" she stammered. + +"I have to get to school early this morning," Horace said, in a harsh +voice. He moved towards the door. Lucy also had risen. She now looked +altogether tragic. The foolish wistfulness was gone. Instead, claws +seemed to bristle all over her tender surface. Suddenly Horace +realized that her slender, wiry body was pressed against his own. He +was conscious of her soft cheek against his. He felt at once in the +grip of a tiger and a woman, and horribly helpless, more helpless +than he had ever been in his whole life. What could he say or do? +Then suddenly the parlor door opened and Mrs. Ayres, Lucy's mother, +stood there. She saw with her stern, melancholy gaze the whole +situation. + +"Lucy!" she said. + +Lucy started away from Horace, and gazed in a sort of fear and wrath +at her mother. + +"Lucy," said Mrs. Ayres, "go up to your own room." + +Lucy obeyed. She slunk out of the door and crept weakly up-stairs. +Horace and Mrs. Ayres looked at each other. There was a look of doubt +in the woman's face. For the first time she was not altogether sure. +Perhaps Lucy had been right, after all, in her surmises. Why had +Horace called? She finally went straight to the point. + +"What did you come for, Mr. Allen?" said she. + +Suddenly Horace thought of the obvious thing to say, the explanation +to give. "Miss Fletcher is thinking of coming later to take Miss Lucy +for a drive," said he. + +"And you called to tell her?" said Mrs. Ayres. + +Horace looked at her. Mrs. Ayres understood. "Miss Fletcher must come +with a double-seated carriage so that I can go," said she. "My +daughter is very nervous about horses. I never allow her to go to +drive without me." + +She observed, with a sort of bitter sympathy, the look of relief +overspread Horace's face. "I will send a telephone message from Mrs. +Steele's, next door, so there will be no mistake," she said. + +"Thank you," replied Horace. His face was burning. + +Mrs. Ayres went on with a melancholy and tragic calm. "I saw what I +saw when I came in," said she. "I have only to inform you that--any +doubts which you may have entertained, any fears, are altogether +groundless. Everything has been as harmless as--the candy you ate +last night." + +Horace started and stared at her. In truth, he had lain awake until a +late hour wondering what might be going to happen to him. + +"I made it," said Mrs. Ayres. "I attend to everything. I have +attended to everything." She gazed at him with a strange, pathetic +dignity. "I have no apologies nor excuses to make to you," she said. +"I have only this to say, and you can reflect upon it at your +leisure. Sometimes, quite often, it may happen that too heavy a +burden, a burden which has been gathering weight since the first of +creation, is heaped upon too slender shoulders. This burden may bend +innocence into guilt and modesty into shamelessness, but there is no +more reason for condemnation than in a case of typhoid fever. Any man +of good sense and common Christianity should take that view of it." + +"I do," cried Horace, hurriedly. He looked longingly at the door. He +had never felt so shamed in his life, and never so angrily +sympathetic. + +"I will go over to Mrs. Steele's and telephone immediately," said +Mrs. Ayres, calmly. "Good-morning, Mr. Allen." + +"Good-morning," said Horace. There was something terrible about the +face of patient defiance which the woman lifted to his. + +"You will not--" she began. + +Horace caught her thin hand and pressed it heartily. "Good God, Mrs. +Ayres!" he stammered. + +She nodded. "Yes, I understand. I can trust you," she said. "I am +very glad it happened with you." + +Horace was relieved to be out in the open air. He felt as if he had +escaped from an atmosphere of some terrible emotional miasma. He +reflected that he had heard of such cases as poor Lucy Ayres, but he +had been rather incredulous. He walked along wondering whether it was +a psychological or physical phenomenon. Pity began to get the better +of his shame for himself and the girl. The mother's tragic face came +before his eyes. "What that woman must have to put up with!" he +thought. + +When he had commenced the morning session of school he found himself +covertly regarding the young girls. He wondered if such cases were +common. If they were, he thought to himself that the man who threw +the first stone was the first criminal of the world. He realized the +helplessness of the young things before forces of nature of which +they were brought up in so much ignorance, and his soul rebelled. He +thought to himself that they should be armed from the beginning with +wisdom. + +He was relieved that at first he saw in none of the girl-faces before +him anything which resembled in the slightest degree the expression +which he had seen in Lucy Ayres's. These girls, most of them +belonging to the village (there were a few from outside, for this was +an endowed school, ranking rather higher than an ordinary +institution), revealed in their faces one of three interpretations of +character. Some were full of young mischief, chafing impatiently at +the fetters of school routine. They were bubbling over with innocent +animal life; they were longing to be afield at golf or tennis. They +hated their books. + +Some were frankly coquettish and self-conscious, but in a most +healthy and normal fashion. These frequently adjusted stray locks of +hair, felt of their belts at their backs to be sure that the +fastenings were intact, then straightened themselves with charming +little feminine motions. Their flowerlike faces frequently turned +towards the teacher, and there was in them a perfect consciousness of +the facts of sex and charm, but it was a most innocent, even +childlike consciousness. + +The last type belonged to those intent upon their books, soberly +adjusted to the duties of life already, with little imagination or +emotion. This last was in the minority. + +"Thank God!" Horace thought, as his eyes met one and another of the +girl-faces. "She is not, cannot be, a common type." And then he felt +something like a chill of horror as his eyes met those of a new +pupil, a girl from Alford, who had only entered the school the day +before. She was not well dressed. There was nothing coquettish about +her, but in her eyes shone the awful, unreasoning hunger which he had +seen before. Upon her shoulders, young as they were, was the same +burden, the burden as old as creation, which she was required to bear +by a hard destiny, perhaps of heredity. There was something horribly +pathetic in the girl's shy, beseeching, foolish gaze at Horace. She +was younger and shyer than Lucy and, although not so pretty, +immeasurably more pathetic. + +"Another," thought Horace. It was a great relief to him when, only a +week later, this girl found an admirer in one of the schoolboys, who, +led by some strange fascination, followed her instead of one of the +prettier, more attractive girls. Then the girl began to look more +normal. She dressed more carefully and spent more time in arranging +her hair. After all, she was very young, and abnormal instincts may +be quieted with a mere sop at the first. + +When Horace reached home that day of the drive he found that Rose had +returned. Sylvia said that she had been at home half an hour. + +"She went to Alford," she said, "and I'm afraid she's all tired out. +She came home looking as white as a sheet. She said she didn't want +any dinner, but finally said she would come down." + +At the dinner-table Rose was very silent. She did not look at Horace +at all. She ate almost nothing. After dinner she persisted in +assisting Sylvia in clearing away the table and washing the dishes. +Rose took a childish delight in polishing the china with her +dish-towel. New England traits seemed to awake within her in this New +England home. Sylvia was using the willow ware now, Rose was so +pleased with it. The Calkin's soap ware was packed away on the top +shelf of the pantry. + +"It is perfectly impossible, Aunt Sylvia," Rose had declared, and +Sylvia had listened. She listened with much more docility than at +first to the decrees of sophistication. + +"The painting ain't nearly as natural," she had said, feebly, +regarding the moss rosebuds on a Calkin's soap plate with fluctuating +admiration which caused her pain by its fluctuations. + +"Oh, but, Aunt Sylvia, to think of comparing for one minute ware like +that with this perfectly wonderful old willow ware!" Rose had said. + +"Well, have your own way," said Sylvia, with a sigh. "Maybe I can get +used to everything all blue, when it ain't blue, after awhile. I know +you have been around more than I have, and you ought to know." + +So the gold-and-white ware which had belonged to Sylvia's mother +decked the breakfast-table and the willow ware did duty for the rest +of the time. "I think it is very much better that you have no maid," +Rose said. "I simply would not trust a maid to care for china like +this." + +Rose took care of her room now, and very daintily. "She'll be real +capable after awhile," Sylvia told Henry. + +"I didn't know as she'd be contented to stay at all, we live so +different from the way she's been used to," said Henry. + +"It's the way her mother was brought up, and the way she lived, and +what's in the blood will work out," said Sylvia. "Then, too, I guess +she didn't care any too much about those folks she lived with. For my +part, I think it's the queerest thing I ever heard of that Miss +Farrel, if she took such a notion to the child, enough to do so much +for her, didn't keep her herself." + +"Miss Farrel was a queer woman," said Henry. + +"I guess she wasn't any too well balanced," agreed Sylvia. + +"What do you suppose tired Rose out so much this morning?" asked +Henry. "It isn't such a very long ride to Alford." + +"I don't know. She looked like a ghost when she got home. I'm glad +she's laying down. I hope she'll get a little nap." + +That was after dinner, when the house had been set in order, and +Sylvia was at one front window in the cool sitting-room, with a +basket of mending, and Henry at another with a library book. Henry +was very restless in these days. He pottered about the place and was +planning to get in a good hay crop, but this desultory sort of +employment did not take the place of his regular routine of toil. He +missed it horribly, almost as a man is said to miss a pain of long +standing. He knew that he was better off without it, that he ought to +be happier, but he knew that he was not. + +For years he had said bitterly that he had no opportunity for reading +and improving his mind. Now he had opportunity, but it was too late. +He could not become as interested in a book as he had been during the +few moments he had been able to snatch from his old routine of toil. +Some days it seemed to Henry that he must go back to the shop, that +he could not live in this way. He had begun to lose all interest in +what he had anticipated with much pleasure--the raising of grass on +Abrahama White's celebrated land. He felt that he knew nothing about +such work, that agriculture was not for him. If only he could stand +again at his bench in the shop, and cut leather into regular shapes, +he felt that while his hands toiled involuntarily his mind could +work. Some days he fairly longed so for the old familiar odor of +tanned hides, that odor which he had once thought sickened him, that +he would go to the shop and stand by the open door, and inhale the +warm rush of leather-scented air with keen relish. But he never told +this to Sylvia. + +Henry was not happy. At times it seemed to him that he really wished +that he and Sylvia had never met with this good-fortune. Once he +turned on Sidney Meeks with a fierce rejoinder, when Sidney had +repeated the sarcasm which he loved to roll beneath his tongue like a +honeyed morsel, that if he did not want his good-fortune it was the +easiest thing in the world to relinquish it. + +"It ain't," said Henry; "and what's more, you know it ain't. Sylvia +don't want to give it up, and I ain't going to ask her. You know I +can't get rid of it, but it's true what I say: when good things are +so long coming they get sour, like most things that are kept too +long. What's the use of a present your hands are too cramped to hold?" + +Sidney looked gravely at Henry, who had aged considerably during the +last few weeks. "Well, I am ready to admit," he said, "that sometimes +the mills of the gods grind so slow and small that the relish is out +of things when you get them. I'm willing to admit that if I had +to-day what I once thought I couldn't live without, I'd give up beat. +Once I thought I'd like to have the biggest law practice of any +lawyer in the State. If I had it now I'd be ready to throw it all up. +It would come too late. Now I'd think it was more bother than it was +worth. How'd I make my wines and get any comfort out of life? Yes, I +guess it's true, Henry, when Providence is overlong in giving a man +what he wants, it contrives somehow to suck the sweetness out of what +he gets, though he may not know it, and when what he thought he +wanted does come to him it is like a bee trying to make honey out of +a flower that doesn't hold any. Why don't you go back to the shop, +Henry, and have done with it?" + +"Sylvia--" began Henry. + +But Sidney cut in. "If you haven't found out," said he, "that in the +long-run doing what is best for yourself is doing what's best for the +people who love you best, you haven't found out much." + +"I don't know," Henry said, in a puzzled, weary way. "Sometimes it +seems to me I can't keep on living the way I am living, and live at +all; and then I don't know." + +"I know," said Sidney. "Get back to your tracks." + +"Sylvia would feel all cut up over it. She wouldn't understand." + +"Of course she wouldn't understand, but women always end in settling +down to things they don't understand, when they get it through their +heads it's got to be, and being just as contented, unless they're the +kind who fetch up in lunatic asylums, and Sylvia isn't that kind. The +inevitable may be a hard pill for her to swallow, but it will never +stick in her throat." + +Henry shook his head doubtfully. He had been thinking it over since. +He had thought of it a good deal after dinner that day, as he sat +with the unread book in his lap. Sylvia's remarks about Rose diverted +his attention, then he began thinking again. Sylvia watched him +furtively as she sewed. "You ain't reading that book at all," she +said. "I have been watching you, and you 'ain't turned a single page +since I spoke last." + +"I don't see why I should," returned Henry. "I don't see why anybody +but a fool should ever open the book, to begin with." + +"What is the book?" + +Henry looked at the title-page. "It is Whatever, by Mrs. Fane +Raymond," he said, absently. + +"I've heard it was a beautiful book." + +"Most women would like it," said Henry. "It seems to be a lot written +about a fool woman that didn't know what she wanted, by another fool +woman who didn't know, either, and was born cross-eyed as to right +and wrong." + +"Why, Henry Whitman, it ain't true!" + +"I suppose it ain't." + +"No book is true--that is, no story." + +"If it ain't true, so much the less reason to tell such a pack of +stupid lies," said Henry. He closed the book with a snap. + +"Why, Henry, ain't you going to finish it?" + +"No, I ain't. I'm going back to the shop to work." + +"Henry Whitman, you ain't!" + +"Yes, I am. As for pottering round here, and trying to get up an +interest in things I ought to have begun instead of ended in, and +setting round reading books that I can't keep my mind on, and if I +do, just get madder and madder, I won't. I'm going back to work with +my hands the way I've been working the last forty years, and then I +guess I'll get my mind out of leading-strings." + +"Henry Whitman, be you crazy?" + +"No, but I shall be if I set round this way much longer." + +"You don't need to do a mite of work." + +"You don't suppose it's the money I'm thinking about! It's the work." + +"What will folks say?" + +"I don't care what they say." + +"Henry Whitman, I thought I knew you, but I declare it seems as if I +have never known you at all," Sylvia said. She looked at him with her +puzzled, troubled eyes, in which tears were gathering. She was still +very pale. + +A sudden pity for her came over Henry. After all, he ought to try to +make his position clear to her. "Sylvia," he said, "what do you think +you would do, after all these years of housekeeping, if you had to +stand in a shoe-shop, from morning till night, at a bench cutting +leather?" + +Sylvia stared at him. "Me?" + +"Yes, you." + +"Why, you know I couldn't do it, Henry Whitman!" + +"Well, no more can I stand such a change in my life. I can't go to +farming and setting around after forty years in a shoe-shop, any more +than you can work in a shoe-shop after forty years of housekeeping." + +"It ain't the same thing at all," said Sylvia. + +"Why not?" + +"Because it ain't." Sylvia closed her thin lips conclusively. This, +to her mind, was reasoning which completely blocked all argument. + +Henry looked at her hopelessly. "I didn't suppose you would +understand," he said. + +"I don't see why you thought so," said Sylvia. "I guess I have a mind +capable of understanding as much as a man. There is no earthly sense +in your going to work in the shop again, with all our money. What +would folks say, and why do you want to do it?" + +"I have told you why." + +"You haven't told me why at all." + +Henry said no more. He looked out of the window with a miserable +expression. The beautiful front yard, with its box-bordered +flower-beds, did not cheer him with the sense of possession. He heard +a bird singing with a flutelike note; he heard bees humming over the +flowers, and he longed to hear, instead, the buzz and whir of +machines which had become the accompaniment of his song of life. A +terrible isolation and homesickness came over him. He thought of the +humble little house in which he and Sylvia had lived so many years, +and a sort of passion of longing for it seized him. He felt that for +the moment he fairly loathed all this comparative splendor with which +he was surrounded. + +"What do you think she would say if you went back to the shop?" asked +Sylvia. She jerked her head with an upward, sidewise movement towards +Rose's room. + +"She may not be contented to live here very long, anyway. It's likely +that when the summer's over she'll begin to think of her fine friends +in New York, and want to lead the life she's been used to again," +said Henry. "It ain't likely it would make much difference to her." + +Sylvia looked at Henry as he had never seen her look before. She +spoke with a passion of utterance of which he had never thought her +capable. "She is going to stay right here in her aunt Abrahama's +house, and have all she would have had if there hadn't been any +will," said she, fiercely. + +"You would make her stay if she didn't want to?" said Henry, gazing +at her wonderingly. + +"She's got to want to stay," said Sylvia, still with the same strange +passion. "There'll be enough going on; you needn't worry. I'm going +to have parties for her, if she wants them. She says she's been used +to playing cards, and you know how we were brought up about cards--to +think they were wicked. Well, I don't care if they are wicked. If she +wants them she's going to have card-parties, and prizes, too, though +I 'most know it's as bad as gambling. And if she wants to have +dancing-parties (she knows how to dance) she's going to have them, +too. I don't think there's six girls in East Westland who know how to +dance, but there must be a lot in Alford, and the parlor is big +enough for 'most everything. She shall have every mite as much going +on as she would have in New York. She sha'n't miss anything. I'm +willing to have some dinners with courses, too, if she wants them, +and hire Hannah Simmons's little sister to wait on the table, with a +white cap on her head and a white apron with a bib. I'm willing Rose +shall have everything she wants. And then, you know, Henry, there's +the church sociables and suppers all winter, and she'll like to go to +them; and they will most likely get up a lecture and concert course. +If she can't be every mite as lively here in East Westland as in New +York, if I set out to have her, I'll miss my guess. There's lots of +beautiful dresses up-stairs that belonged to her aunt, and I'm going +to have the dressmaker come here and make some over for her. It's no +use talking, she's going to stay." + +"Well, I am sure I hope she will," said Henry, still regarding his +wife with wonder. + +"She is going to, and if she does stay, you know you can't go back to +work in the shop, Henry Whitman. I'd like to know how you think you +could set down to the table with her, smelling of leather the way you +used to." + +"There might be worse smells." + +"That's just because you are used to it." + +"That's just it," cried Henry, pathetically. "Can't you get it +through your head, Sylvia? It is because I'm used to it. Can't you +see it's kind of dangerous to turn a man out of his tracks after he's +been in them so long?" + +"There ain't any need for you to work in the shop. We've got plenty +of money without," said Sylvia, settling back immovably in her chair, +and Henry gave it up. + +Sylvia considered that she had won the victory. She began sewing +again. Henry continued to look out of the window. + +"She is a delicate little thing, and I guess it's mighty lucky for +her that she came to live in the country just as she did," Sylvia +observed. + +"I suppose you know what's bound to happen if she and Mr. Allen stay +on in the same house," said Henry. "As far as I am concerned, I think +it would be a good arrangement. Mr. Allen has a good salary, and she +has enough to make