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Project Gutenberg's The Shoulders of Atlas, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

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Title: The Shoulders of Atlas
       A Novel

Author: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

Release Date: January 21, 2006 [EBook #17566]

Language: English

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<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 &amp; 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&mdash;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&mdash;the high-school principal, Horace
Allen&mdash;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.
&ldquo;Served them right; served them just right,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Why, Henry Whitman,
that is a dreadful wicked spirit!&rdquo; 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! &ldquo;I
wish they had to work,&rdquo; he would say, savagely, to
Horace.</p>
<p>Horace would laugh, and say that he did work. &ldquo;I know you
do,&rdquo; Henry would say, grudgingly, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
&ldquo;Has he come home?&rdquo; whispered Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;How are you
Henry?&rdquo; said he, giving the other man's lean, brown fingers a
hard shake. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Glad to see you,&rdquo; returned Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You get home early, or it seems early, now the days are
getting so long,&rdquo; said Meeks, as Henry sat down opposite.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, it's early enough, but I don't get any more
pay.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Meeks laughed. &ldquo;Henry, you are the direct outcome of your
day and generation,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Less time, and more pay
for less time, is our slogan.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, why not?&rdquo; returned Henry, surlily, still with
a dawn of delighted opposition in his thin, intelligent face.
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Meeks laughed. &ldquo;Give it up until after supper,
Henry,&rdquo; he said, as Sylvia's thin, sweet voice was heard from
the next room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you men don't stop talking and come right out, these
flapjacks will be spoiled!&rdquo; she cried. The men arose and
obeyed her call. &ldquo;There are compensations for
everything,&rdquo; said Meeks, laughing, as he settled down heavily
into his chair. He was a large man. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see much to say grace for,&rdquo; said Henry,
with a disagreeable sneer.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Henry!&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;For compensations in the form of flapjacks, with plenty
of butter and sugar and nutmeg,&rdquo; said Meeks. &ldquo;These are
fine, Mrs. Whitman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Well, wait until after supper, and maybe you will change
your mind about having something to say grace for,&rdquo; Meeks
said, mysteriously.</p>
<p>The husband and wife stared at him. &ldquo;What do you mean, Mr.
Meeks?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Well, if you
can give me any good reason for saying grace you will do more than
the parson ever has,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Henry!&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's the truth,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;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&mdash;till I'm tired of it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wait till after supper,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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. &ldquo;Fine old piece,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Sylvia don't think much of it,&rdquo; he said.
&ldquo;She's crazy to have one of carved oak like one Mrs. Jim
Jones has.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Carved oak fiddlestick!&rdquo; said Sidney Meeks.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry looked resentful. &ldquo;Sylvia has taste, as much taste
as most women,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Glad there's something you see in a bright light,
Henry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I must say that I like this new mission furniture,
myself, pretty well,&rdquo; said Henry, somewhat importantly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's as old as the everlasting hills; but the old
that's new is the newest thing in all creation,&rdquo; said Meeks.
&ldquo;Sylvia is a foolish woman if she parts with this magnificent
old piece for any reproduction made in job lots.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He's right, too,&rdquo; said Meeks. &ldquo;There's
carving for you; there's a fine grain of wood.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's very hard to keep clean,&rdquo; said Sylvia, as she
came in rubbing her moist hands. &ldquo;Now, that new Flemish oak
is nothing at all to take care of, Mrs. Jones says.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;This is worth taking care of,&rdquo; said Meeks.
&ldquo;Now, Sylvia, sit down. I have something to tell you and
Henry.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;I
had something to tell you when I came in,&rdquo; he said,
&ldquo;but I thought I had better wait till after
supper.&rdquo;</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.
&ldquo;What relation is Abrahama White to you?&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is second cousin to Sylvia. Her mother was Sylvia's
mother's cousin,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;What of it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing, except&mdash;&rdquo; Meeks waited again. He
wished to make a coup. He had an instinct for climaxes.
&ldquo;Abrahama had a shock this morning,&rdquo; he said,
suddenly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;A shock?&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>Sylvia echoed him. &ldquo;A shock!&rdquo; she gasped.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I thought you hadn't heard of it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I've been in the house all day,&rdquo; said Sylvia.
&ldquo;I hadn't seen a soul before you came in.&rdquo; She rose.