up for what he can't do; and I would like to keep +the child here myself, but I somehow thought you didn't like the +idea." + +Again Sylvia turned white, and stared at her husband almost with +horror. "I don't see why you think it is bound to happen," said she. + +Henry laughed. "It doesn't take a very long head to think so." + +"It sha'n't happen. That child ain't going to marry anybody." + +"Sylvia, you don't mean that you want her to be an old maid!" + +"It's the best thing for any girl, if she only thought so, to be an +old maid," said Sylvia. + +Henry laughed a little. "That's a compliment to me." + +"I ain't saying anything against you. I've been happy enough, and I +suppose I've been better off than if I'd stayed single; but Rose has +got enough to live on, and what any girl that's got enough to live on +wants to get married for beats me." + +Henry laughed again, a little bitterly this time. "Then you wouldn't +have married me if you had had enough to live on?" he said. + +Sylvia looked at him, and an odd, shamed tenderness came into her +elderly face. "There's no use talking about what wasn't, anyway," +said she, and Henry understood. + +After a little while Sylvia again brought up the subject of Horace +and Rose. She was evidently very uneasy about it. "I don't see why +you think because a young man and girl are in the same house anything +like that is bound to happen," said she. + +"Well, perhaps not; maybe it won't," said Henry, soothingly. He saw +that it troubled Sylvia, and it had always been an unwritten maxim +with him that Sylvia should not be troubled if it could be helped. He +knew that he himself was about to trouble her, and why should she be +vexed, in addition, about an uncertainty, as possibly this incipient +love-affair might be. After all, why should it follow that because a +young man and a girl lived in the same house they should immediately +fall in love? And why should it not be entirely possible that they +might have a little love-making without any serious consequences? +Horace had presumably paid a little attention to girls before, and it +was very probable that Rose had received attention. Why bother about +such a thing as this when poor Sylvia would really be worried over +his, Henry's, return to his old, humble vocation? + +For Henry, as he sat beside the window that pleasant afternoon, was +becoming more and more convinced it must happen. It seemed to him +that his longing was gradually strengthening into a purpose which he +could not overcome. It seemed to him that every flutelike note of a +bird in the pleasance outside served to make this purpose more +unassailable, as if every sweet flower-breath and every bee-hum, +every drawing of his wife's shining needle through the white garment +which she was mending, all served to render his purpose so settled a +thing that any change in it was as impossible as growth in a granite +ledge. That very day Henry had been approached by the superintendent +of Lawson & Fisher's, where he had worked, and told that his place, +which had been temporarily filled, was vacant and ready for him. He +had said that he must consider the matter, but he had known in his +heart that the matter admitted of no consideration. He looked gloomy +as he sat there with his unread book in his hand, yet gradually an +eager, happy light crept into his eyes. + +After supper he told Sylvia he was going down to the store. He did +go, but on his way he stopped at the superintendent's house and told +that he would report for work in the morning. + +Rose had not come down to supper. Henry had wondered why, and +sympathized in part with Sylvia's anxiety. Still, he had a vague +feeling that a young girl's not coming down to supper need not be +taken very seriously, that young girls had whims and fancies which +signified nothing, and that it was better to let them alone until +they got over them. He knew that Sylvia, however, would take the +greatest comfort in coddling the girl, and he welcomed the fact as +conducing to his making his arrangements for the next day. He thought +that Sylvia would not have the matter in mind at all, since she had +the girl to fuss over, and that she would not ask him any questions. +On his way home he stopped at Sidney Meeks's. He found the lawyer in +a demoralized dining-room, which had, nevertheless, an air of homely +comfort, with its chairs worn into hollows to fit human anatomies, +and its sideboard set out with dusty dishes and a noble ham. Meeks +was a very good cook, although one could not confidently assert that +dust and dirt did not form a part of his ingredients. One of his +triumphs was ham cooked in a manner which he claimed to have +invented. After having been boiled, it was baked, and frequently +basted in a way which Meeks kept as secret as the bouquet of his +grape wine. Sidney sat at the table eating bread and ham spread with +mustard, and there were also a mysterious pie in reserve and a bottle +of wine. "Draw up, Henry," said Sidney. + +"I've had supper." + +"What?" + +"Sylvia had chicken salad and flapjacks and hot biscuits." + +Sidney sniffed. "Cut a slice off that ham," he ordered, "and draw a +chair up. Not that one; you'll go through. Yes, that's right. Bring +over another wineglass while you're about it. This is daisy wine, ten +years old. I've got a pie here that I'll be willing to stake your +fortune you can't analyze. It's after the pattern of the cold pasties +you read about in old English novels. You shall guess what's in it. +Draw up." + +Henry obeyed. He found himself sitting opposite Sidney, eating and +drinking with intense enjoyment. Sidney chuckled. "Good?" said he. + +"I don't know when my victuals have tasted right before," said Henry. +He received a large wedge of the pie on his plate, and his whole face +beamed with the first taste. + +Sidney leaned across the table and whispered. "Squabs," said he, +"and--robins, big fat ones. I shot 'em night before last. It's all +nonsense the fuss folks make about robins, and a lot of other birds, +as far as that goes--damned sentiment. Year before last I hadn't a +bushel of grapes on my vines because the robins stole them, and not a +half-bushel of pears on that big seckel-pear-tree. If they'd eaten +them up clean I wouldn't have felt so bad, but there the ground would +be covered with pears rotted on account of one little peck. They are +enough sight better to be on women's bonnets than eating up folks' +substance, though I don't promulgate that doctrine abroad. And one +thing I ain't afraid to say: big fat robins ought to be made some use +of. This pie is enough sight more wholesome for the bodies of men who +have immortal souls dependent a little on what is eaten, in spite of +the preaching, than Western tainted beef. I made up my mind that pie +was the natural destiny of a robin, and I make squab-and-robin pies +every week of my life. The robins are out of mischief in that pie, +and they are doing us good. What makes you look so, though, Henry? +There's something besides my pie and ham and wine that gives that +look to your face." + +"I'm going back to the shop to-morrow," said Henry. + +Sidney looked at him. "Most folks would say you were an uncommon +fool," said he. "I suppose you know that." + +"I can't help it," said Henry, happily. Along with the savory pie in +his mouth came a subtler relish to his very soul. The hunger of the +honest worker who returns to his work was being appeased. + + + +Chapter XV + + +While Henry was at Sidney Meeks's, Horace sat alone smoking and +reading the evening paper. He kept looking up from the paper and +listening. He was hoping that Rose, in spite of the fact that she had +not been able to come down to supper, might yet make her appearance. +He speculated on her altered looks and manner at dinner. He could not +help being a little anxious, in spite of all Mrs. Ayres's assurances +and the really vague nature of his own foreboding. He asked himself +if he had had from the beginning anything upon which to base +suspicion. Given the premises of an abnormal girl with a passion for +himself which humiliated him, an abnormal woman like Miss Farrel with +a similar passion, albeit under better control, the melodramatic +phases of the candy, and sudden death, and traces of arsenical +poison, what should be the conclusion? + +He himself had eaten some of presumably the same candy with no ill +effects. Mrs. Ayres had assured him of her constant watchfulness over +her daughter, who was no doubt in an alarmingly nervous state, but +was she necessarily dangerous? He doubted if Mrs. Ayres had left the +two girls a moment to themselves during the drive. What possible +reason, after all, had he for alarm? + +When he heard Sylvia mounting the stairs, and caught a glimpse of a +little tray borne carefully, he gave up all hope of Rose's coming +down. Presently he went out and walked down the village street, +smoking. As he passed out of the yard he glanced up at Rose's +windows, and saw the bright light behind the curtains. He felt glad +that the girl had a woman like Sylvia to care for her. + +As he looked Sylvia's shadow passed between the window and the light. +It had, in its shadowy enlargement, a benignant aspect. There was an +angelic, motherly bend to the vague shoulders. Sylvia was really in +her element. She petted and scolded the girl, whom she found flung +upon her bed like a castaway flower, sobbing pitifully. + +"What on earth is the matter?" demanded Sylvia, in a honeyed tone, +which at once stung and sweetened. "Here you are in the dark, crying +and going without your victuals. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." + +As she spoke Sylvia struck a match and lit the lamp. Rose buried her +face deeper in the bed. + +"I don't want any lamp," she gasped. + +"Don't want any lamp? Ain't you ashamed of yourself? I should think +you were a baby. You are going to have a lamp, and you are going to +sit up and eat your supper." Sylvia drew down the white shades +carefully, then she bent over the girl. She did not touch her, but +she was quivering with maternal passion which seemed to embrace +without any physical contact. "Now, what is the matter?" she said. + +"Nothing." + +"What is the matter?" repeated Sylvia, insistently. + +Suddenly Rose sat up. "Nothing is the matter," she said. "I am just +nervous." She made an effort to control her face. She smiled at +Sylvia with her wet eyes and swollen mouth. She resolutely dabbed at +her flushed face with a damp little ball of handkerchief. + +Sylvia turned to the bureau and took a fresh handkerchief from the +drawer. She sprinkled it with some toilet water that was on the +dressing-table, and gave it to Rose. "Here is a clean handkerchief," +she said, "and I've put some of your perfumery on it. Give me the +other." + +Rose took the sweet-smelling square of linen and tried to smile +again. "I just got nervous," she said. + +"Set down here in this chair," said Sylvia, "and I'll draw up the +little table, and I want you to eat your supper. I've brought up +something real nice for you." + +"Thank you, Aunt Sylvia; you're a dear," said Rose, pitifully, +"but--I don't think I can eat anything." In spite of herself the +girl's face quivered again and fresh tears welled into her eyes. She +passed her scented handkerchief over them. "I am not a bit hungry," +she said, brokenly. + +Sylvia drew a large, chintz-covered chair forward. "Set right down in +this chair," she said, firmly. And Rose slid weakly from the bed and +sank into the chair. She watched, with a sort of dull gratitude, +while Sylvia spread a little table with a towel and set out the tray. + +"There," said she. "Here is some cream toast and some of those new +pease, and a little chop, spring lamb, and a cup of tea. Now you just +eat every mite of it, and then I've got a saucer of strawberries and +cream for you to top off with." + +Rose looked hopelessly at the dainty fare. Then she looked at Sylvia. +The impulse to tell another woman her trouble got the better of her. +If women had not other women in whom to confide, there are times when +their natures would be too much for them. "I heard some news this +morning," said she. She attempted to make her voice exceedingly light +and casual. + +"What?" + +"I heard about Mr. Allen's engagement." + +"Engagement to who?" + +"To--Lucy." + +"Lucy!" + +"Lucy Ayres. She seems to be a very sweet girl. She is very pretty. I +hope she will make him very happy." Rose's voice trembled with sad +hypocrisy. + +"Who told you?" demanded Sylvia. + +"She told me herself." + +"Did her mother hear it?" + +"She did, but I think she did not understand. Lucy spoke in French. +She talks French very well. She studied with Miss Farrel, you know. I +think Lucy has done all in her power to fit herself to become a good +wife for an educated man." + +"What did she tell you in French for? Why didn't she speak in +English?" + +"I don't know." + +"Well, I know. She did it so her mother wouldn't hear, and say in +English that she was telling an awful whopper. Mr. Allen is no more +engaged to Lucy Ayres than I am." + +Rose gazed at Sylvia with sudden eagerness. "What makes you think so, +Aunt Sylvia?" + +"Nothing makes me think what I know. Mr. Allen has never paid any +attention to Lucy Ayres, beyond what he couldn't help, and she's made +a mountain out of a mole-hill. Lucy Ayres is man-crazy, that's all. +You needn't tell me." + +"Then you don't think--?" + +"I know better. I'll ask Mr. Allen." + +"If you asked him it would make it very hard for him if it wasn't +so," said Rose. + +"I don't see why." + +"Mr. Allen is a gentleman, and he could not practically accuse a +woman of making an unauthorized claim of that sort," said Rose. + +"Well, I won't say anything about it to him if you think I had better +not," said Sylvia, "but I must say I think it's pretty hard on a man +to have a girl going round telling folks he's engaged to her when he +ain't. Eat that lamb chop and them pease while they're hot." + +"I am going to. They are delicious. I didn't think I was hungry at +all, but to have things brought up this way--" + +"You've got to eat a saucer of strawberries afterwards," said Sylvia, +happily. + +She watched the girl eat, and she was in a sort of ecstasy, which +was, nevertheless, troubled. After a while, when Rose had nearly +finished the strawberries, Sylvia ventured a remark. + +"Lucy Ayres is a queer girl," said she. "I've known all about her for +some time. She has been thinking young men were in love with her, +when they never had an idea of such a thing, ever since she was so +high." + +Sylvia indicated by her out-stretched hand a point about a foot and a +half from the floor. + +"It seems as if she must have had some reason sometimes," said Rose, +with an impulse of loyalty towards the other girl. "She is very +pretty." + +"As far as I know, no young man in East Westland has ever thought of +marrying her," said Sylvia. "I think myself they are afraid of her. +It doesn't do for a girl to act too anxious to get married. She just +cuts her own nose off." + +"I have never seen her do anything unbecoming," began Rose; then she +stopped, for Lucy's expression, which had caused a revolt in her, was +directly within her mental vision. + +It seemed as if Sylvia interpreted her thought. "I have seen her +making eyes," said she. + +Rose was silent. She realized that she, also, had seen poor Lucy +making eyes. + +"What a girl is so crazy to get married for, anyway, when she has a +good mother and a good home, I can't see," said Sylvia, leading +directly up to the subject in the secret place of her mind. + +Rose blushed, with apparently no reason. "But she can't have her +mother always, you know, Aunt Sylvia," said she. + +"Her mother's folks are awful long-lived." + +"But Lucy is younger. In the course of nature she will outlive her +mother, and then she will be all alone." + +"What if she is? 'Ain't she got her good home and money enough to be +independent? Lucy won't need to lift a finger to earn money if she's +careful." + +"I always thought it would be very dreadful to live alone," Rose +said, with another blush. + +"Well, she needn't be alone. There's plenty of women always in want +of a home. No woman need live alone if she don't want to." + +"But it isn't quite like--" Rose hesitated. + +"Like what?" + +"It wouldn't seem quite so much as if you had your own home, would +it, as if--" Rose hesitated again. + +Sylvia interrupted her. "A girl is a fool to get married if she's got +money enough to live on," said she. + +"Why, Aunt Sylvia, wouldn't you have married Uncle Henry if you had +had plenty of money?" asked the girl, exactly as Henry had done. + +Sylvia colored faintly. "That was a very different matter," said she. + +"But why?" + +"Because it was," said Sylvia, bringing up one of her impregnable +ramparts against argument. + +But the girl persisted. "I don't see why," she said. + +Sylvia colored again. "Well, for one thing, your uncle Henry is one +man in a thousand," said she. "I know every silly girl thinks she has +found just that man, but it's only once in a thousand times she does; +and she's mighty lucky if she don't find out that the man in a +thousand is another woman's husband, when she gets her eyes open. +Then there's another thing: nothing has ever come betwixt us." + +"I don't know what you mean." + +"I mean we've had no family," said Sylvia, firmly, although her color +deepened. "I know you think it's awful for me to say such a thing, +but look right up and down this street at the folks that got married +about the same time Henry and I did. How many of them that's had +families 'ain't had reason to regret it? I tell you what it is, +child, girls don't know everything. It's awful having children, and +straining every nerve to bring them up right, and then to have them +go off in six months in consumption, the way the Masons lost their +three children, two boys and a girl. Or to worry and fuss until you +are worn to a shadow, the way Mrs. George Emerson has over her son, +and then have him take to drink. There wasn't any consumption in the +Mason family on either side in a straight line, but the three +children all went with it. And there ain't any drink in the Emerson +family, on her side or his, all as straight as a string, but Mrs. +Everson was a Weaver, and she had a great-uncle who drank himself to +death. I don't believe there's a family anywhere around that hasn't +got some dreadful thing in it to leak out, when you don't expect it, +in children. Sometimes it only leaks in a straight line, and +sometimes it leaks sidewise. You never know. Now here's my family. I +was a White, you know, like your aunt Abrahama. There's consumption +in our family, the worst kind. I never had any doubt but what Henry +and I would have lost our children, if we'd had any." + +"But you didn't have any," said Rose, in a curiously naive and +hopeful tone. + +"We are the only ones of all that got married about the time we did +who didn't have any," said Sylvia, in her conclusive tone. + +"But, Aunt Sylvia," said Rose, "you wouldn't stop everybody's getting +married? Why, there wouldn't be any people in the world in a short +time." + +"There's some people in the world now that would be a good sight +better off out of it, for themselves and other folks," said Sylvia. + +"Then you don't think anybody ought to get married?" + +"If folks want to be fools, let them. Nothing I can say is going to +stop them, but I'll miss my guess if some of the girls that get +married had the faintest idea what they were going into they would +stop short, if it sent them over a rail-fence. Folks can't tell girls +everything, but marriage is an awful risk, an awful risk. And I say, +as I said before, any girl who has got enough to live on is a fool to +get married." + +"But I don't see why, after all." + +"Because she is," replied Sylvia. + +This time Rose did not attempt to bruise herself against the elder +woman's imperturbability. She did not look convinced, but again the +troubled expression came over her face. + +"I am glad you relished your supper," said Sylvia. + +"It was very nice," replied Rose, absently. Suddenly the look of +white horror which had overspread her countenance on the night of her +arrival possessed it again. + +"What on earth is the matter?" cried Sylvia. + +"I almost remembered, then," gasped the girl. "You know what I told +you the night I came. Don't let me remember, Aunt Sylvia. I think I +shall die if I ever do." + +Sylvia was as white as the girl, but she rose briskly. "There's +nothing to remember," she said. "You're nervous, but I'm going to +make some of that root-beer of mine to-morrow. It has hops in it, and +it's real quieting. Now you stop worrying, and wait a minute. I've +got something to show you. Here, you look at this book you've been +reading, and stop thinking. I'll be back in a minute. I've just got +to step into the other chamber." + +Sylvia was back in a moment. She never was obliged to hesitate for a +second as to the whereabouts of any of her possessions. She had some +little boxes in her hand, and one rather large one under her arm. +Rose looked at them with interest. "What is it, Aunt Sylvia?" said +she. + +Sylvia laughed. "Something to show you that belongs to you," she said. + +"Why, what have you got that belongs to me, Aunt Sylvia?" + +"You wait a minute." + +Sylvia and Rose both stood beside the white dressing-table, and +Sylvia opened the boxes, one after another, and slowly and +impressively removed their contents, and laid them in orderly rows on +the white dimity of the table. The lamplight shone on them, and the +table blazed like an altar with jewelled fires. Rose gasped. "Why, +Aunt Sylvia!" said she. + +"All these things belonged to your aunt Abrahama, and now they belong +to you," said Sylvia, in a triumphant tone. + +"Why, but these are perfectly beautiful things!" + +"Yes; I don't believe anybody in East Westland ever knew she had +them. I don't believe she could have worn them, even when she was a +girl, or I should have heard of them. I found them all in her bureau +drawer. She didn't even keep them under lock and key; but then she +never went out anywhere, and if nobody even knew she had them, they +were safe enough. Now they're all yours." + +"But they belong to you, Aunt Sylvia." + +Sylvia took up the most valuable thing there, a really good pearl +necklace, and held it dangling from her skinny hand. "I should look +pretty with this around my neck, shouldn't I?" she said. "I wanted to +wear that pink silk, but when it comes to some things I ain't quite +out of my mind. Here, try it on." + +Rose clasped the necklace about her white, round throat, and smiled +at herself in the glass. Rose wore a gown of soft, green China silk, +and the pearls over its lace collar surrounded her face with soft +gleams of rose and green. + +"These amethysts are exquisite," said Rose, after she had done +admiring herself. She took up, one after another, a ring, a bracelet, +a necklace, a brooch, and ear-rings, all of clear, pale amethysts in +beautiful settings. + +"You could wear these," she said to Sylvia. + +"I guess I sha'n't begin to wear jewelry at my time of life," +declared Sylvia. Her voice sounded almost angry in its insistence. +"Everything here is yours," she said, and nodded her head and set her +mouth hard for further emphasis. + +The display upon the dressing-table, although not of great value, was +in reality rather unusual. All of the pieces were, of course, old, +and there were more semi-precious than precious stones, but the +settings were good and the whole enough to delight any girl. Rose +hung over them in ecstasy. She had not many jewels. Somehow her +income had never seemed to admit of jewels. She was pleased as a +child. Finally she hung some pearl ear-rings over her ears by bits of +white silk, her ears not being pierced. She allowed the pearl +necklace to remain. She clasped on her arms some charming cameo +bracelets and a heavy gold one set with a miniature of a lady. She +covered her slender fingers with rings and pinned old brooches all +over her bosom. She fastened a pearl spray in her hair, and a heavy +shell comb. Then she fairly laughed out loud. "There!" said she to +Sylvia, and laughed again. + +Sylvia also laughed, and her laugh had the ring of a child's. "Don't +you feel as if you were pretty well off as you are?" said she. + +Rose sprang forward and hugged Sylvia. "Well off!" said she. "Well +off! I never knew a girl who was better off. To think of my being +here with you, and your being as good as a mother to me, and Uncle +Henry as good as a father; and this dear old house; and to see myself +fairly loaded down with jewels like a crown-princess. I never knew I +liked such things so much. I am fairly ashamed." + +Rose kissed Sylvia with such vehemence that the elder woman started +back, then she turned again to her mirror. She held up her hands and +made the gems flash with colored lights. There were several very good +diamonds, although not of modern cut; there was a fairly superb +emerald, also pearls and amethysts and green-blue turquoises, on her +hands. Rose made a pounce upon a necklace of pink coral, and clasped +it around her neck over the pearls. + +"I have them all on now," she said, and her laugh rang out again. + +Sylvia surveyed her with a sort of rapture. She had never heard of +"Faust," but the whole was a New England version of the "Jewel Song." +As Marguerite had been tempted to guilty love by jewels, so Sylvia +was striving to have Rose tempted by jewels to innocent celibacy. But +she was working by methods of which she knew nothing. + +Rose gazed at herself in the glass. A rose flush came on her cheeks, +her lips pouted redly, and her eyes glittered under a mist. She +thrust her shining fingers through her hair, and it stood up like a +golden spray over her temples. Rose at that minute was wonderful. +Something akin to the gleam of the jewels seemed to have waked within +her. She felt a warmth of love and ownership of which she had never +known herself capable. She felt that the girl and her jewels, the +girl who was the greatest jewel of all, was her very own. For the +first time a secret anxiety and distress of mind, which she had +confided to no one, was allayed. She said to herself that everything +was as it should be. She had Rose, and Rose was happy. Then she +thought how she had found the girl when she first entered the room, +and had courage, seeing her as she looked now, to ask again: "What +was the matter? Why were you crying?" + +Rose turned upon her with a smile of perfect radiance. "Nothing at +all, dear Aunt Sylvia," she cried, happily. "Nothing at all." + +Sylvia smiled. A smile was always somewhat of an effort for Sylvia, +with her hard, thin lips, which had not been used to smiling. Sylvia +had no sense of humor. Her smiles would never be possible except for +sudden and unlooked-for pleasures, and those had been rare in her +whole life. But now she smiled, and with her lips and her eyes. "Rose +wasn't crying because she thought Mr. Allen was going to marry +another girl," she told herself. "She was only crying because a girl +is always full of tantrums. Now she is perfectly happy. I am able to +make her perfectly happy. I know that all a girl needs in this world +to make her happy and free from care is a woman to be a mother to +her. I am making her see it. I can make up to her for everything. +Everything is as it should be." + +She stood gazing at Rose for a long moment before she spoke. "Well," +said she, "you look like a whole jewelry shop. I don't see, for my +part, how your aunt came to have so many--why she wanted them." + +"Maybe they were given to her," said Rose. A tender thought of the +dead woman who had gone from the house of her fathers, and left her +jewels behind, softened her face. "Poor Aunt Abrahama!" said she. +"She lived in this house all her life and was never married, and she +must have come to think that all her pretty things had not amounted +to much." + +"I don't see why," said Sylvia. "I don't see that it was any great +hardship to live all her life in this nice house, and I don't see +what difference it made about her having nice things, whether she got +married or not. It could not have made any difference." + +"Why not?" asked Rose, looking at her with a mischievous flash of +blue eyes. A long green gleam like a note of music shot out from the +emerald on her finger as she raised it in a slight gesture. "To have +all these beautiful things put away in a drawer, and never to have +anybody see her in them, must have made some difference." + +"It wouldn't make a mite," said Sylvia, stoutly. + +"I don't see why." + +"Because it wouldn't." + +Rose laughed, and looked again at herself in the glass. + +"Now you had better take off those things and go to bed, and try to +go to sleep," said Sylvia. + +"Yes, Aunt Sylvia," said Rose. But she did not stir, except to turn +this way and that, to bring out more colored lights from the jewels. + +Sylvia had to mix bread that night, and she was obliged to go. Rose +promised that she would immediately go to bed, and kissed her again +with such effusion that the older woman started back. The soft, +impetuous kiss caused her cheek to fairly tingle as she went +down-stairs and about her work. It should have been luminous from the +light it made in her heart. + +When Henry came home, with a guilty sense of what he was to do next +day, and which he had not courage enough to reveal, he looked at his +wife with relief at her changed expression. "I declare, Sylvia, you +look like yourself to-night," he said. "You've been looking kind of +curious to me lately." + +"You imagined it," said Sylvia. She had finished mixing the bread, +and had washed her hands and was wiping them on the roller-towel in +the kitchen. + +"Maybe I did," admitted Henry. "You look like yourself to-night, +anyhow. How is Rose?" + +"Rose is all right. Young girls are always getting nervous kinks. I +took her supper up to her, and she ate every mite, and now I have +given her her aunt's jewelry and she's tickled to pieces with it, +standing before the looking-glass and staring at herself like a +little peacock." Sylvia laughed with tender triumph. + +"I suppose now she'll be decking herself out, and every young man in +East Westland will be after her," said Henry. He laughed, but a +little bitterly. He, also, was not altogether unselfish concerning +the proprietorship of this young thing which had come into his +elderly life. He was not as Sylvia, but although he would have denied +it he privately doubted if even Horace was quite good enough for this +girl. When it came to it, in his heart of hearts, he doubted if any +but the fatherly love which he himself gave might be altogether good +for her. + +"Rose is perfectly contented just the way she is," declared Sylvia, +turning upon him. "I shouldn't be surprised if she lived out her days +here, just as her aunt did." + +"Maybe it would be the best thing," said Henry. "She's got us as long +as we live." Henry straightened himself as he spoke. Since his +resolve to resume his work he had felt years younger. Lately he had +been telling himself miserably that he was an old man, that his +life-work was over. To-night the pulses of youth leaped in his veins. +He was so pleasantly excited that after he and Sylvia had gone to bed +it was long before he fell asleep, but he did at last, and just in +time for Rose and Horace. + +Rose, after Sylvia went down-stairs, had put out her light and sat +down beside the window gazing out into the night. She still wore her +jewels. She could not bear to take them off. It was a beautiful +night. The day had been rather warm, but the night was one of +coolness and peace. The moon was just rising. Rose could see it +through the leafy branches of an opposite elm-tree. It seemed to be +caught in the green foliage. New shadows were leaping out of the +distance as the moon increased. The whole landscape was dotted with +white luminosities which it was bliss not to explain, just to leave +mysteries. Wonderful sweetnesses and fresh scents of growing things, +dew-wet, came in her face. + +Rose was very happy. Only an hour before she had been miserable, and +now her whole spirit had leaped above her woe as with the impetus of +some celestial fluid rarer than all the miseries of earth and of a +necessity surmounting them. She looked out at the night, and it was +to her as if that and the whole world was her jewel-casket, and the +jewels therein were immortal, and infinite in possibilities of giving +and receiving glory and joy. Rose thought of Horace, and a delicious +thrill went over her whole body. Then she thought of Lucy Ayres, and +felt both pity and a sort of angry and contemptuous repulsion. "How a +girl can do so!" she thought. + +Intuitively she knew that what she felt for Horace was a far nobler +love than Lucy's. "Love--was it love, after all?" Rose did not know, +but she gave her head a proud shake. "I never would put him in such a +position, and lie about him, just because--" she said to herself. + +She did not finish her sentence. Rose was innately modest even as to +her own self-disclosures. Her emotions were so healthy that she had +the power to keep them under the wings of her spirit, both to guard +and hold the superior place. She had a feeling that Lucy Ayres's love +for Horace was in a way an insult to him. After what Sylvia had said, +she had not a doubt as to the falsity of what Lucy had told her +during their drive. She and Lucy had been on the front seat of the +carriage, when Lucy had intimated that there was an understanding +between herself and Horace. She had spoken very low, in French, and +Rose had been obliged to ask her to repeat her words. Immediately +Lucy's mother's head was between the two girls, and the bunch of +violets on her bonnet grazed Rose's ear. + +"What are you saying?" she had asked Lucy, sharply. And Lucy had +lied. "I said what a pleasant day it is," she replied. + +"You said it in French." + +"Yes, mother." + +"Next time say it in English," said Mrs. Ayres. + +Of course, if Lucy had lied to her mother, she had lied to her. She +had lied in two languages. "She must be a very strange girl," thought +Rose. She resolved that she could not go to see Lucy very often, and +a little pang of regret shot through her. She had been very ready to +love poor Lucy. + +Presently, as Rose sat beside the window, she heard footsteps on the +gravel sidewalk outside the front yard, and then a man's figure came +into view, like a moving shadow. She knew the figure was a man +because there was no swing of skirts. Her heart beat fast when the +man opened the front gate and shut it with a faint click. She +wondered if it could be Horace, but immediately she saw, from the +slightly sidewise shoulders and gait, that it was Henry Whitman. She +heard him enter; she heard doors opened and closed. After a time she +heard a murmur of voices. Then there was a flash of light across the +yard, from a lighted lamp being carried through a room below. The +light was reflected on the ceiling of her room. Then it vanished, and +everything was quiet. Rose thought that Sylvia and Henry had retired +for the night. She almost knew that Horace was not in the house. She +had heard him go out after supper and she had not heard him enter. He +had a habit of taking long walks on fine nights. + +Rose sat and wondered. Once the suspicion smote her that possibly, +after all, Lucy had spoken the truth, that Horace was with her. Then +she dismissed the suspicion as unworthy of her. She recalled what +Sylvia had said; she recalled how she herself had heard Lucy lie. She +knew that Horace could not be fond of a girl like that, and he had +known her quite a long time. Again Rose's young rapture and belief in +her own happiness reigned. She sat still, and the moon at last sailed +out of the feathery clasp of the elm branches, and the whole +landscape was in a pale, clear glow. Then Horace came. Rose started +up. She stood for an instant irresolute, then she stole out of her +room and down the spiral stair very noiselessly. She opened the front +door before Horace could insert his key in the latch. + +Horace started back. + +"Hush," whispered Rose. She stifled a laugh. "Step back out in the +yard just a minute," she whispered. + +Horace obeyed. He stepped softly back, and Rose joined him after she +had closed the door with great care. + +"Now come down as far as the gate, out of the shadows," whispered +Rose. "I want to show you something." + +The two stole down to the gate. Then Rose faced Horace in full glare +of moonlight. + +"Look at me," said she, and she stifled another laugh of pure, +childish delight. + +Horace looked. Only a few of the stones which Rose wore caught the +moonlight to any extent, but she was all of a shimmer and gleam, like +a creature decked with dewdrops. + +"Look at me," she whispered again. + +"I am looking." + +"Do you see?" + +"What?" + +"They are poor Aunt Abrahama's jewels. Aunt Sylvia gave them to me. +Aren't they beautiful? Such lovely, old-fashioned settings. You can't +half see in the moonlight. You shall see them by day." + +"It is beautiful enough now," said Horace, with a sort of gasp. +"Those are pearls around your neck?" + +"Yes, really lovely pearls; and such carved pink coral! And look at +the dear old pearl spray in my hair. Wait; I'll turn my head so the +moon will show on it. Isn't it dear?" + +"Yes, it is," replied Horace, regarding the delicate spray of seed +pearls on Rose's head. + +"And only look at these bracelets and these rings; and I had to tie +the ear-rings on because my ears are not pierced. Would you have them +pierced and wear them as they are--I believe ear-rings are coming +into vogue again--or would you have them made into rings?" + +"Rings," said Horace, emphatically. + +"I think that will be better. I fancy the ear-rings dangling make me +a little nervous already. See all these brooches, and the rings." + +Rose held up her hands and twirled her ring-laden fingers, and +laughed again. + +"They are pretty large, most of the rings," said she. "There is one +pearl and one emerald that are charming, and several of the dearest +old-fashioned things. Think of poor Aunt Abrahama having all these +lovely things packed away in a bureau drawer and never wearing them." + +"I should rather have packed away my name," said Horace. + +"So should I. Isn't it awful? The Abrahama is simply dreadful, and +the way it comes down with a sort of whack on the White! Poor Aunt +Abrahama! I feel almost guilty having all her pretty jewels and being +so pleased with them." + +"Oh, she would be pleased, too, if she knew." + +"I don't know. She and my mother had been estranged for years, ever +since my mother's marriage. Would she be pleased, do you think?" + +"Of course she would, and as for the things themselves, they are +fulfilling their mission." + +Rose laughed. "Maybe jewels don't like to be shut up for years and +years in a drawer, away from the light," said she. "They do seem +almost alive. Look, you can really see the green in that emerald!" + +Horace was trembling from head to foot. He could hardly reply. + +"Why, you are shivering," said Rose. "Are you cold?" + +"No--well, perhaps yes, a little. It is rather cool to-night after +the hot day." + +"Where have you been?" + +"I walked to Tunbury and back." + +"That is seven miles. That ought to have warmed you. Well, I think we +must go in. I don't know what Aunt Sylvia would say." + +"Why should she mind?" + +"I don't know. She might not think I should have run out here as I +did. I think all these jewels went to my head. Come. Please walk very +softly." + +Horace hesitated. + +"Come," repeated Rose, imperatively, and started. + +Horace followed. + +The night before they had been on the verge of a love scene, now it +seemed impossible, incongruous. Horace was full of tender longing, +but he felt that to gratify it would be to pass the impossible. + +"Please be very still," whispered Rose, when they had reached the +house door. She herself began opening it, turning the knob by slow +degrees. All the time she was stifling her laughter. Horace felt that +the stifled laughter was the main factor in prohibiting the +love-making. + +Rose turned the knob and removed her hand as she pushed the door +open; then something fell with a tiny tinkle on the stone step. Both +stopped. + +"One of my rings," whispered Rose. + +Horace stooped and felt over the stone slab, and finally his hand +struck the tiny thing. + +"It's that queer little flat gold one," continued Rose, who was now +serious. + +A sudden boldness possessed Horace. "May I have it?" he said. + +"It's not a bit pretty. I don't believe you can wear it." + +Horace slipped the ring on his little finger. "It just fits." + +"I don't care," Rose said, hesitatingly. "Aunt Sylvia gave me the +things. I don't believe she will care. And there are two more flat +gold rings, anyway. She will not notice, only perhaps I ought to tell +her." + +"If you think it will make any trouble for you--" + +"Oh no; keep it. It is interesting because it is old-fashioned, and +as far as giving it away is concerned, I could give away half of +these trinkets. I can't go around decked out like this, nor begin to +wear all the rings. I certainly never should have put that ring on +again." + +Horace felt daunted by her light valuation of it, but when he was in +the house, and in his room, and neither Sylvia nor Henry had been +awakened, he removed the thing and looked at it closely. All the +inner surface was covered with a clear inscription, very clear, +although of a necessity in minute characters--"Let love abide +whate'er betide." + +Horace laughed tenderly. "She has given me more than she knows," he +thought. + + + +Chapter XVI + + +Henry Whitman awoke the next morning with sensations of delight and +terror. He found himself absolutely unable to rouse himself up to +that pitch of courage necessary to tell Sylvia that he intended to +return to his work in the shop. He said to himself that it would be +better to allow it to become an accomplished fact before she knew it, +that it would be easier for him. Luckily for his plans, the family +breakfasted early. + +Directly after he had risen from the table, Henry attempted to slip +out of the house from the front door without Sylvia's knowledge. He +had nearly reached the gate, and had a sensation of exultation like a +child playing truant, when he heard Sylvia's voice. + +"Henry!" she called. "Henry Whitman!" + +Henry turned around obediently. + +"Where are you going?" asked Sylvia. + +She stood under the columns of the front porch, a meagre little +figure of a woman dressed with severe and immaculate cheapness in a +purple calico wrapper, with a checked gingham apron tied in a prim +bow at her back. Her hair was very smooth. She was New England +austerity and conservatism embodied. She was terrifying, although it +would have puzzled anybody to have told why. Certain it was that no +man would have had the temerity to contest her authority as she stood +there. Henry waited near the gate. + +"Where are you going?" asked Sylvia again. + +"Down street," replied Henry. + +"Whereabouts down street?" + +Henry said again, with a meek doggedness, "Down street." + +"Come here," said Sylvia. + +Henry walked slowly towards her, between the rows of box. He was +about three feet away when she spoke again. "Where are you going?" +said she. + +"Down street." + +Sylvia looked at Henry, and he trembled inwardly. Had she any +suspicion? When she spoke an immense relief overspread him. "I wish +you'd go into the drug store and get me a quarter of a pound of +peppermints," said she. + +Then Henry knew that