&ldquo;Who's taking care of her?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;She ain't
all alone?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sit down,&rdquo; said Sidney. &ldquo;She's well cared
for. Miss Babcock is there. She happened to be out of a place, and
Dr. Wallace got her right away.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is she going to get over it?&rdquo; asked Sylvia,
anxiously. &ldquo;I must go over there, anyway, this evening. I
always thought a good deal of Abrahama.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You might as well go over there,&rdquo; said the lawyer.
&ldquo;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&mdash;she has made a will and left you all her
property.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Us?&rdquo; said Sylvia, at length, with a gasp.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Us?&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, you,&rdquo; said Sidney Meeks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What about Rose Fletcher, Abrahama's sister Susy's
daughter?&rdquo; asked Sylvia, presently. &ldquo;She is her own
niece.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You know Abrahama never had anything to do with Susy
after she married John Fletcher,&rdquo; replied the lawyer.
&ldquo;She made her will soon afterward, and cut her
off.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I remember what they said at the time,&rdquo; returned
Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Susy had the kind of smartness that catches men,&rdquo;
said the lawyer, with a slight laugh.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I always wondered if John Fletcher hadn't really done a
good deal to make Abrahama think he did want her,&rdquo; said
Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I never thought old Abraham White should have made the
will he did,&rdquo; said Henry, articulating with difficulty.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess she spent that five hundred on her wedding
fix,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was a queer will,&rdquo; stammered Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think the old man always looked at Abrahama as his son
and heir,&rdquo; said the lawyer. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was a dreadful name, and she was such a beautiful girl
and woman,&rdquo; said Sylvia. She already spoke of Abrahama in the
past tense. &ldquo;I wonder where the niece is,&rdquo; she
added.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The last I heard of her she was living with some rich
people in New York,&rdquo; replied Meeks. &ldquo;I think they took
her in some capacity after her father and mother died.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope she didn't go out to work as hired girl,&rdquo;
said Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't think she ever had the slightest communication
with Susy after she married, or her husband, or the
daughter,&rdquo; replied Meeks. &ldquo;In fact, I practically know
she did not.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If the poor girl didn't do well, Abrahama had a good deal
to answer for,&rdquo; said Sylvia, thoughtfully. She looked
worried. Then again that expression of almost idiotic joy
overspread her face. &ldquo;That old White homestead is
beautiful&mdash;the best house in town,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There's fifty acres of land with it, too,&rdquo; said
Meeks.</p>
<p>Sylvia and Henry looked at each other. Both hesitated. Then
Henry spoke, stammeringly:</p>
<p>&ldquo;I&mdash;never knew&mdash;just how much of an income
Abrahama had,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; replied the lawyer, &ldquo;I must say not
much&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are
paid!&rdquo; said Sylvia. She gaped horribly. Her expression of
delight was at once mean and infantile.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Six hundred a year after the taxes and insurance are
paid, and all that land, and that great house!&rdquo; repeated
Henry, with precisely the same expression.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not much, but enough to keep things going if you're
careful,&rdquo; said Meeks. He spoke deprecatingly, but in reality
the sum seemed large to him also. &ldquo;You know there's an income
besides from that fine grass-land,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry looked reflective. Then his face seemed to expand with an
enormous idea. &ldquo;I wonder&mdash;&rdquo; he began.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You wonder what?&rdquo; asked Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wonder&mdash;if it wouldn't be cheaper in the end to
keep an&mdash;automobile and sell all the hay.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia gasped, and Meeks burst into a roar of laughter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought automobiles were against your
principles,&rdquo; said Meeks, still chuckling.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So they be, the way other folks run 'em,&rdquo; said
Henry; &ldquo;but not the way I'd run 'em.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We'll have a good, steady horse that won't shy at one, if
we have anything,&rdquo; said Sylvia, and her voice had weight.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There's a good buggy in Abrahama's barn,&rdquo; said
Meeks.</p>
<p>Sylvia made an unexpected start. &ldquo;I think we are wicked as
we can be!&rdquo; she declared, violently. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sit down, Sylvia,&rdquo; said Henry, soothingly, but he,
too, looked both angry and ashamed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You had better keep still where you are to-night,&rdquo;
said Meeks. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Meeks rose as he spoke. &ldquo;I must be going,&rdquo;
he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, we won't speak of it,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I hope she will get well,&rdquo; Sylvia said, defiantly.