he had the best of it. Sylvia possessed what she +considered an almost guilty weakness for peppermints. She never +bought them herself, or asked him to buy them, without feeling +humiliated. Her austere and dictatorial manner vanished at the moment +she preferred the request for peppermints. + +"Of course I'll get them," said Henry, with enthusiasm. He mentally +resolved upon a pound instead of a quarter. + +"I don't feel quite right in my stomach, and I think they're good for +me," said Sylvia, still abjectly. Then she turned and went into the +house. Henry started afresh. He felt renewed compunction at his +deceit as he went on. It seemed hard to go against the wishes of that +poor, little, narrow-chested woman who had had so little in life that +a quarter of a pound of peppermints seemed too much for her to desire. + +But Henry realized that he had not the courage to tell her. He went +on. He had just about time to reach the shop before the whistle blew. +As he neared the shop he became one of a stream of toilers pressing +towards the same goal. Most of them were younger than he, and it was +safe to assume none were going to work with the same enthusiasm. +There were many weary, rebellious faces. They had not yet come to +Henry's pass. Toil had not yet gotten the better of their freedom of +spirit. They considered that they could think and live to better +purpose without it. Henry had become its slave. He was his true self +only when under the conditions of his slavery. He had toiled a few +years longer than he should have done, to attain the ability to keep +his head above the waters of life without toil. The mechanical motion +of his hands at their task of years was absolutely necessary to him. +He had become, in fact, as a machine, which rusts and is good for +nothing if left long inactive. Henry was at once pitiable and +terrible when he came in sight of the many-windowed building which +was his goal. The whistles blew, and he heard as an old war-horse +hears the summons to battle. But in his case the battle was all for +naught and there was no victory to be won. But the man was happier +than he had been for months. His happiness was a pity and a shame to +him, but it was happiness, and sweet in his soul. It was the only +happiness which he had not become too callous to feel. If only he +could have lived in the beautiful old home, and spent the rest of his +life in prideful wrestling with the soil for goodly crops, in tasting +the peace of life which is the right of those who have worked long! + +But it all seemed too late. When a man has become welded to toil he +can never separate himself from it without distress and loss of his +own substance of individuality. What Henry had told Sidney Meeks was +entirely true: good-fortune had come too late for him to reap the +physical and spiritual benefit from it which is its usual dividend. +He was no longer his own man, but the man of his life-experience. + +When he stood once more in his old place, cutting the leather which +smelled to him sweeter than roses, he was assailed by many a gibe, +good-natured in a way, but still critical. + +"What are you to work again for, Henry?" "You've got money enough to +live on." "What in thunder are you working for?" + +One thing was said many times which hit him hard. "You are taking the +bread out of the mouth of some other man who needs work; don't you +know it, Henry?" That rankled. Otherwise Henry, at his old task, with +his mind set free by the toil of his hands, might have been entirely +happy. + +"Good Lord!" he said, at length, to the man at his side, a +middle-aged man with a blackened, sardonic face and a forehead lined +with a scowl of rebellion, "do you suppose I do it for the money? I +tell you it's for the work." + +"The work!" sneered the other man. + +"I tell you I've worked so long I can't stop, and live." + +The other man stared. "Either you're a damned fool, or the men or the +system--whatever it is that has worked you so long that you can't +stop--ought to go to--" he growled. + +"You can't shake off a burden that's grown to you," said Henry. + +The worker on Henry's other side was a mere boy, but he had a bulging +forehead and a square chin, and already figured in labor circles. + +"As soon try to shake off a hump," he said, and nodded. + +"Yes," said Henry. "When you've lived long enough in one sort of a +world it settles onto your shoulders, and nothing but death can ease +a man from the weight of it." + +"That's so," said the boy. + +"But as far as keeping the bread from another man goes--" said Henry. +Then he hesitated. He was tainted by the greed for unnecessary money, +in spite of his avowal to the contrary. That also had come to be a +part of him. Then he continued, "As far as that goes, I'm willing to +give away--a--good part of what I earn." + +The first man laughed, harshly. "He'll be for giving a library to +East Westland next, to make up to men for having their money and +freedom in his own pockets," he said. + +"I 'ain't got so much as all that, after all," said Henry. "Because +my wife has had a little left to her, it don't follow that we are +millionaires." + +"I guess you are pretty well fixed. You don't need to work, and you +know it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. There's my wife's +brother can't get a job." + +"Good reason why," said the boy on the other side. "He drinks." + +"He drinks every time he gets out of work and gets clean +discouraged," retorted the man. + +"Well," said the boy, "you know me well enough to know that I'm with +my class every time, but hanged if I can see why your wife's brother +'ain't got into a circle that there's no getting him out of. We've +got to get out of work sometimes. We all know it. We've got to if we +don't want humps on all our shoulders; and if Jim can't live up to +his independence, why, he's out of the running, or, rather, in his +own running so neither God nor man can get him out of it. You know +the time that last strike was on he was in the gutter every day, when +he could beg enough money to keep him there. Now, we can't have that +sort of thing. When a man's got so he can't work nor fight neither, +why, he's up against it. If Henry here gave up his job, Jim couldn't +get it, and you know it." + +Henry went on. He hardly heard now what they were saying. His mind +was revelling in its free flights of rebellion against everything. +Henry, for a man who kept the commandments, was again as wicked as he +could be, and revelling in his wickedness. He was like a drinker +returned to his cups. His joy was immense, but unholy. However, the +accusation that he was taking bread from another man who needed it +more than he still rankled. He could, after all, rise somewhat above +mere greed. He resolved that he would give, and no one should know of +his giving, to the family of the man Jim who had no work. + +During the morning Henry did not trouble himself about Sylvia and +what she would think about it all. Towards noon, however, he began to +dread going home and facing her. When he started he felt fairly +cowardly. He stopped at the drug store and bought a pound of +peppermints. + +Albion Bennet waited on him. Albion Bennet was an intensely +black-haired man in his forties. His black hair was always sleek with +a patent hair-oil which he carried in his stock. He always wore a red +tie and an old-fashioned scarf-pin set with a tiny diamond, and his +collars were made of celluloid. + +"I have gone back to the hotel to board," he informed Henry, while +tying up the parcel. He colored a little under his black, bristling +cheeks as he spoke. + +"I thought you left," said Henry. + +"So I did. I went to board at the Joneses', but--I can't stand a girl +right in my face and eyes all the time. When I want to get married, +and see the right one, then I want to do the courting; but hang it if +I can stand being courted, and that's what I've been up against ever +since I left the hotel, and that's a fact. Susy Jones was enough, but +when it came to Fanny Elliot getting thick with her, and both of them +on hand, it was too much. But I stuck it out till Susy began to do +the cooking and her mother made me eat it." + +"I have heard Miss Hart wasn't a very good cook," said Henry. + +"Well, she ain't anything to brag of; but say, a man can stand +regulation cooking done bad, but when it comes to new-fangled messes +done bad, so a man don't know what he's eating, whether it's cats or +poisonous mushrooms, I draw the line. Miss Hart's bread is more +generally saleratusy and heavy, but at least you know it's heavy +bread, and I got heavy stuff at the Joneses and didn't know what it +was. And Miss Hart's pies are tough, but you know you've got tough +pies, and at the Joneses' I had tough things that I couldn't give a +name to. Miss Hart's doughnuts are greasy, but Lord, the greasy +things at the Joneses' that Susy made! At least you know what you've +got when you eat a greasy doughnut, and if it hurts you you know what +to tell the doctor, but I had to give it up. I'd rather have bad +cooking and know what it is than bad cooking and know what it isn't. +Then there were other things. I like, when I get home from the store, +to have a little quiet and read my paper, and Susy and Fanny, if I +didn't stay in the parlor, were banging the piano and singing at me +all the time to get me down-stairs. So I've gone back to the hotel, +and I'm enough sight better off. Of course, when that matter of Miss +Farrel came up I left. A man don't want to think he may get a little +arsenic mixed in with the bad cooking, but now I'm convinced that's +all right." + +"How do you know?" asked Henry, paying for the peppermints. "I never +thought Miss Hart had anything to do with it myself, but of course +she wasn't exactly acquitted, neither she nor the girl. You said +yourself that she bought arsenic here." + +"So she did, and it all went to kill rats," said Albion. "Lots of +folks have bought arsenic here to kill rats with. They didn't all of +them poison Miss Farrel." Albion nodded wisely and mysteriously. "No, +Lucinda's all right," he said. "I ain't at liberty to say how I know, +but I do know. I may get bad cooking at the hotel, but I won't get no +arsenic." + +Henry looked curiously at the other man. "So you've found out +something?" he said. + +"I ain't at liberty to say," replied Albion. "It's a pretty nice day, +ain't it? Hope we ain't going to have such a hot summer as last, +though hot weather is mighty good for my business, since I put in the +soda-fountain." + +Henry, walking homeward with his package of peppermints, speculated a +little on what Albion Bennet had said; then his mind reverted to his +anxiety with regard to Sylvia, and her discovery that he had returned +to the shop. He passed his arm across his face and sniffed at his +coat-sleeve. He wondered if he smelled of leather. He planned to go +around to the kitchen door and wash his hands at the pump in the yard +before entering the house, but he could not be sure about the +leather. He wondered if Rose would notice it and be disgusted. His +heart sank as he neared home. He sniffed at his coat-sleeve again. He +wondered if he could possibly slip into the bedroom and put on +another coat for dinner before Sylvia saw him. He doubted if he could +manage to get away unnoticed after dinner. He speculated, if Sylvia +asked him where he was going again, what he could say. He considered +what he could say if she were to call him to account for his long +absence that forenoon. + +When he reached the house he entered the side yard, stopped at the +pump, washed his hands and dried them on his handkerchief, and drank +from the tin cup chained to the pump-nose. He thought he might enter +by the front door and steal into his bedroom and get the other coat, +but Sylvia came to the side door. + +"Where in the world have you been?" she said. Henry advanced, +smiling, with the peppermints. "Why, Henry," she cried, in a voice of +dismay which had a gratified ring in it, "you've been and bought a +whole pound! I only said to buy a quarter." + +"They're good for you," said Henry, entering the door. + +Sylvia could not wait, and put one of the sweets in her mouth, and to +that Henry owed his respite. Sylvia, eating peppermint, was oblivious +to leather. + +Henry went through into the bedroom and put on another coat before he +sat down at the dinner-table. + +Sylvia noticed that. "What did you change your coat for?" said she. + +Henry shivered as if with cold. "I thought the house seemed kind of +damp when I came in," he said, "and this coat is some heavier." + +Sylvia looked at him with fretful anxiety. "You've got cold. I knew +you would," she said. "You stayed out late last night, and the dew +was awful heavy. I knew you would catch cold. You had better stop at +the drug store and get some of those pellets that Dr. Wallace puts +up." + +Again was Henry's way made plain for him. "Perhaps I had," said he, +eagerly. "I'll go down and get some after dinner." + +But Horace innocently offered to save him the trouble. "I go past the +drug store," said he. "Let me get them." + +But Sylvia unexpectedly came to Henry's aid. "No," she said. "I think +you had better not wait till Mr. Allen comes home from school. Dr. +Wallace says those pellets ought to be taken right away, just as soon +as you feel a cold, to have them do any good." + +Henry brightened, but Rose interposed. "Why, I would love to run down +to the drug store and get the medicine," she said. "You lie down +after dinner, Uncle Henry, and I'll go." + +Henry cast an agonizing glance at Horace. The young man did not +understand in the least what it meant, but he came to the rescue. + +"The last time I took those pellets," he said, "Mr. Whitman got them +for me. It was one Saturday, and I was home, and felt the cold coming +on, and I lay down, just as you suggest Mr. Whitman's doing, and got +asleep, and awoke with a chill. I think that if one has a cold the +best thing is to keep exercising until you can get hold of a remedy. +I think if Mr. Whitman walks down to the drug store himself and gets +the pellets, and takes one, and keeps out in the open air afterwards, +as it is a fine day, it will be the very best thing for him." + +"That is just what I think myself," said Henry, with a grateful look +at Horace. + +Henry changed his coat again before leaving, on the plea that it was +better for him to wear a lighter one when walking and the heavier one +when he was in the house. He and Horace walked down the street +together. They were out of sight of the house when Henry spoke. + +"Mrs. Whitman don't know it yet," said he, "but there's no reason why +you shouldn't. I 'ain't got any cold. I'll get the pellets to satisfy +her, but I 'ain't got any cold. I wanted to get out again and not +tell her, if I could help it. I didn't want a fuss. I'm going to put +it off as long as I can. Mrs. Whitman's none too strong, and when +anything goes against her she's all used up, and I must save her as +long as possible." + +Horace stared at Henry with some alarm. "What on earth is it?" he +said. + +"Nothing, only I have gone back to work in the shop." + +Horace looked amazed. "But I thought--" + +"You thought we had enough so I hadn't any need to work, and you are +right," said Henry, with a pathetic firmness. "We have got property +enough to keep us, if nothing happens, as long as we live, but I had +to go back to that infernal treadmill or die." + +Horace nodded soberly. "I think I understand," said he. + +"I'm glad you do." + +"But Mrs. Whitman--" + +"Oh, poor Sylvia will take it hard, and she won't understand. Women +don't understand a lot of things. But I can't help it. I'll keep it +from her for a day or two. She'll have to hear of it before long. You +don't think Rose will mind the leather smell?" concluded Henry. + +"I wouldn't worry about that. There is nothing very disagreeable +about it," Horace replied, laughing. + +"I will always change my coat and wash my hands real particular +before I set down to the table," said Henry, wistfully. Then he +added, after a second's hesitation: "You don't think she will think +any the less of me? You don't suppose she won't be willing to live in +the house because I work in the shop?" + +"You mean Rose--Miss Fletcher?" + +"Yes; of course she's been brought up different. She don't know +anything about people's working with their hands. She's been brought +up to think they're beneath her. I suppose it's never entered into +the child's head that she would live to set at the same table with a +man who works in a shoe-shop. You don't suppose it will set her +against me?" + +"I think even if she has been brought up differently, as you say, +that she has a great deal of sense," replied Horace. "I don't think +you need to worry about that." + +"I'm glad you don't. I guess it would about break Sylvia's heart to +lose her now, and I've got so I set a good deal by the child myself. +Mr. Allen, I want to ask you something." + +Henry paused, and Horace waited. + +"I want to ask you if you've noticed anything queer about Sylvia +lately," Henry said, at last. + +Horace looked at him. "Do you mean in her looks or her manners?" + +"Both." + +Horace hesitated in his turn. "Now you speak of it--" he began. + +"Well," said Henry, "speak out just what you think." + +"I have not been sure that there was anything definite," Horace said, +slowly. "I have not been sure that it was not all imagination on my +part." + +"That's just the way I've been feeling," Henry said, eagerly. "What +is it that you've been noticing?" + +"I told you I am not sure that it is not all imagination, but--" + +"What?" + +"Well, sometimes your wife has given me the impression that she was +brooding over something that she was keeping entirely to herself. She +has had a look as if she had her eyes turned inward and was worrying +over what she saw. I don't know that you understand what I mean by +that?" + +Henry nodded. "That's just the way Sylvia's been looking to me." + +"I don't know but she looks as well as ever." + +"She's grown thin." + +"Maybe she has. Sometimes I have thought that, but what I have +noticed has been something intangible in her manner and expression, +that I thought was there one minute and was not at all sure about the +next. I haven't known whether the trouble, or difference, as perhaps +I had better put it, was with her or myself." + +Henry nodded still more emphatically. "That's just the way it's +seemed to me, and we 'ain't either of us imagined it. It's so," said +he. + +"Have you any idea--" + +"No, I haven't the least. But my wife's got something on her mind, +and she's had something on her mind for a long time. It ain't +anything new." + +"Why don't you ask her?" + +"I have asked her, and she says that of course she's got something on +her mind, that she ain't a fool. You can't get around Sylvia. She +never would tell anything unless she wanted to. She ain't like most +women." + +Just then Horace turned the corner of the street leading to his +school, and the conversation ceased, with an enjoinder on his part to +Henry not to be disturbed about it, as he did not think it could be +anything serious. + +Henry's reply rang back as the two men went their different ways. "I +don't suppose it can be anything serious," he said, almost angrily. + +Horace, however, was disposed to differ with him. He argued that a +woman of Sylvia Whitman's type does not change her manner and grow +introspective for nothing. He was inclined to think there might be +something rather serious at the bottom of it all. His imagination, +however, pictured some disease, which she was concealing from all +about her, but which caused her never-ceasing anxiety and perhaps +pain. + +That night he looked critically at her and was rather confirmed in +his opinion. Sylvia had certainly grown thin, and the lines in her +face had deepened into furrows. She looked much older than she had +done before she had received her inheritance. At the same time she +puzzled Horace by looking happier, albeit in a struggling sort of +fashion. Either Rose or the inheritance was the cause of the +happiness. Horace was inclined to think it was Rose, especially since +she seemed to him more than ever the source of all happiness and +further from his reach. + +That night he had found in the post-office a story of whose +acceptance he had been almost sure, accompanied by the miserable +little formula which arouses at once wrath and humiliation. Horace +tore it up and threw the pieces along the road. There was a +thunder-shower coming up. It scattered the few blossoms remaining on +the trees, and many leaves, and the bits of the civilly hypocritical +note of thanks and rejection flew with them upon the wings of the +storm wind. + +Horace gazed up at the clouds overhead, which looked like the rapids +of some terrible, heavenly river overlapping each other in shell-like +shapes and moving with intense fury. He thought of Rose, and first +hoped that she was in the house, and then reflected that he might as +well give up all hope of ever marrying her. The returned manuscript +in his pocket seemed to weigh down his very soul. He recalled various +stories which he had read in the current magazines of late, and it +seemed to him that his compared very favorably with them. He tried to +think of the matter judicially, as if the rejected story were not his +own, and felt justified in thinking well of it. He had a sickening +sense of being pitted against something which he could not gainsay, +which his own convictions as to the privilege of persons in authority +to have their own opinions forbade him to question. + +"The editors had a perfect right to return my story, even if it is +every whit as worthy of publication, even worthier, than anything +which has appeared in their magazine for a twelvemonth," he told +himself. + +He realized that he was not dependent upon the public concerning the +merit of his work--he could not be until the work appeared in +print--but he was combating the opinions (or appealing to them) of a +few men whose critical abilities might be biassed by a thousand +personal matters with which he could not interfere. He felt that +there was a broad, general injustice in the situation, but absolute +right as to facts. These were men to whom was given the power to +accept or refuse. No one could question their right to use that +power. Horace said to himself that he was probably a fool to +entertain for a moment any hope of success under such conditions. + +"Good Lord! It might depend upon whether the readers had +indigestion," he thought; and at the same time he accepted the +situation with a philosophic pride of surrender. + +"It's about one chance in a good many thousand," he told himself. "If +I don't get the chance some other fellow does, and there's no mortal +way but to make the best of it, unless I act like a fool myself." +Horace was exceedingly alive to the lack of dignity of one who kicked +against the pricks. He said to himself that if he could not marry +Rose, if he could not ask her why, he must accept his fate, not +attack it to his own undoing, nor even deplore it to his ignominy. + +In all this he was, rather curiously, leaving the girl and her +possible view of the matter entirely out of the question. Horace, +while he was not in the least self-deprecatory, and was disposed to +be as just in his estimate of himself as of other men, was not +egotistical. It did not really occur to him that Rose's fancy, too, +might have been awakened as his own had been, that he might cause her +suffering. It went to prove his unselfishness that, upon entering the +house, and seeing Rose seated beside a window with her embroidery, +his first feeling was of satisfaction that she was housed and safe +from the fast-gathering storm. + +Rose looked up as he entered, and smiled. + +"There's a storm overhead," remarked Horace. + +"Yes," said Rose. "Aunt Sylvia has just told me I ought not to use a +needle, with so much lightning. She has been telling me about a woman +who was sewing in a thunder-storm, and the needle was driven into her +hand." Rose laughed, but as she spoke she quilted her needle into her +work and tossed it on a table, got up, and went to the window. + +"It looks almost wild enough for a cyclone," she said, gazing up at +the rapid scud of gray, shell-like clouds. + +"Rose, come right away from that window," cried Sylvia, entering from +the dining-room. "Only last summer a woman in Alford got struck +standing at a window in a tempest." + +"I want to look at the clouds," said Rose, but she obeyed. + +Sylvia put a chair away from the fireplace and out of any draught. +"Here," said she. "Set down here." She drew up another chair close +beside Rose and sat down. There came a flash of lightning and a +terrible crash of thunder. A blind slammed somewhere. Out in the +great front yard the rain swirled in misty columns, like ghostly +dancers, and the flowering shrubs lashed the ground. Horace watched +it until Sylvia called him, also, to what she considered a place of +safety. "If you don't come away from that window and set on the sofa +I shall have a conniption fit," she said. Horace obeyed. As he sat +down he thought of Henry, and without stopping to think, inquired +where he was. + +"He went down to Mr. Meeks's," replied Sylvia, with calm decision. + +Horace stared at her. He wondered if she could possibly be lying, or +if she really believed what she said. + +He did not know what had happened that afternoon; neither did Rose. +Rose had gone out for a walk, and while Sylvia was alone a caller, +Mrs. Jim Jones, had come. Mrs. Jim Jones was a very small, +angry-looking woman. Nature had apparently intended her to be plump +and sweet and rosy, and altogether comfortable, but she had flown in +the face of nature, like a cross hen, and had her own way with +herself. + +It was scarcely conceivable that Mrs. Jim Jones could be all the time +in the state of wrath against everything in general which her sharp +tongue and her angry voice evinced, but she gave that impression. Her +little blond face looked like that of a doll which has been covered +with angry pin-scratches by an ill-tempered child. Whenever she spoke +these scratches deepened. + +Mrs. Jim Jones could not bring herself to speak of anything without a +show of temper, whether she really felt it or not. She fairly lashed +out at Sylvia when the latter inquired if it was true that Albion +Bennet had left her house and returned to the hotel. + +"Yes, it is true, and thank the Lord for His unspeakable mercy to the +children of men. I couldn't have stood that man much longer, and +that's the gospel truth. He ate like a pig, so there wasn't a mite of +profit in it. And he was as fussy as any old maid I ever saw. If I +have to choose between an old maid and an old batch for a boarder, +give me the old maid every time. She don't begin to eat so much, and +she takes care of her room. Albion Bennet about ruined my spare +chamber. He et peanuts every Sunday, and they're all ground into the +carpet. Yes, I'm mighty glad to get rid of him. Let alone everything +else, the way he pestered my Susy was enough to make me sick of my +bargain. There that poor child got so she tagged me all over the +house for fear Albion Bennet would make love to her. I guess Susy +ain't going to take up with a man like Albion Bennet. He's too old +for her anyhow, and I don't believe he makes much out of his drug +store. I rather guess Susy looks higher than that. Yes, he's gone, +and it's 'good riddance, bad rubbish.'" + +"If you feel so about it I'm glad he's gone back to Lucinda," said +Sylvia. "She didn't have many steady boarders, and it did sort of +look against her, poor thing, with all the mean talk there's been." + +"I guess there wasn't quite so much smoke without a little fire," +said Mrs. Jim Jones, and her small face looked fairly evil. + +Then Sylvia was aroused. "Now, Mrs. Jones, you know better," said +she. "You know as well as you want to that Lucinda Hart was no more +guilty than you and I were. We both went to school with her." + +Mrs. Jim Jones backed down a little. There was something about Sylvia +Whitman when she was aroused that a woman of Mrs. Jones's type could +not face with impunity. "Well, I don't pretend to know," said she, +with angry sullenness. + +"You pretended to know just now. If folks don't know, it seems to me +the best thing they can do is to hold their tongues, anyhow." + +"I am holding my tongue, ain't I? What has got into you, Sylvia +Whitman?" + +"No, you didn't hold your tongue when you said that about there not +being so much smoke without some fire." + +"Well, there always is fire when there's smoke, ain't there?" + +"No, there ain't always, not on the earth. Sometimes there's smoke +that folks' wicked imaginations bring up out of the other place. I do +believe that." + +"Why, Sylvia Whitman, how you do talk! You're almost swearing." + +"Have it swearing if you want to," said Sylvia. "I know I'm glad that +Albion Bennet has gone back to Lucinda's. Everybody knows how mortal +scared he is of his own shadow, and if he's got grit enough to go +back there it's enough to about satisfy folks that there wasn't +anything in the story." + +"Well, it's 'good riddance, bad rubbish,' as far as I'm concerned," +said Mrs. Jim Jones. There had been on her face when she first +entered an expression of peculiar malignity. Sylvia knew it of old. +She had realized that Mrs. Jones had something sweet for her own +tongue, but bitter for her, in store, and that she was withholding it +as long as possible, in order to prolong the delight of anticipation. +"You've got two boarders, ain't you?" inquired Mrs. Jim Jones. + +"I've got one boarder," replied Sylvia, with dignity, "and we keep +him because he can't bear to go anywhere else in East Westland, and +because we like his company." + +"I thought Abrahama White's niece--" + +"She ain't no boarder. She makes her home here. If you think we'd +take a cent of money from poor Abrahama's own niece, you're mistaken." + +"I didn't know. She takes after her grandmother White, don't she? She +was mortal homely." + +Then Sylvia fairly turned pale with resentment. "She doesn't look any +more like old Mrs. White than your cat does," said she. "Rose is a +beauty; everybody says so. She's the prettiest girl that ever set +foot in this town." + +"Everybody to their taste," replied Mrs. Jim Jones, in the village +formula of contempt. "I heard Mr. Allen, your boarder, was going to +marry her," she added. + +"He ain't." + +"I'm glad to hear it from headquarters," said Mrs. Jim Jones. "I said +I couldn't believe it was true." + +"Mr. Allen won't marry any girl in East Westland," said Sylvia. + +"Is there anybody in Boston?" asked Mrs. Jim Jones, losing her +self-possession a little. + +Sylvia played her trump card. "I don't know anything--that is, I +ain't going to say anything," she replied, mysteriously. + +Mrs. Jim Jones was routed for a second, but she returned to the +attack. She had not yet come to her particular errand. She felt that +now was the auspicious moment. "I felt real sorry for you when I +heard the news," said she. + +Sylvia did not in the least know what she meant. Inwardly she +trembled, but she would have died before she betrayed herself. She +would not even disclose her ignorance of what the news might be. She +did not, therefore, reply in words, but gave a noncommittal grunt. + +"I thought," said Mrs. Jim Jones, driven to her last gun, "that you +and Mr. Whitman had inherited enough to make you comfortable for +life, and I felt real bad to find out you hadn't." + +Sylvia turned a little pale, but her gaze never flinched. She grunted +again. + +"I supposed," said Mrs. Jim Jones, mouthing her words with intensest +relish, "that there wouldn't be any need for Mr. Whitman to work any +more, and when I heard he was going back to the shop, and when I saw +him turn in there this morning, I declare I did feel bad." + +Then Sylvia spoke. "You needn't have felt bad," said she. "Nobody +asked you to." + +Mrs. Jim Jones stared. + +"Nobody asked you to," repeated Sylvia. "Nobody is feeling at all bad +here. It's true we've plenty, so Mr. Whitman don't need to lift his +finger, if he don't want to, but a man can't set down, day in and day +out, and suck his thumbs when he's been used to working all his life. +Some folks are lazy by choice, and some folks work by choice. Mr. +Whitman is one of them." + +Mrs. Jim Jones felt fairly defrauded. "Then you don't feel bad?" said +she, in a crestfallen way. + +"Nobody feels bad here," said Sylvia. "I guess nobody in East +Westland feels bad unless it's you, and nobody wants you to." + +After Mrs. Jim Jones had gone, Sylvia went into her bedroom and sat +down in a rocking-chair by the one window. Under the window grew a +sweetbrier rose-bush. There were no roses on it, but the soothing +perfume of the leaves came into the room. Sylvia sat quite still for +a while. Then she got up and went into the sitting-room with her +mouth set hard. + +When Rose had returned she had greeted her as usual, and in reply to +her question where Uncle Henry was, said she guessed he must be at +Mr. Meeks's; there's where he generally was when he wasn't at home. + +It did not occur to Sylvia that she was lying, not even when, later +in the afternoon, Horace came home, and she answered his question as +to her husband's whereabouts in the same manner. She had resolved +upon Sidney Meeks's as a synonyme for the shoe-shop. She knew herself +that when she said Mr. Meeks's she in reality meant the shoe-shop. +She did not worry about others not having the same comprehension as +herself. Sylvia had a New England conscience, but, like all New +England consciences, it was susceptible of hard twists to bring it +into accordance with New England will. + +The thunder-tempest, as Sylvia termed it, continued. She kept +glancing, from her station of safety, at the streaming windows. She +was becoming very much worried about Henry. At last she saw a figure, +bent to the rainy wind, pass swiftly before the side windows of the +sitting-room. She was on her feet in an instant, although at that +minute the room was filled with blue flame followed by a terrific +crash. She ran out into the kitchen and flung open the door. + +"Come in quick, for mercy's sake!" she called. Henry entered. He was +dripping with rain. Sylvia did not ask a question. "Stand right where +you are till I bring you some dry clothes," she said. + +Henry obeyed. He stood meekly on the oil-cloth while Sylvia hurried +through the sitting-room to her bedroom. + +"Mr. Whitman has got home from Mr. Meeks's, and he's dripping wet," +she said to Horace and Rose. "I am going to get him some dry things +and hang the wet ones by the kitchen stove." + +When she re-entered the kitchen with her arms full, Henry cast a +scared glance at her. She met it imperturbably. + +"Hurry and get off those wet things or you'll catch your death of +cold," said she. + +Henry obeyed. Sylvia fastened his necktie for him when he was ready +for it. He wondered if she smelled the leather in his drenched +clothing. His own nostrils were full of it. But Sylvia made no sign. +She never afterwards made any sign. She never intimated to Henry in +any fashion that she knew of his return to the shop. She was, if +anything, kinder and gentler with him than she had been before, but +whenever he attempted, being led thereto by a guilty conscience, to +undeceive her, Sylvia lightly but decidedly waved the revelation +aside. She would not have it. + +That day, when she and Henry entered the sitting-room, she said, so +calmly that he had not the courage to contradict her: "Here is your +uncle Henry home from Mr. Meeks's, and he was as wet as a drowned +rat. I suppose Mr. Meeks didn't have any umbrella to lend. Old +bachelors never do have anything." + +Henry sat down quietly in his allotted chair. He said nothing. It was +only when the storm had abated, when there was a clear streak of gold +low in the west, and all the wet leaves in the yard gave out green +and silver lights, when Sylvia had gone out in the kitchen to get +supper and Rose had followed her, that the two men looked at each +other. + +"Does she know?" whispered Horace. + +"If she does know, and has taken a notion never to let anybody know +she knows, she never will," replied Henry. + +"You mean that she will never mention it even to you?" + +Henry nodded. He looked relieved and scared. He was right. He +continued to work in the shop, and Sylvia never intimated to him that +she knew anything about it. + + + +Chapter XVII + + +When Henry had worked in the shop before Sylvia's inheritance, he had +always given her a certain proportion of his wages and himself +defrayed their housekeeping bills. He began to do so again, and +Sylvia accepted everything without comment. Henry gradually became +sure that she did not touch a dollar of her income from her new +property for herself. One day he found on the bureau in their bedroom +a book on an Alford savings-bank, and discovered that Sylvia had +opened an account therein for Rose. Sylvia also began to give Rose +expensive gifts. When the girl remonstrated, she seemed so distressed +that there was nothing to do but accept them. + +Sylvia no longer used any of Abrahama White's clothes for herself. +Instead, she begged Rose to take them, and finally induced her to +send several old gowns to her dressmaker in New York for renovation. +When Rose appeared in these gowns Sylvia's expression of worried +secrecy almost vanished. + +The time went on, and it was midsummer. Horace was spending his long +vacation in East Westland. He had never done so before, and Sylvia +was not pleased by it. Day after day she told him that he did not +look well, that she thought he needed a change of air. Henry became +puzzled. One day he asked Sylvia if she did not want Mr. Allen to +stay with them any longer. + +"Of course I do," she replied. + +"Well, you keep asking him why he doesn't go away, and I began to +think you didn't," said Henry. + +"I want him to stay," said Sylvia, "but I don't want any foolishness." + +"Foolishness?" said Henry, vaguely. + +It was a very hot afternoon, but in spite of the heat Rose and Horace +were afield. They had been gone ever since dinner. It was Saturday, +and Henry had come home early from the shop. The first question he +asked had been concerning the whereabouts of the young people. "Off +together somewhere," Sylvia had replied. Then the conversation had +ensued. + +"Yes, foolishness," repeated Sylvia, with a sort of hysterical +violence. She sat out on the front porch with some mending, and she +sewed feverishly as she spoke. + +"I don't know what you mean by foolishness, I guess, Sylvia." + +Henry sat on the porch step. He wore a black mohair coat, and his +thin hair was well brushed. + +"It does seem," said Sylvia, "as if a young man and a young woman +might live in the same house and behave themselves." + +Henry stared at her. "Why, Sylvia, you don't mean--" + +"I mean just what I said--behave themselves. It does seem sometimes +as if everything any girl or young man thought of was falling in love +and getting married," Sylvia said--"falling in love and getting +married," with a bitter and satirical emphasis. + +"I don't see," said Henry, "that there is very much against Mr. Allen +and Rose's falling in love and getting married. I think he might do +worse, and I think she might. Sometimes I've looked at the two of +them and wondered if they weren't just made for each other. I can't +see quite what you mean, Sylvia? You don't mean to say that you don't +want Mr. Allen ever to get married?" + +"He can marry whoever he wants to," said Sylvia, "but he sha'n't +marry her." + +"You don't mean you don't want her ever to get married?" + +"Yes, I do mean just that." + +"Why, Sylvia, are you crazy?" + +"No, I ain't crazy," replied Sylvia, doggedly. "I don't want her to +get married, and I'm in the right of it. She's no call to get +married." + +"I don't see why she 'ain't got a call as well as other girls." + +"She 'ain't. Here she's got a good home, and everything she needs, +and more, too. She's got money of her own that she had when she come +here, plenty of it. I'm going over to Alford to-morrow and see if I +can't find some things in the stores there for her that I think +she'll like. And I'm going to get Jim Jones--he's a good hand--to see +if he can't get a good, safe horse and pretty carriage for her, so +she can ride out." + +Henry stared. "I dunno as I can take care of a horse, Sylvia," he +said, doubtfully. + +"Nobody wants you to. I can get Billy Hudson to come. He can sleep in +the chamber over the kitchen. I spoke to his mother about it, and +she's tickled to pieces. She says he's real handy with horses, and +he'll come for fifteen dollars a month and his board. Rose is going +to have everything she wants." + +"Does she want a horse and carriage?" + +"I shouldn't think of it if I didn't s'pose she did." + +"What made me ask," said Henry, "was, I'd never heard her speak of +it, and I knew she had money enough for anything if she did want it." + +"Are you grudging my spending money her own aunt left on her?" + +Henry looked reproachfully at his wife. "I didn't quite deserve that +from you, Sylvia," he said, slowly. + +Sylvia looked at him a moment. Her face worked. Then she glanced +around to be sure nobody saw, and leaned over and touched the +shoulder of Henry's mohair coat with a little, skinny hand. "Henry," +she said, pitifully. + +"What, Sylvia?" + +"You know I didn't mean anything. You've always been generous about +money matters. We 'ain't never had ill feeling about such a thing as +that. I shouldn't have spoke that way if I hadn't been all wrought +up, and--" Suddenly Sylvia thrust her hand under her white apron and +swept it up to her face. She shook convulsively. + +"Now, Sylvia, of course you didn't mean a blessed thing. I've known +you were all wrought up for a long time, but I haven't known what +about. Don't take on so, Sylvia." + +A little, hysterical sob came from Sylvia under the apron. Her +scissors fell from her lap and struck the stone slab on which Henry +was sitting. He picked them up. "Here are your scissors, Sylvia," +said he. "Now don't take on so. What is it about? What have you got +on your mind? Don't you think it would do you good to tell me?" + +"I wish," sobbed Sylvia, "that Abrahama White had left her property +where it belonged. I wish we'd never had a cent of it. She didn't do +right, and she laid the burden of her wrong-doing onto us when she +left us the property." + +"Is that what's troubling you, Sylvia?" said Henry, slowly. "If +that's all," he continued, "why--" + +But Sylvia interrupted him. She swept the apron from her face and +showed it grimly set. There was no trace of tears. "That ain't +troubling me," said she. "Nothing's troubling me. I'm kind of +nervous, that's all, and I hate to set still and see foolishness. I +don't often give way, and I 'ain't nothing to give way for. I'm jest +all wrought up. I guess there's going to be a thunder-tempest. I've +felt jest like it all day. I wish you'd go out in the garden and pick +a mess of green corn for supper. If you're a mind to you can husk it, +and get that middling-sized kettle out from under the sink and put +the water on to boil. I suppose they'll be home before long now. They +ain't quite got to going without their victuals." + +Henry rose. "I'd admire to get the corn," said he, and went around +the house towards the kitchen. Left to herself, Sylvia let her work +fall in her lap. She stared at the front yard and the street beyond +and the opposite house, dimly seen between waving boughs, and her +face