&ldquo;Maybe she will. This is her first shock.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;God knows I hope she will,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I wish Meeks hadn't told us,&rdquo; he said,
angrily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So do I,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Just the way I feel,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;I wish
he'd kept his news to himself. It wasn't legal, anyhow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't suppose it will make the will not stand!&rdquo;
cried Sylvia, with involuntary eagerness. Then she quailed before
her husband's stern gaze. &ldquo;Of course I know it won't make any
difference,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Seems to me the principal thing the New York police
protect is the criminals,&rdquo; he said, bitterly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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&mdash;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>&ldquo;Yes, I think you are right,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I think there ought to be a consultation,&rdquo;
said Henry. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then there would be no criminals. They would have no
chance,&rdquo; said Sylvia, sagely. &ldquo;Yes, I agree with you,
Henry, there ought to be a consultation.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Come out
here,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;The bell is tolling,&rdquo; whispered Henry. They counted
from that instant. When the bell stopped they looked at each
other.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's her age,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;She makes a beautiful corpse,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I have never seen a more beautiful corpse,&rdquo;
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>&ldquo;Let me see that apron,&rdquo; said she, in a voice which
corresponded with her action.</p>
<p>Flora recoiled. She turned pale, then she flushed. &ldquo;What
for?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Because I want to.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's just my apron. I&mdash;&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;What is this?&rdquo; she demanded, in her tense
voice.</p>
<p>Flora twitched.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it? I want to know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The back breadth,&rdquo; replied Flora in a small, scared
voice, like the squeak of a mouse.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Whose back breadth?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Her back breadth.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;<em>Her</em> back breadth?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Robbing the dead!&rdquo; said Sylvia, pitilessly. Her
tense voice was terrible.</p>
<p>Flora tried to make a stand. &ldquo;She hadn't any use for
it,&rdquo; she squeaked, plaintively.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Robbing the dead! Its bad enough to rob the
living.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She couldn't have worn that dress without any back
breadth while she was living,&rdquo; argued Flora, &ldquo;but now
it don't make any odds. It don't show.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What were you going to do with it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Flora was scared into a storm of injured confession. &ldquo;You
'ain't any call to talk to me so, Mrs. Whitman,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;I've worked hard, and I 'ain't had a decent black silk dress
for ten years.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How can you have a dress made out of a back breadth, I'd
like to know?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's just the same quality that Mrs. Hiram Adams's was,
and&mdash;&rdquo; Flora hesitated.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Flora whimpered. &ldquo;Business has been awful poor
lately,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Business!&rdquo; cried Sylvia, in horror.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't help it if you do look at it that way,&rdquo;
Flora replied, and now she was almost defiant. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia eyed her in withering scorn. &ldquo;Need or not,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;There,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If father would&mdash;only have joined the trust I never
would have thought of such a thing, anyway,&rdquo; muttered Flora.
She was vanquished.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You do it, Flora Barnes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I will. Don't speak so, Mrs. Whitman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You had better.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Laying it onto the trust,&rdquo; Sylvia said to
Henry&mdash;&ldquo;such an awful thing as that!&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;To think of women caring enough about dress
to do such a thing as that!&rdquo; 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&mdash;as if in
some way it must please even the dead woman herself to have her
casket so graced.</p>
<p>&ldquo;When folks know, they won't think we didn't do all we
could,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Just as
she would have wished it if she could have been here and ordered it
herself,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Oh, Henry,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I don't suppose there is anything that will suit you to
have made over,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I suppose they are dresses
she had when she was young.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; she said, defiantly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry continued to regard his wife's face with perfect love and
a perfect cognizance of facts. &ldquo;You couldn't wear it
now,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; retorted Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't believe you would feel that you could go to
meeting dressed in pink silk at your time of life,&rdquo; said
Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lots of women older than I be wear bright colors,&rdquo;
retorted Sylvia, &ldquo;in places where they are dressy. You don't
know anything about dress, Henry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose I don't,&rdquo; replied Henry,
indifferently.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I dare say.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;What on earth ails you,
Henry Whitman?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know whether I'm thankful and pleased or
not,&rdquo; rejoined Henry, morosely.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Henry Whitman!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If it had only come earlier, when we had time and
strength to enjoy it,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;We may live a good many years to enjoy it now,&rdquo;
said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I sha'n't; maybe you will,&rdquo; returned Henry, with
malignant joy.</p>
<p>Sylvia regarded him with swift anxiety. &ldquo;Why, Henry, don't
you feel well?&rdquo; she gasped.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I don't, and I haven't for some time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Henry, and you never told me! What is the matter?
Hadn't you better see the doctor?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Doctor!&rdquo; retorted Henry, scornfully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe he could give you something to help you.
Whereabouts do you feel bad, Henry?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;All over,&rdquo; replied Henry, comprehensively, and he
smiled like a satirical martyr.</p>
<p>&ldquo;All over?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, all over&mdash;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Henry, maybe Dr. Wallace&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe he can unhitch the wings?&rdquo; inquired Henry,
with grotesque irony. &ldquo;No, Sylvia, no doctor living can give
medicine strong enough to cure a man of a lifetime of
worry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But the worry's all over now, Henry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What the worry's done ain't over.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia began whimpering softly. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Henry felt ashamed. &ldquo;Lord, don't worry,&rdquo; he
said, roughly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Henry, you don't mean to be wicked and
ungrateful?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You won't have to work in the shop any longer,
Henry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know whether I shall or not. What in creation do
you suppose I'm going to do all day&mdash;sit still and suck my
thumbs?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You can work around the place.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I can; but there'll be lots of time when there
won't be any work to be done&mdash;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;If your property has come too late, Henry,&rdquo; said
he, &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry looked confused. His eyes fell before the lawyer's
sarcastic glance. &ldquo;You are talking tomfool nonsense,&rdquo;
he said, scowling. &ldquo;The property isn't mine; it's my
wife's.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Let's drop it,&rdquo; said the
lawyer. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Don't know what gives it that scent and
taste, do you?&rdquo; asked Sidney. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;What in the world is the matter with you, Sylvia?&rdquo;
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. &ldquo;Nothing is the matter,&rdquo;
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>&ldquo;He's going to have that big southwest room and the little
one out of it,&rdquo; Sylvia said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, he'll be sure to like it,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I don't think much of that old-fashioned Franklin
stove,&rdquo; she told Henry. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mr. Allen will like it just the way it is,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I think maybe he'll like a fire in it sometimes,&rdquo;
he said, timidly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;A fire, when there's a furnace?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I mean chilly days in the fall, before we start the
furnace.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But it would look kind of pretty.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I was brought up to think a fire was for warmth, not for
looks,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I certainly do,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I say, this is
great!&rdquo; he cried, boyishly. There was something incurably
boyish about Horace Allen, although he was long past thirty.
&ldquo;By George, that Chippendale sideboard is a beauty,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Mrs.
Jim Jones has got a beautiful one she bought selling Calkin's
soap,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Horace laughed. He gazed at a corner-closet with diamond-paned
doors.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is a perfectly jolly closet, too,&rdquo; he said;
&ldquo;and those are perfect treasures of old dishes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think they are rather pretty,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I suppose there's those that likes
it,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Horace laughed, and extended his plate for another piece of
pie.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's an acquired taste,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never had any time to acquire tastes. I kept what the
Lord gave me,&rdquo; said Sylvia, but she smiled. She was delighted
because Horace had taken a second piece of pie.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I didn't know as you'd relish our fare after living in a
Boston hotel all your vacation,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;People can talk about hotel tables all they want
to,&rdquo; declared Horace. &ldquo;Give me home cooking like yours
every time. I haven't eaten a blessed thing that tasted good since
I went away.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I suppose you know a good many people in Boston,&rdquo;
she remarked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Horace. &ldquo;You know, I was born
and brought up and educated there, and lived there until my people
died.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose you know a good many young ladies.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thousands,&rdquo; said Horace; &ldquo;but none of them
will look at me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You didn't ask them?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not all, only a few, but they wouldn't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'd like to know why not?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Henry spoke. &ldquo;Sylvia,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Mr.
Allen is only joking.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope he is,&rdquo; Sylvia said, severely. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sylvia!&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>But Horace colored, and spoke suddenly. &ldquo;I didn't know
that you would take me back,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I was afraid&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We don't need to, as far as money goes,&rdquo; said
Sylvia, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'm glad he's got back,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;So am I,&rdquo; assented Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look out, he'll hear you,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I should know he'd got home. Smoking is an awful
habit,&rdquo; Sylvia said, with a happy chuckle.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He'd do better if he smoked a pipe,&rdquo; said Henry.