was the face of despair. Little, commonplace, elderly +countenance that it seemed, it was strengthened into tragedy by the +terrible stress of some concealed misery of the spirit. Sylvia sat +very stiffly, so stiffly that even the work in her lap, a mass of +soft muslin, might have been marble, with its immovable folds. Sylvia +herself looked petrified; not a muscle of her face stirred. She was +suffering the keenest agony upon earth, that agony of the spirit +which strikes it dumb. + +She had borne it for months. She had never let slip the slightest +hint of it. At times she had managed to quiet it with what she knew +to be sophistries. She had been able to imagine herself almost happy +with Rose and the new passion for her which had come into her life, +but that passion was overgrown by her secret, like some hideous +parasite. Even the girl's face, which was so beloved, was not to be +seen without a pang to follow upon the happiness. Sylvia showed, +however, in spite of her face of utter despair, an odd strength, a +courage as if for battle. + +After awhile she heard Henry's returning footsteps, and immediately +her face and whole body relaxed. She became flesh, and took up her +needlework, and Henry found her sewing placidly. The change had been +marvellous. Once more Sylvia was a little, commonplace, elderly woman +at her commonplace task. Even that subtle expression which at times +so puzzled Henry had disappeared. The man had a sensation of relief +as he resumed his seat on the stone step. He was very patient with +Sylvia. It was his nature to be patient with all women. Without +realizing it, he had a tenderness for them which verged on contempt. +He loved Sylvia, but he never lost sight of the fact that she was a +woman and he a man, and therefore it followed, as a matter of course, +that she was by nature weaker and, because of the weakness, had a +sweet inferiority. It had never detracted from his love for her; it +had increased it. There might not have been any love in the beginning +except for that. + +Henry was perhaps scarcely capable of loving a woman whom he might be +compelled to acknowledge as his superior. This elderly New-Englander +had in him none of the spirit of knight-errantry. He had been a good, +faithful husband to his wife, but he had never set her on a pedestal, +but a trifle below him, and he had loved her there and been patient +with her. + +But patience must breed a certain sense of superiority. That is +inevitable. Henry's tender patience with Sylvia's moods and unreason +made him see over her character, as he could see over her physical +head. Lately this sense of mystery had increased, in a way, his +comprehension of his own stature. The more mysterious Sylvia became, +and the more Henry's patience was called into action, the taller he +appeared to himself to become. + +While he had been getting the corn out in the garden, and preparing +it to be cooked, he had reflected upon Sylvia's unaccountable emotion +and her assertion that there was no reason for it, and he realized +his masculine height. He knew that it would have been impossible for +him to lose control of himself and then declare that there was no +cause; to sway like a reed driven by the wind. + +Henry was rather taken by this idea. When he had returned to his +station on the porch he was thinking how women were reeds driven by +the winds of their emotions, and really, in a measure, irresponsible. +If he had again found Sylvia with her apron over her face, he was +quite prepared to be very tender, but he was relieved to see that the +paroxysm had passed. He did not smile as he sat down, neither did +Sylvia. It was rather unusual for them to smile at each other, but +they exchanged looks of peaceful accord, which really meant more than +smiles. + +"Well," said Henry, "the kettle's on the stove." + +"How much corn did you get?" + +"Well, I allowed three ears apiece. They're pretty good size. I +thought that was about right." + +Sylvia nodded. + +"The corn's holding out pretty well," said Henry. "That other later +kind will be ready by the time the lima beans are ripe." + +"That 'll go nice for succotash," said Sylvia, taking another stitch. + +"That's what I was thinking," said Henry. + +He sat staring out upon the front yard, and he was in reality +thinking, with pleasant anticipations, of the succotash. Now that he +was back in his old track at the shop, his appetite was better, and +he found himself actually dreaming about savory dishes like a boy. +Henry's pleasures in life were so few and simple that they had to go +a long way, and lap over onto his spiritual needs from his physical +ones. + +Sylvia broke in upon his visions of succotash. She was straining her +eyes to see the road beyond the front yard. "What time is it?" she +asked. "Do you know?" + +"It was half-past five by the kitchen clock." + +"They ain't in sight yet." Sylvia stared and frowned at the distance. +"This house does set too far back," she said, impatiently. + +"Now, Sylvia, I wouldn't give up a mite of this front yard." + +"I'd give it all up if I could see folks go past. A woman wants to +see something out of the window and from the doorstep besides flowers +and box and trees." + +Sylvia glared at the yard, which was beautiful. The box grew lustily, +framing beds of flowers and clusters of radiant bushes. There were +two perfectly symmetrical horse-chestnut-trees, one on each side of +the broad gravel walk. The yard looked like some wonderful map +wherein the countries were made of flowers, the design was so +charmingly artificial and prim. + +"It's awful set, I think," said Sylvia. "I'd rather have flowers +growing where they want to instead of where they have to. And I never +did like box. Folks say it's unhealthy, too." + +"It's been here for years, and the people who belonged here have +never been short-lived," said Henry. "I like it." + +"I don't," said Sylvia. She looked at the road. "I don't see where +they can be." + +"Oh, they'll be along soon. Don't worry, Sylvia." + +"Well," said Sylvia, in a strident voice, "I'm going in and get +supper, and when it's ready we'll set down and eat it. I ain't going +to wait one minute. I'm just sick of this kind of work." + +Sylvia got up, and her scissors dropped again onto the step. Henry +picked them up. "Here are your scissors," said he. + +Sylvia took them and went into the house with a flounce. Henry heard +a door slam and dishes rattle. "She's all wrought up again," he +thought. He felt very tall as he pitied Sylvia. He was sorry for her, +but her distress over such a matter as the young folks' being late +seemed to him about as much to be taken seriously as the buzzing of a +bumblebee over a clump of lilies in the yard. + +He was watching the bumblebee when he heard the front gate click, and +thought with relief that the wanderers had returned, then Sidney +Meeks came into view from between the rows of box. Sidney came up the +walk, wiping his forehead with a large red handkerchief, and fanning +himself with an obsolete straw hat. + +"Hullo," said Henry. + +"How are you?" said Meeks. "It's a corking hot day." + +"Yes, it is pretty hot, but I think it's a little cooler than it was +an hour ago." + +"Try walking and you won't think so." + +"Set down," said Henry, pointing to the chair Sylvia had just +vacated. "Set down and stay to supper." + +"I don't say I won't stay to supper, but I've got an errand first. +I've struck a new idea about wine. Haven't you got a lot of wild +grapes down back here?" + +"Yes, back of the orchard." + +"Well, I've got an idea. I won't say what it is now. I want to see +how it turns out first. Does Sylvia use wild grapes?" + +"No, I know she won't. There are going to be bushels of Concords and +Delawares." + +"Well, I want you to go down with me and let me look at your wild +grape-vines. I suppose the grapes must be set long ago. I just want +to see how many there are. I suppose I can make a deal with you for +some?" + +"You can have them, and welcome. I know Sylvia will say so, too." + +"Well, come along. We can go around the house." + +Henry and Meeks skirted the house and the vegetable garden, then +crossed a field, and found themselves at one side of the orchard. It +was a noble old orchard. The apple, pear, and peach trees, set in +even rows, covered three acres. Between the men and the orchard grew +the wild grapes, rioting over an old fence. Henry began to say there +was a gap in the fence farther down, but the lawyer's hand gripped +his arm with sudden violence, and he stopped short. Then he as well +as Meeks heard voices. They heard the tones of a girl, trembling with +sweetness and delight, foolish with the blessed folly of life and +youth. The voice was so full of joy that at first it sounded no more +articulate than a bird's song. It was like a strophe from the +primeval language of all languages. Henry and Meeks seemed to +understand, finally, what the voice said, more from some inner +sympathy, which dated back to their youth and chorded with it, than +from any actual comprehension of spoken words. + +This was what the sweet, divinely foolish girl-voice said: "I don't +know what you can see in me to love." + +There was nothing in the words; it was what any girl might say; it +was very trite, but it was a song. Celestial modesty and pride were +in it, and joy which looked at itself and doubted if it were joy. + +Then came the man's voice, and that sang a song also foolish and +trite, but divine and triumphant and new as every spring. + +Henry and Meeks saw gradually, as they listened, afraid to move lest +they be heard. They saw Horace and Rose sitting on the green turf +under an apple-tree. They leaned against its trunk, twisted with +years of sun and storm, and the green spread of branches was +overhead, and they were all dappled with shade and light like the +gold bosses of a shield. The man's arm was around the girl, and they +were looking at each other and seeing this world and that which is to +come. + +Suddenly Meeks gave Henry's arm another violent clutch. He pointed. +Then they saw another girl standing in the tangle of wild grapes. She +wore a green muslin gown, and was so motionless that it was not easy +to discern her readily. She was listening and watching the lovers, +and her young face was terrible. It was full of an enormous, greedy +delight, as of one who eats ravenously, and yet there was malignity +and awful misery and unreason in it. Her cheeks were flushed and her +blue eyes glittered. It was evident that everything she heard and saw +caused her the most horrible agony and a more horrible joy. She was +like a fanatic who dances in fire. + +Meeks and Henry looked at her for a long minute, then at each other. +Henry nodded as if in response to a question. Then the two men, +moving by almost imperceptible degrees, keeping the utmost silence, +hearing all the time that love duet on the other side of the +grape-vines, got behind the girl. She had been so intent that there +had been no danger of seeing them. Horace and Rose were also so +intent that they were not easily reached by any sight or sound +outside themselves. + +Meeks noiselessly and firmly clasped one of Lucy Ayres's arms. It was +very slender, and pathetically cold through her thin sleeve. Henry +grasped the other. She turned her wild young face over her shoulder, +and saw them, and yielded. Between them the two men half carried, +half led the girl away across the fields to the road. When they were +on the road Henry released his grasp of her arm, but Meeks retained +his. "Will you go quietly home?" said he, "or shall Mr. Whitman and I +go with you?" + +"I will go," Lucy replied, in a hoarse whisper. + +Meeks looked keenly at her. "Now, Lucy," he said, in a gentle voice, +"there's no use; you've got to go home." + +"Yes," said Henry. "Go home to your ma, right away, like a good girl." + +Lucy remained motionless. Her poor young eyes seemed to see nothing. + +"Good Lord!" sighed Meeks, wiping his forehead with his disengaged +hand. "Well, come along, Lucy. Now, Lucy, you don't want to make a +spectacle of yourself on the street. I think we must go home with +you, because I can see right in your eyes that you won't budge a step +unless we make you, but we don't want to walk holding on to you. So +now you just march along ahead, and we'll keep behind you, and we +won't have all the town up in arms." + +Lucy said nothing. Meeks wiped his forehead again, freed her, and +gave her a gentle shove between her shoulders. "Now, march," said he. + +Lucy began to walk; the two men kept behind her. Presently they met a +boy, who evidently noticed nothing unusual, for he leaped past, +whistling. + +"Thank the Lord it isn't far," muttered Meeks, wiping his forehead. +"It's d--n hot." + +Lucy walked on quite rapidly after awhile. They were nearly in sight +of her home when Mrs. Ayres met them. She was almost running, and was +pale and out of breath. + +"Lucy," she began, "where--?" Then she realized that Meeks and Henry +were with the girl. + +"Henry, you just keep an eye on her," said Meeks. Then he spoke to +Mrs. Ayres with old-fashioned ceremony. "Madam," he said, "will you +be so kind as to step aside? I have a word I would like to say to +you." + +Mrs. Ayres, with a scared glance at Lucy, complied. + +"Just this way a moment," he said. "Now, madam, I have a word of +advice which you are at liberty to take or not. Your daughter seems +to be in a dangerously nervous state. I will tell you plainly where +we found her. It seems that Mr. Allen and Miss Fletcher have fallen +in love with each other, and have come to an understanding. We +happened upon them, sitting together very properly, as lovers should, +in the apple orchard back of Mr. Whitman's, and your daughter stood +there watching them. She is very nervous. If you take my advice you +will lose no time in getting her away." + +Mrs. Ayres stood and listened with a cold, pale dignity. She waited +until Meeks had entirely finished, then she spoke slowly and evenly. + +"Thank you, Mr. Meeks," she said. "Your advice is very good, so good +that I have proved it by anticipating you. My daughter is in a very +nervous condition. She never fully recovered from a severe attack of +the grip." + +Mrs. Ayres lied, and Meeks respected her for it. + +"We are to start before long for St. Louis, where my brother lives," +continued Mrs. Ayres. "I am going to rent my house furnished. My +brother is a widower, and wishes us to make our home with him, and we +may never return here. I was obliged to go on an errand to the store, +and when I came home I missed Lucy and was somewhat anxious. I am +very much obliged to you. We are going away, and I have no doubt that +an entire change of scene will restore my daughter entirely. +Yesterday she had a sick headache, and is still suffering somewhat +from it to-day." + +"That woman lied like a gentleman," Meeks said to Henry when they +were on their way home. "Good Lord! I was thankful to her." + +Henry was regarding him with a puzzled look. "Do you think the poor +girl is in love with Mr. Allen, too?" he asked. + +"I think she is in love with love, and nothing will cure that," said +Meeks. + + + +Chapter XVIII + + +Henry looked more and more disturbed as they went down the street. "I +declare, I don't know what Sylvia will say," he remarked, moodily. + +"You mean about the pretty little love-affair?" said Meeks, walking +along fanning himself with his hat. + +"Yes, she'll be dreadful upset." + +"Upset; why?" + +"It beats me to know why. Who ever does know the why of a woman?" + +"What in creation is the fellow, anyhow?" said Meeks, with a laugh. +"Are all the women going daft over him? He isn't half bad looking, +and he's a good sort, but I'm hanged if I can see why he should upset +every woman who looks at him. Here we've just escorted that poor +Ayres girl home. I declare, her face made me shiver. I was glad there +wasn't any pond handy for her. But if you mean to say that your good, +sensible old wife--" + +"Get out! You know better," cried Henry, impatiently. "You know +Sylvia better than that. She sets a lot by Mr. Allen; I do myself; +but, as far as that goes, she'd give her blessing if he'd marry any +girl but Rose. That's where the hitch comes in. She doesn't want him +to marry her." + +"Thinks he isn't good enough?" + +"I don't believe it's that. I don't know what it is. She says she +don't want Rose to marry anybody." + +"Good Lord! Sylvia doesn't expect a girl with a face like that, and +money to boot, to be an old maid! My only wonder is that she hasn't +been snapped up before now." + +"I guess Rose has had chances." + +"If she hasn't, all the men who have seen her have been stone blind." + +"I don't know what has got into Sylvia, and that's the truth," Henry +said. "I never saw her act the way she does lately. I can't imagine +what has got into her head about Rose that she thinks she mustn't get +married." + +"Maybe Sylvia is in love with the girl," said Meeks, shrewdly. + +"I know she is," said Henry. "Poor Sylvia loves her as if she was her +own daughter, but I have always understood that mothers were crazy to +have their daughters married." + +"So have I, but these popular ideas are sometimes nonsense. I have +always heard that myself." + +"Sylvia and I have been happy enough together," said Henry. "It can't +be that her own life as a married woman makes her think it a better +plan to remain single." + +"That's stuff." + +"It seems so to me. Well, all the reason I can think of is, Sylvia +has come to set so much by the girl that she's actually jealous of +her." + +"Do you suppose they'll tell her to-night?" asked Meeks. + +Henry regarded him with an expression of actual terror. "Seems as if +they might wait, and let Sylvia have her night's sleep," he muttered. + +"I guess I won't stay to supper," said Meeks. + +"Stay, for the Lord's sake." + +Meeks laughed. "I believe you are afraid, Henry." + +"I hate to see a woman upset over anything." + +"So do I, for that matter. Do you think my staying might make it any +better?" + +"Yes, it might. Here we are in sight of the house. You ain't going to +back out?" + +Meeks laughed again, although rather uneasily. "All right," he said. + +When he and Henry entered they found Sylvia moving nervously about +the sitting-room. She was scowling, and her starched apron-strings +were rampant at her slim back. + +"Well," she said, with a snap, "I'm glad somebody has come. Supper's +been ready for the last quarter of an hour, and I don't know but the +corn is spoiled. How do you do, Mr. Meeks? I'll be glad to have you +stay to supper, but I don't know as there's a thing fit to eat." + +"Oh, I'll risk it," Sidney said. "You can't have anything worse than +I've got at home. I had to go to Alford about that confounded Ames +case. I had a dinner there that wasn't fit for a dog to eat, and I'm +down to baker's bread and cheese." + +"Where have _you_ been?" demanded Sylvia of Henry. He cast an +appealing glance at Meeks. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, as +if confronted by a common foe of nervous and exasperated feminity. + +"I'm to blame for that," said Meeks. "I wanted to see if you had any +wild grapes to spare, and I asked Henry to go down to the orchard +with me. I suppose you can spare me some of those wild grapes?" + +"Take all you want, and welcome," said Sylvia. "Now, I'll put supper +on the table, and we'll eat it. I ain't going to wait any longer for +anybody." + +After Sylvia had gone, with a jerk, out of the room, the two men +looked at each other. "Couldn't you give Allen a hint to lay low +to-night, anyhow?" whispered Meeks. + +Henry shook his head. "They'll be sure to show it some way," he +replied. "I don't know what's got into Sylvia." + +"It seems a pretty good sort of match, to me." + +"So it does to me. Of course Rose has got more money, and I know as +well as I want to that Horace has felt a little awkward about that; +but lately he's been earning extra writing for papers and magazines, +and it was only last Monday he told me he'd got a steady job for a +New York paper that wouldn't interfere with his teaching. He seemed +mighty tickled about it, and I guess he made up his mind then to go +ahead and get married." + +"Come to supper," cried Sylvia, in a harsh voice, from the next room, +and the two men went out at once and took their seats at the table. +Rose's and Horace's places were vacant. "I'd like to know what they +think," said Sylvia, dishing up the baked beans. "They can eat the +corn cold. It's just as good cold as it is all dried up. Here it is +six o'clock and they ain't come yet." + +"These are baked beans that are baked beans," said Meeks. + +"Yes, I always have said that Sylvia knows just how to bake beans," +said Henry. "I go to church suppers, and eat other folks' baked +beans, but they 'ain't got the knack of seasoning, or something." + +"It's partly the seasoning and partly the cooking," said Sylvia, in a +somewhat appeased voice. + +"This is brown bread, too," said Meeks. His flattering tone was +almost fulsome. + +Henry echoed him eagerly. "Yes, I always feel just the same about the +brown bread that Sylvia makes," he said. + +But the brown bread touched a discordant tone. + +Sylvia frowned. "Mr. Allen always wants it hot," said she, "and it +'ll be stone cold. I don't see where they went to." + +"Here they are now," said Henry. He and Meeks cast an apprehensive +glance at each other. Voices were heard, and Horace and Rose entered. + +"Are we late?" asked Rose. She smiled and blushed, and cast her eyes +down before Sylvia's look of sharp inquiry. There was a wonderful new +beauty about the girl. She fairly glowed with it. She was a rose +indeed, full of sunlight and dew, and holding herself, over her +golden heart of joy, with a divine grace and modesty. + +Horace did not betray himself as much. He had an expression of +subdued triumph, but his face, less mobile than the girl's, was under +better control. He took his place at the table and unfolded his +napkin. + +"I am awfully sorry if we have kept you waiting, Mrs. Whitman," he +said, lightly, as if it did not make the slightest difference if she +had been kept waiting. + +Sylvia had already served Rose with baked beans. Now she spoke to +Horace. "Pass your plate up, if you please, Mr. Allen," she said. +"Henry, hand Mr. Allen the brown bread. I expect it's stone cold." + +"I like it better cold," said Horace, cheerfully. + +Sylvia stared at him, then she turned to Rose. "Where on earth have +you been?" she demanded. + +Horace answered for her. "We went to walk, and sat down under a tree +in the orchard and talked; and we hadn't any idea how the time was +passing," he said. + +Henry and Meeks cast a relieved glance at each other. It did not +appear that an announcement was to be made that night. After supper, +when Meeks left, Henry strolled down the street a little way with him. + +"I'm thankful to have it put off to-night, anyhow," he said. "Sylvia +was all wrought up about their being late to supper, and she wouldn't +have got a mite of sleep." + +"You don't think anything will be said to-night?" + +"No, I guess not. I heard Sylvia tell Rose she'd better go to bed +right after supper, and Rose said, 'Very well, Aunt Sylvia,' in that +way she has. I never saw a human being who seems to take other +people's orders as Rose does." + +"Allen told me he'd got to sit up till midnight over some writing," +said Meeks. "That may have made a difference to the girl. Reckon she +knew spooning was over for to-day." + +Henry looked back at the house. There were two lighted windows on the +second floor. "Rose is going to bed," he said. "That light's in her +room." + +"She looked happy enough to dazzle one when she came in, poor little +thing," said Meeks. In his voice was an odd mixture of tenderness, +admiration, and regret. "You've got your wife," he said, "but I +wonder if you know how lonely an old fellow like me feels sometimes, +when he thinks of how he's lived and what he's missed. To think of a +girl having a face like that for a man. Good Lord!" + +"You might have got married if you'd wanted to," said Henry. + +"Of course; could get married now if I wanted to, but that isn't the +question. I don't know what I'm such a d--n fool as to tell you for, +only it's like ancient history, and no harm that I can see for either +the living or the dead. There was a time when, if Abrahama White had +worn a face like that for me--well--Poor girl, she got her heart +turned the way it wasn't meant to go. She had a mean, lonesome life +of it. Sometimes now, when I go into that house where she lived so +many years, I declare, the weight of the burden she had to bear seems +to be on me. It was a cruel life for a woman, and here's your wife +wanting that girl to live the same way." + +"Wouldn't she have you after Susy got married?" asked Henry. The +words sounded blunt, but his voice was tender. + +"Didn't ask her. I don't think so. She wasn't that kind of woman. It +was what she wanted or nothing with her, always was. Guess that was +why I felt the way I did about her." + +"She was a handsome girl." + +"Handsome! This girl you've got is pretty enough, but there never was +such a beauty as Abrahama. Sometimes when I call her face back before +my eyes, I declare it sounds like women's nonsense, but I wonder if I +haven't done better losing such a woman as that than marrying any +other." + +"She was handsome," Henry said again, in his tone of futile, +wondering sympathy. + +When Henry had left Sidney and returned home, he found, to his +horror, that Sylvia was not down-stairs. "She's up there with the +girl, and Rose 'll tell her," he thought, uneasily. "She can't keep +it to herself if she's alone with another woman." + +He was right. Sylvia had followed the girl to her room. She was still +angry with Rose, and filled with a vague suspicion, but she adored +her. She was hungry for the pleasure of unfastening her gown, of +seeing the last of her for the day. When she entered she found Rose +seated beside the window. The lamp was not lit. + +Sylvia stood in the doorway looking into the shadowy room. "Are you +here?" she asked. She meant her voice to be harsh, but it rang sweet +with tenderness. + +"Yes, Aunt Sylvia." + +"Where are you?" + +"Over here beside the window." + +"What on earth are you setting in the dark for?" + +"Oh, I just thought I'd sit down here a few minutes. I was going to +light the lamp soon." + +Sylvia groped her way to the mantel-shelf, found the china match-box, +and struck a match. Then she lit the lamp on the bureau and looked at +the girl. Rose held her face a little averted. The lighting of the +room had blotted out for her the soft indeterminateness of the summer +night outside, and she was a little afraid to look at Sylvia with the +glare of the lamp full upon her face. + +"You'll get cold setting there," said Sylvia; "besides, folks can +look right in. Get up and I'll unhook your dress." + +Rose got up. Sylvia lowered the white window-shade and Rose stood +about for her gown to be unfastened. She still kept her face away +from the older woman. Sylvia unfastened the muslin bodice. She looked +fondly at the soft, girlish neck when it was exposed. Her lips fairly +tingled to kiss it, but she put the impulse sternly from her. + +"What were you and Mr. Allen talking about so long down in the +orchard?" said she. + +"A good many things--ever so many things," said Rose, evasively. + +Sylvia saw the lovely, slender neck grow crimson. She turned the girl +around with a sudden twist at the shoulders, and saw the face +flushing sweetly under its mist of hair. She saw the pouting lips and +the downcast eyes. + +"Why don't you look at me?" she said, in a hard whisper. + +Rose remained motionless. + +"Look at me." + +Rose raised her eyelids, gave one glance at Sylvia, then she dropped +them again. She was all one soft, rosy flush. She smiled a smile +which she could not control--a smile of ecstasy. + +Sylvia turned deadly pale. She gasped, and held the girl from her, +looking at her pitilessly. "You don't mean it?" she exclaimed. + +Then Rose spoke with a sudden burst of emotion. "Oh, Aunt Sylvia," +she said, "I thought I wouldn't tell you to-night. I made him promise +not to tell to-night, because I was afraid you wouldn't like it, but +I've got to. I don't feel right to go to bed and not let you know." + +"Then it's so?" + +Rose gave her a glance of ineffable happiness and appeal for sympathy. + +"You and him are planning to get married?" + +"Not for a year; not for a whole year. He's absurdly proud because +he's poor, and he wants to make sure that he can earn more than his +teacher's salary. Not for a whole year." + +"You and him are planning to get married?" + +"I wasn't sure till this afternoon," Rose whispered. She put her arms +around Sylvia, and tried to nestle against her flat bosom with a +cuddling movement of her head, like a baby. "I wasn't sure," she +whispered, "but he--told me, and--now I am sure." + +Then Rose wept a little, softly, against Sylvia's thin breast. Sylvia +stood like a stone. "Haven't you had all you wanted here?" she asked. + +"Oh, Aunt Sylvia, you know I have. You've been so good to me." + +"I had got my plans made to put in a bath-room," said Sylvia. "I've +got the carpenters engaged, and the plumber. They are going to begin +next week." + +"You've been as good as can be to me, Aunt Sylvia." + +"And I'm on the lookout for a carriage and horse you can drive, and +I've been planning to have some parties for you. I've tried to think +of everything that would make you feel happy and contented and at +home." + +"Oh, you have; I know you have, dear Aunt Sylvia," murmured Rose. + +"I have done all I knew how," repeated Sylvia, in a stony fashion. +She put the girl gently away and turned to go, but Rose caught her +arm. + +"Aunt Sylvia, you aren't going like this!" she cried. "I was afraid +you wouldn't like it, though I don't know why. It does seem that +Horace is all you could ask, if I were your very own daughter." + +"You are like my very own daughter," said Sylvia, stiffly. + +"Then why don't you like Horace?" + +"I never said anything against him." + +"Then why do you look so?" + +Sylvia stood silent. + +"You won't go without kissing me, anyway, will you?" sobbed Rose. + +This time she really wept with genuine hurt and bewilderment. + +Sylvia bent and touched her thin, very cold lips to Rose's. "Now go +to bed," she said, and moved away, and was out of the room in spite +of Rose's piteous cry to her to come back. + +Henry, after he had entered the house and discovered that Sylvia was +up-stairs with Rose, sat down to his evening paper. He tried to read, +but could not get further than the glaring headlines about a +kidnapping case. He was listening always for Sylvia's step on the +stair. + +At last he heard it. He turned the paper, with a loud rustle, to the +continuation of the kidnapping case as she entered the room. He did +not even look up. He appeared to be absorbed in the paper. + +Sylvia closed the hall door behind her noiselessly; then she crossed +the room and closed the door leading into the dining-room. Henry +watched her with furtive eyes. He was horribly dismayed without +knowing why. When Sylvia had the room completely closed she came +close to him. She extended her right hand, and he saw that it +contained a little sheaf of yellowed newspaper clippings pinned +together. + +"Henry Whitman," said she. + +"Sylvia, you are as white as a sheet. What on earth ails you?" + +"Do you know what has happened?" + +Henry's eyes fell before her wretched, questioning ones. "What do you +mean, Sylvia?" he said, in a faint voice. + +"Do you know that Mr. Allen and Rose have come to an understanding +and are going to get married?" + +Henry stared at her. + +"She has just told me," said Sylvia. "Here I have done everything in +the world I could for her to make her contented." + +"Sylvia, what on earth makes you feel so? She is only going to do +what every girl who has a good chance does--what you did yourself." + +"Look at here," said Sylvia, in an awful voice. + +"What are they?" + +"I found them in a box up in the garret. They were cut from +newspapers years ago, when Rose was nothing but a child, just after +her mother died." + +"What are they? Don't look so, Sylvia." + +"Here," said Sylvia, and Henry took the little yellow sheaf of +newspaper clippings, adjusted his spectacles, moved the lamp nearer, +and began to read. + +He read one, then he looked at Sylvia, and his face was as white as +hers. "Good God!" he said. + +Sylvia stood beside him, and their eyes remained fixed on each +other's white face. "I suppose the others are the same," Henry said, +hoarsely. + +Sylvia nodded. "Only from different papers. It's terrible how alike +they are." + +"So you've had this on your mind?" + +Sylvia nodded grimly. + +"When did you find them?" + +"We'd been living here a few days. I was up in the garret. There was +a box." + +Henry remained motionless for a few moments. Then he sighed heavily, +rose, and took Sylvia by the hand. "Come," he said. + +"What are you going to do?" + +"Come." + +Sylvia followed, dragging back a little at her husband's leading +hand, like a child. They passed through the dining-room into the +kitchen. "There's a fire in the stove, ain't there?" said Henry, as +they went. + +Sylvia nodded again. She did not seem to have many words for this +exigency. + +Out in the kitchen Henry moved a lid from the stove, and put the +little sheaf of newspaper clippings, which seemed somehow to have a +sinister aspect of its own, on the bed of live coals. They leaped +into a snarl of vicious flame. Henry and Sylvia stood hand in hand, +watching, until nothing but a feathery heap of ashes remained on top +of the coals. Then he replaced the lid and looked at Sylvia. + +"Have you got any reason to believe that any living person besides +you and I knows anything about this?" he asked. + +Sylvia shook her head. + +"Do you think Miss Farrel knew?" + +Sylvia shook her head again. + +"Do you think that lawyer out West, who takes care of her money, +knows?" + +"No." Sylvia spoke in a thin, strained voice. "This must be what she +is always afraid of remembering," she said. + +"Pray God she never does remember," Henry said. "Poor little thing! +Here she is carrying a load on her back, and if she did but once turn +her head far enough to get a glimpse of it she would die of it. It's +lucky we can't see the other side of the moon, and I guess it's lucky +we haven't got eyes in the backs of our heads." + +"You wondered why I didn't want her to get married to him," said +Sylvia. + +Henry made an impatient motion. "Look here, Sylvia," he said. "I love +that young man like my own son, and your feeling about it is rank +idiocy." + +"And I love her like my own daughter!" cried Sylvia, passionately. +"And I don't want to feel that she's marrying and keeping anything +back." + +"Now, look here, Sylvia, here are you and I. We've got this secret +betwixt us, and we've got to carry it betwixt us, and never let any +living mortal see it as long as we both live; and the one that +outlives the other has got to bear it alone, like a sacred trust." + +Sylvia nodded. Henry put out the kitchen lamp, and the two left the +room, moving side by side, and it was to each of them as if they were +in reality carrying with their united strength the heavy, dead weight +of the secret. + + + +Chapter XIX + + +Henry, after the revelation which Sylvia had made to him, became more +puzzled than ever. He had thought that her secret anxiety would be +alleviated by the confidence she had made him, but it did not seem to +be. On the contrary, she went about with a more troubled air than +before. Even Horace and Rose, in the midst of their love-dream, +noticed it. + +One day Henry, coming suddenly into the sitting-room, found Rose on +her knees beside Sylvia, weeping bitterly. Sylvia was looking over +the girl's head with a terrible, set expression, as if she were +looking at her own indomitable will. For the first time Henry lost +sight of the fact that Sylvia was a woman. He seemed to see her as a +separate human soul, sexless and free, intent upon her own ends, +which might be entirely distinct from his, and utterly unknown to him. + +Rose turned her tear-wet face towards him. "Oh, Uncle Henry," she +sobbed, "Aunt Sylvia is worrying over something, and she won't tell +me." + +"Nonsense," said Henry. + +"Yes, she is. Horace and I both know she is. She won't tell me what +it is. She goes about all the time with such a dreadful face, and she +won't tell me. Oh, Aunt Sylvia, is it because you don't want me to +marry Horace?" + +Sylvia spoke, hardly moving her thin lips. "I have nothing whatever +against your marriage," she said. "I did think at first that you were +better off as you were, but now I don't feel so." + +"But you act so." Rose stumbled to her feet and ran sobbing out of +the room. + +Henry turned to his wife, who sat like a statue. "Sylvia, you ought +to be ashamed of yourself," he said, in a bewildered tone. "Here you +are taking all the pleasure out of that poor child's little +love-affair, going about as you do." + +"There are other things besides love-affairs," said Sylvia, in a +strange, monotonous tone, almost as if she were deaf and dumb, and +had no knowledge of inflections. "There are affairs between the soul +and its Maker that are more important than love betwixt men and +women." + +Sylvia did not look at Henry. She still gazed straight ahead, with +that expression of awful self-review. The thought crossed Henry's +mind that she was more like some terrible doll with a mechanical +speech than a living woman. He went up to her and took her hands. +They were lying stiffly on her lap, in the midst of soft white +cambric and lace--some bridal lingerie which she was making for Rose. +"Look here, Sylvia," said Henry, "you don't mean that you are +fretting about--what you told me?" + +"No," said Sylvia, in her strange voice. + +"Then what--?" + +Sylvia shook off his hands and rose to her feet. Her scissors dropped +with a thud. She kept the fluffy white mass over her arm. Henry +picked up the scissors. "Here are your scissors," said he. + +Sylvia paid no attention. She was looking at him with stern, angry +eyes. + +"What I have to bear I have to bear," said she. "It is nothing +whatever to you. It is nothing whatever to any of you. I want to be +let alone. If you don't like to see my face, don't look at it. None +of you have any call to look at it. I am doing what I think is right, +and I want to be let alone." + +She went out of the room, leaving Henry standing with her scissors in +his hand. + +After supper that night he could not bear to remain with Sylvia, +sewing steadily upon Rose's wedding finery, and still wearing that +terrible look on her face. Rose and Horace were in the parlor. Henry +went down to Sidney Meeks's for comfort. + +"Something is on my wife's mind," he told Sidney, when the two men +were alone in the pleasant, untidy room. + +"Do you think she feels badly about the love-affair?" + +"She says that isn't it," replied Henry, gloomily, "but she goes +about with a face like grim death, and I don't know what to make of +it." + +"She'll tell finally." + +"I don't know whether she will or not." + +"Women always do." + +"I don't know whether she will or not." + +"She will." + +Henry remained with Meeks until quite late. Sylvia sewed and sewed by +her sitting-room lamp. Her face never relaxed. She could hear the hum +of voices across the hall. + +After awhile the door of the parlor was flung violently open, and she +heard Horace's rushing step upon the stair. Then Rose came in, all +pale and tearful. + +"I have told him I couldn't marry him, Aunt Sylvia," she said. + +Sylvia looked at her. "Why not?" she asked, harshly. + +"I can't marry him and have you feel so dreadfully about it." + +"Who said I felt dreadfully about it?" + +"Nobody said so; but you look so dreadfully." + +"I can't help my looks. They have nothing whatever to do with your +love-affairs." + +"You say that just to pacify me, I know," said Rose, pitifully. + +"You don't know. Do you mean to say that you have dismissed him?" + +"Yes, and he is horribly angry with me," moaned Rose. + +"I should think he would be. What right have you to dismiss a man to +please another woman, who is hardly any relation to you? I should +think he would be mad. What did he do?" + +"He just slammed the door and ran." + +Sylvia laid her work on the table and started out of the room with an +angry stride. + +"Where are you going?" asked Rose, feebly, but she got no reply. + +Soon Sylvia re-entered the room, and she had Horace by the arm. He +looked stern and bewildered. Sylvia gave him a push towards Rose. + +"Now look at here, both of you," she said. "Once for all, I have got +nothing to say against your getting married. I am worrying about +something, and it is nobody's business what it is. I am doing right. +I am doing what I know is right, and I ain't going to let myself be +persuaded I ain't. I have done all I could for Rose, and I am going +to do more. I have nothing against your getting married. Now I am +going into the parlor to finish this work. The lamp in there is +better. You can settle it betwixt you." + +Sylvia went out, a long line of fine lace trailing in her wake. +Horace stood still where she had left him. Rose looked at him timidly. + +"I didn't know she felt so," she ventured, at last, in a small voice. + +Horace said nothing. Rose went to him, put her hand through his arm, +and laid her cheek against his unresponsive shoulder. "I did think it +would about kill her if it went on," she whispered. "I think I was +mistaken." + +"And you didn't mind in the least how much I was hurt, as long as she +wasn't," said Horace. + +"Yes, I did." + +"I must say it did not have that appearance." + +Rose wept softly against his rough coat-sleeve. "I wanted to do what +was right, and she looked so dreadfully; and I didn't want to be +selfish," she sobbed. + +Horace looked down at her, and his face softened. "Oh Rose," he said, +"you are all alike, you women. When it comes to a question of right +or wrong, you will all lay your best-beloved on the altar of +sacrifice. Your logic is all wrong, dear. You want to do right so +much that the dust of virtue gets into your eyes of love and blinds +them. I should come first with you, before your aunt Sylvia, and your +own truth and happiness should come first; but you wanted to lay them +all at her feet--or, rather, at the feet of your conscience." + +"I only wanted to do what was right," Rose sobbed again. + +"I know you did, dear." Horace put his arm around Rose. He drew her +to a chair, sat down, and took her on his knee. He looked at her +almost comically, in return for her glance of piteous appeal. + +"Don't laugh at me," she whispered. + +Horace kissed her. "I am not laughing at you, but at the eternal +feminine, dear," he said. "There is something very funny about the +eternal feminine. It is so earnest on the wrong tack, and hurts +itself and others so cruelly, and gets no thanks for it." + +"I don't know what you mean. I don't like your talking so to me, +Horace. I only meant to do what was right." + +"I won't talk so any more, darling." + +"I don't think I have much of the eternal feminine about me, Horace." + +"Of course not, sweetheart." + +"I love you, anyway," Rose whispered, and put up her face to be +kissed again, "and I didn't want to hurt you. I only wanted to do my +duty." + +"Of course you did, sweetheart. But now you think your duty is to +marry me, don't you?" + +Rose laughed, and there was something angelic and innocent about that +laugh of the young girl. Horace kissed her again, then both started. +"She is talking to herself in there," whispered Rose. "Horace, what +do you suppose it is about? Poor Aunt Sylvia must be worrying +horribly about something. What do you think it is?" + +"I don't know, darling," replied Horace, soberly. + +They both heard that lamentable murmur of a voice in the other room, +but the doors were closed and not a word could be understood. + +Sylvia was sewing rapidly, setting the most delicate and dainty +stitches, and all the time she was talking carrying on a horrible +argument, as if against some invisible dissenter. + +"Ain't I doing everything I can?" demanded Sylvia. "Ain't I, I'd like +to know? Ain't I bought everything I could for her? Ain't I making +her wedding-clothes by hand, when my eyes are hurting me all the +time? Ain't I set myself aside and given her up, when God knows I +love her better than if she was my own child? Ain't I doing +everything? What call have I to blame myself? Only to-day I've bought +a lot of silver for her, and I'm going to buy a lot more. After the +underclothes are done I'm going about the table linen, though she +don't need it. I ain't using a mite of her aunt Abrahama's. I'm +saving it all for her. I'm saving everything for her. I've made my +will and left all her aunt's property to her. What have I done? I'm +doing right; I tell you I'm doing right. I know I'm doing right. +Anybody that says I ain't, lies. They lie, I say. I'm doing right. +I--" + +Henry opened the door. He had just returned from Sidney Meeks's. +Sylvia was sewing quietly. + +Henry looked around the room. "Why, who were you talking to?" he +asked. + +"Nobody," replied Sylvia, taking another stitch. + +"I thought I heard you talking." + +"How could I be talking when there ain't anybody here to talk to?" + + + +Chapter XX + + +It was not quite a year afterwards that the wedding-day of Rose and +Horace was set. It was July, shortly after the beginning of the +summer vacation. The summer was very cool, and the country looked +like June rather than July. Even the roses were not gone. + +The wedding was to be in the evening, and all day long women worked +decorating the house. Rose had insisted on being married in the old +White homestead. She was to have quite a large wedding, and people +from New York and Boston crowded the hotel. Miss Hart was obliged to +engage three extra maids. Hannah Simmons had married the winter +before. She had married a young man from Alford, where she now lived, +and came over to assist her former mistress. Lucinda had a look of +combined delight and anxiety. "It's almost as bad as when they +thought we'd committed murder," she said to Hannah. + +"It was queer how we found that," said Hannah. + +"Hush," said Lucinda. "You remember what we agreed upon after we'd +told Albion Bennet that we'd keep it secret." + +"Of course I remember," said Hannah; "but there ain't any harm in my +reminding you how queer it was that we found the arsenic, that the +poor thing had been taking to make her beautiful complexion, in her +room." + +"It was awful," said Lucinda. "Poor soul! I always liked her. People +ought to be contented with what God has given them for complexions." + +"I wonder if she would have looked very dreadful if she hadn't taken +it," Hannah said, ruminatingly. She was passing the kitchen +looking-glass as she spoke, and glanced in it. Hannah considered that +her own skin was very rough. "I suppose," said she, "that it would +never have happened if she had been careful. I suppose lots of women +do use such things." + +Lucinda cast a sharp glance at Hannah. "It's downright wicked fooling +with them," said she. "I hope you won't get any such ideas into your +head." + +"No, I sha'n't," replied Hannah. "I'm married." + +"I heard pretty straight this morning," said Lucinda, "that Lucy +Ayres had got married out West, and had done real well." + +"I'm mighty glad of it," said Hannah, sharply. "She was crazy enough +to get married when she was here." + +Lucinda echoed her as sharply. "Guess you're right," she said. +"Albion Bennet told me some things. I shouldn't think she'd make much +of a wife, if she has got a pretty face." + +"She's just the kind to settle down and be a real sensible woman, +after she's found out that she's on the earth and not in the clouds," +returned Hannah, with an air of wisdom. + +Then Albion Bennet came into the kitchen for some hot water for +shaving. He was going to the wedding, and had closed his store early, +and was about to devote a long time to preparations. Lucinda, also, +was going. She had a new black silk for the occasion. + +When Albion left the kitchen he beckoned her to follow him. She made +an excuse and went out into the corridor. "What is it?" she said to +Albion, who was waiting, holding his pitcher of hot water. + +"Nothing," said he, "only I was over to Alford this morning and--I +bought some violets. I thought you'd like to wear them to the +wedding." + +Lucinda stared at him. "What for?" asked she. + +Albion fidgeted and his pitcher of hot water tilted. + +"Look out, you're spilling the water," said Lucinda. "What for?" + +"I--thought you might like to wear them, you know," said Albion. He +had never before given violets to a woman, and she had never had any +given her by a man. + +"Thank you," she said, faintly. + +"I've ordered a hack to come for me at half-past seven, and--I +thought maybe you'd like to ride with me," said Albion, further. + +Lucinda stared. "What for?" she said again. + +"I thought you might like to ride." + +Then Lucinda colored. "Why, folks would talk," said she. + +"Let them. I don't care; do you?" + +"Albion Bennet, I'm a lot older than you. I ain't old enough to be +your mother, but I'm a good deal older than you." + +"I don't care," said Albion. "I know how old you are. I don't care. +I'd enough sight rather have you than those young things that keep +racing to my store. When I get you I shall know what I've got, and +when I've got them I shouldn't know. I'd rather have heavy bread, or +dry bread, and know it was bread, than new-fangled things that ain't +a mite more wholesome, and you don't know what you've got. I don't +know how you feel, Lucinda, but I ain't one who could ever marry +somebody he hadn't summered and wintered. I've summered and wintered +you, and you've summered and wintered me. I don't know how much +falling in love there is for either of us, but I reckon we can get on +together and have a good home, and that's what love-making has to +wind up in, if the mainspring don't break and all the works bust. I'm +making quite a little lot from my store. I suppose maybe the soda and +candy trade will fall off a little if I get married, but if it does I +can take a young clerk to draw it. You won't have to work so hard. +You can let some of this big hotel, and keep rooms enough for us, and +I'll hire a girl for the kitchen and you can do fancy-work." + +"Land!" said Lucinda. "I can do the work for only two." + +"You're going to have a hired girl," said Albion, firmly. "I know of +one I can get. She's a real good cook. Are you going in the hack with +me, Lucinda?" + +Lucinda looked up at him, and her face was as the face of a young +girl. She had never had an offer, nor a lover. Albion Bennet looked +very dear to her. + +"Good land!" said Albion, "you act as if you were a back number, +Lucinda. You look as young as lots of the young women. You don't do +up your hair quite like the girls that come for soda and candy, but +otherwise--" + +"I can do up my hair like them, if I want to," said Lucinda. "It's +thick enough. I suppose I 'ain't fussed because I didn't realize that +anybody but myself ever thought about it one way or the other." + +"Then you'll go in the hack?" said Albion. + +Lucinda made a sudden, sharp wheel about. "I sha'n't get ready to go +in a hack if I don't hurry and get these biscuits made for supper," +said she, and was gone. + +It is odd how individuality will uprear itself before its own +consciousness, in the most adverse circumstances. Few in all the +company invited to the wedding wasted a thought upon Albion Bennet +and Lucinda Hart, but both felt as if they were the principal figures +of it all. Lucinda really did merit attention. She had taken another +role upon her stage of life. The change in her appearance savored of +magic. Albion kept looking at her as if he doubted his very eyes. +Lucinda did not wear the black silk which she had made for the +occasion. She had routed out an old lavender satin, which she had +worn years ago and had laid aside for mourning when her father died. +It was made in one of those quaint styles which defy fashion. Lucinda +had not changed as to her figure. She hesitated a little at the +V-shape of the neck. She wondered if she really ought not to fill +that in with lace, but she shook her head defiantly, and fastened +around her neck a black velvet ribbon with a little pearl pin. Then +she tucked Albion's violets in the lavender satin folds of her waist. +Her hair was still untouched with gray, and she had spoken the truth +when she had said she could arrange it like a girl. She had puffed it +low over her temples and given it a daring twist in the back. + +Albion fairly gasped when he saw her. "Lord!" said he, "why ain't you +been for candy and soda to the store, too?" + +Few people at the wedding noticed Lucinda and Albion, but they +noticed each other to that extent that all save themselves seemed +rather isolated from them. Albion whispered to Lucinda that she would +make a beautiful bride, and she looked up at him, and they were in +love. + +They stood well back. Neither Lucinda nor Albion were pushing. +Lucinda considered that her wonderful city boarders belonged in the +front ranks, and Albion shared her opinion. It was a beautiful +wedding. The old house was transformed into a bower with flowers and +vines. Musicians played in the south room, which was like a grove +with palms. There was a room filled with the wedding-presents, and +the glitter of cut glass and silver seemed almost like another +musical effect. + +The wedding was to be at eight o'clock. Everybody was there before +that time. Meeks and Henry stood together in the hall by the spiral +staircase, which was wound with flowers and vines. Henry wore a +dress-suit for the first time in his life. Meeks wore an ancient one, +in which he moved gingerly. "I believe I weigh fifty pounds more than +I did when the blamed thing was made," he said to Henry, "and the +broadcloth is as thin as paper. I'm afraid to move." + +Henry looked very sober. "What's the matter, Henry?" asked Sidney. + +"It's Sylvia." + +"Sylvia? I thought--" + +"Yes, I thought, too, that she had got what was on her mind off it, +but she hasn't. I don't know what ails her. She ain't herself. I'm +worried to death about her." + +Then the wedding-march was played and the bridal party came down the +stairs. Rose was on the arm of the lawyer who had acted as her +trustee. He was to give her away. The task had been an impossible one +for Henry to undertake, although he had been the first one thought of +by Rose. Henry had told Meeks, and the two had chuckled together over +it. "The idea of a man from a shoe-shop giving away a bride in real +lace at a swell wedding," said Henry. + +"She was the right sort to ask you, though," said Meeks. + +"Bless her little heart," said Henry, "she wouldn't care if Uncle +Henry smelled strong enough of leather to choke out the smell of the +flowers. But I ain't going to make a spectacle of myself at my time +of life. If I stand that dress-suit I shall do well. Sylvia is going +to wear black lace with a tail to it. I know somebody will step on +it." + +Sylvia, in her black lace, came down the stairs in the wake of the +bridal party. She did not seem to see her husband as she passed him. + +"By Jove!" said the lawyer, in a whisper. "What does ail her, Henry? +She looks as if she was going to jump at something." + +Henry did not answer. He made his way as quickly as possible after +Sylvia, and Sidney kept with him. + +Horace and Rose, in her bridal white, stood before the clergyman. The +music had ceased. The clergyman opened his mouth to begin the +wedding-service, when Sylvia interrupted him. She pushed herself like +a wedge of spiritual intent past the bridal pair and the bridesmaids +and best man, and stood beside the clergyman. He was a small, blond +man, naturally nervous, and he fairly trembled when Sylvia put her +hand on his arm and spoke. + +"I have something to say," said she, in a thin, strained voice. "You +wait." + +The clergyman looked aghast at her. People pressed forward, craning +their necks to hear more distinctly. Some tittered from nervousness. +Henry made his way to his wife's side, but she pushed him from her. + +"No," she said. "Stand back, Henry, and listen with the others. You +had nothing to do with it. You ain't concerned in it." + +Then she addressed the assembly. "This man, my husband," she said, +"has known nothing of it. I want you all to understand that before I +begin." Sylvia fumbled in the folds of her black lace skirt, while +the people waited. She produced a roll of paper and held it up before +them. Then she began her speech. + +"I want," said she, "before all this company, before my old friends, +and the friends of these two young people who are about to be +married, to make my confession. I have not had the courage before. I +have courage now, and this is the fitting time and place, since it +metes out the fittest punishment and shame to me, who deserve so +much. You have assembled here to-night thinking that you were to be +at my house at this wedding. It is not so. It is not my house. None +of this property is mine. I have known it was not mine since a little +while after we came to live here. I have known it all belonged to +Rose Fletcher, Abrahama White's own niece. After Rose came to live +with us, I tried to put salve on my conscience by doing every single +thing I could for her. When my husband went to work again, I spent +every cent that came from her aunt's property on Rose. I gave her all +her aunt's jewelry. I tried to salve over my conscience and make it +seem right--what I had done, what I was doing. I tried to make it +seem right by telling myself that Rose had enough property of her own +and didn't need this, but I couldn't do it. I have been in torment, +holding wealth that didn't belong to me, that has gnawed at my very +heart all the time. Now I am going to confess. Here is Abrahama +White's last will and testament. I found it in a box in the garret +with some letters. Abrahama wrote letters to her sister asking her to +forgive her, and telling her how sorry she was, and begging her to +come home, but she never sent one of them. There they all were. She +had tried to salve her conscience as I have tried to salve mine. She +couldn't do it, either. She had to give it up, as I am doing. Then +she made her will and left all her property to Rose." + +Sylvia unfolded the roll of paper and began reading. The will was +very short and concise. It was as follows: + +"I, Abrahama White, being in sound mind and understanding, and moved +thereunto by a desire to make my peace with God for my sins before I +give up this mortal flesh, declare this to be my last will and +testament. I give and bequeath to my niece, Rose Fletcher, the +daughter of my beloved sister, deceased, my entire property, real and +personal, to her and her heirs forever. And I hereby appoint Sidney +Meeks, Esquire, as my executor. + + "(Signed) Abrahama White." + +Sylvia read the will in her thin, strained voice, very clearly. Every +word was audible. Then she spoke again. "I have kept it secret all +this time," said she. "My husband knew nothing of it. I kept it from +him. I tried to hide from God and myself what I was doing, but I +could not. Here is the will, and Miss Rose Fletcher, who stands +before you, about to be united to the man of her choice, is the owner +of this house and land and all the property which goes with it." + +She stopped. There was a tense silence. Then Sidney Meeks spoke. +"Mrs. Whitman," he said, "may I trouble you for the date of that +document you hold, and also for the names of the witnesses?" + +Sylvia looked at Sidney in bewilderment, then she scrutinized the +will. "I don't see any date," she said, at last, "and there is no +name signed except just Abrahama's." + +Meeks stepped forward. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "Mrs. Whitman +has, I am pleased to say, been under quite unnecessary anxiety of +spirit. The document which she holds is not valid. It is neither +dated nor signed. I have seen it before. The deceased lady, Miss +Abrahama White, called me in one morning, shortly before her death, +and showed me this document, which she had herself drawn up, merely +to make her wishes clear to me. She instructed me to make out a will +under those directions, and I was to bring it to her for her +signature, and produce the proper witnesses. Then, the next day, she +called me in to inform me that there had been a change in her plans +since she had heard of her niece's having a fortune, and gave me +directions for the later will, which was properly made out, signed, +witnessed, and probated after Miss White's decease. Mrs. Whitman is +the rightful heir; but since she has labored under the delusion that +she was not, I am sure we all appreciate her courage and sense of +duty in making the statement which you have just heard from her lips." + +Sylvia looked at the lawyer, and her face was ghastly. "Do you mean +to say that I have been thinking I was committing theft, when I +wasn't, all this time?" said she. + +"I certainly do." + +Henry went to Sylvia and took hold of her arm, but she did not seem +to heed him. "I was just as guilty," said she, firmly, "for I had the +knowledge of sin in my heart and I held it there. I was just as +guilty." + +She stared helplessly at the worthless will which she still held. A +young girl tittered softly. Sylvia turned towards the sound. "There +is no occasion to laugh," said she, "at one who thought she was +sinning, and has had the taste of sin in her soul, even though she +was not doing wrong. The intention was there." + +Sylvia stopped. Rose had both arms around her, and was kissing her +and whispering. Sylvia pushed her gently away. "Now," she said to the +minister, "you can go on with your marrying. Even if Mr. Meeks had +told me before what he has just told me here in your presence, I +should have had to speak out. I've carried it on my shoulders and in +my heart just as long as I could and live and walk and speak under +it, let alone saying my prayers. I don't say I haven't got to carry +it now, for I have, as long as I live; but telling you all about it +was the only way I could shift a little of the heft of it. Now I feel +as if the Lord Almighty was helping me carry the burden, and always +would. That's all I've got to say. Now you can go on with your +marrying." + +Sylvia stepped back. There was a hush, then a solemn murmur of one +voice, broken at intervals by other hushes and low responses. + +When it was over, and the bridal pair stood in the soft shadow of +their bridal flowers--Rose's white garment being covered with a +lace-like tracery of vines and bride roses, and her head with its +chaplet of orange-blossoms shining out clearly with a white radiance +from the purple mist of leaves and flowers, which were real, yet +unreal, and might have been likened to her maiden dreams--Henry and +Sylvia came first to greet them. + +Henry's dress-suit fitted well, but his shoulders, bent with his +life-work over the cutting-table, already moulded it. No tailor on +earth could overcome the terrible, triumphant rigidity of that back +fitted for years to its burden of toil. However, the man's face was +happy with a noble happiness. He simply shook hands, with awkward +solemnity, with the two, but in his heart was great, unselfish +exultation. + +"This man," he was saying to himself, "has work to do that won't +grind him down and double him up, soul and body, like a dumb animal. +He can take care of his wife, and not let her get bent, either, and +the Lord knows I'm thankful." + +He felt Sylvia's little nervous hand on his arm, and a great +tenderness for her was over him. He had not a thought of blame or +shame on her account. + +Instead, he looked at Rose, blooming under her bridal flowers, not so +much smiling as beaming with a soft, remote radiance, like a star, +and he said to himself: "Thank the Lord that she will never get so +warped and twisted as to what is right and wrong by the need of money +to keep soul and body together, that she will have to do what my wife +has done, and bear such a burden on her pretty shoulders." + +It seemed to Henry that never, not even in his first wedded rapture, +had he loved his wife as he loved her that night. He glanced at her, +and she looked wonderful to him; in fact, there was in Sylvia's face +that night an element of wonder. In it spirit was manifest, far above +and crowning the flesh and its sordid needs. Her shoulders, under the +fine lace gown, were bent; her very heart was bent; but she saw the +goal where she could lay her burden down. + +The music began again. People thronged around the bride and groom. +There were soft sounds of pleasant words, gentle laughs, and happy +rejoinders. Everybody smiled. They witnessed happiness with perfect +sympathy. It cast upon them rosy reflections. And yet every one bore, +unseen or seen, the burden of his or her world upon straining +shoulders. The grand, pathetic tragedy inseparable from life, which +Atlas symbolized, moved multiple at the marriage feast, and yet love +would in the end sanctify it for them all. + +THE END + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Shoulders of Atlas, by Mary E. 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