Henry smoked a pipe.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If a man is going to smoke at all, I think he had better
smoke something besides a smelly old pipe,&rdquo; said Sylvia.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry sniffed slightly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose you think women don't know anything about
cigars,&rdquo; said Sylvia; &ldquo;but I can smell, anyhow, and I
know Mr. Allen is smoking a real good cigar.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, he is,&rdquo; assented Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;It's late, and he's awake, smoking, now,&rdquo; whispered
Sylvia.</p>
<p>Henry said nothing. He only grunted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you think it's queer?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh no. I guess he's only reading,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I declare, he's smoking again,&rdquo;
she murmured, sleepily. &ldquo;It's a dreadful habit.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;If anything happens to your money,
Albion,&rdquo; said Sidney, &ldquo;I'll make it good, even if I
have to sell my wine-cellar.&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Good; I'll keep what you have in your till every night
for you, and welcome, Albion,&rdquo; he had said. &ldquo;I
understand how you feel, living in the hotel the way you
do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nobody knows who is coming and going,&rdquo; said Albion,
blinking violently.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do sleep pretty sound,&rdquo; admitted Albion, although
he did not quite see the force of the other man's argument.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't think it's very safe myself,&rdquo; said Albion,
in a relieved tone. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Exactly,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;That great, able-bodied man
must feel mighty queer,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Feather-beds are good enough for anybody who stays in
this hotel, I don't care who it is,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I'd be willing
to accommodate, and buy them myself, but it is a bad
example,&rdquo; she said, firmly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Miss Hart had a theory that many of the modern diseases might be
traced directly to the eschewing of feather-beds. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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&mdash;for she was afraid to
carry a kerosene lamp&mdash;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:
&ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;This is what she uses,&rdquo; she said, solemnly.</p>
<p>Hannah, who was young, but had a thick, colorless skin, nodded
with an inscrutable expression.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have always thought she used something on her
face,&rdquo; said Miss Hart. &ldquo;You can't cheat
<em>me</em>.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hannah took up a little, ivory-backed nail-polisher which was
also on the wash-stand. &ldquo;What do you suppose this is?&rdquo;
she asked, timidly, in an awed whisper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How do I know? I never use such things myself, and I
never knew women who did before,&rdquo; said Miss Hart, severely.
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;What do you suppose a school-teacher can want of a dress
like this here in East Westland?&rdquo; Miss Hart had asked,
severely. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;You can do just as you like, and you will
do just as you like, whether or no,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Amos will make a real good husband; everybody says he's
the best match anywhere around,&rdquo; replied Hannah, crimson with
blushes and half crying.</p>
<p>Miss Hart sniffed again. &ldquo;Jump into the fire if you want
to,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I hope you ain't going before fall, and
leave me in the lurch in hot weather, and preserves to be put
up.&rdquo;</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.
&ldquo;She must be gone,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
&ldquo;Oh, is it you, Hannah?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Hannah murmured something unintelligible.</p>
<p>Miss Farrel went on, sweetly: &ldquo;So you thought you would
try on my lace gown, Hannah?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hannah stood up. She was abject.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is nothing for you to be afraid of,&rdquo; said
Miss Farrel. &ldquo;Only take off the gown and put on your own, or
I am afraid Miss Hart&mdash;&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I thought I saw a light,&rdquo; said she. She looked from
one to the other. &ldquo;It is after eleven o'clock,&rdquo; she
said, further.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Miss Farrel, sweetly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I have not got any digitalis,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Go back to your room,&rdquo; she said to Hannah.
&ldquo;You won't be fit for a thing to-morrow.&rdquo; Then she said
to Miss Farrel: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said Miss Farrel. She had sank into a
chair, and had her hand over her heart.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'll have it here in a minute,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;What on earth ailed you and Mr. Allen this
morning?&rdquo; she began, abruptly.</p>
<p>Henry continued digging around the roots of a peony. &ldquo;I
don't know as anything ailed us. I don't know what you are driving
at,&rdquo; he replied, lying unhesitatingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Something did ail you. You can't cheat me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know what you are driving at.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know what you are driving at.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know what you are driving at,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Good-morning,&rdquo; she said, in a weary, gentle
fashion. &ldquo;Come in, Mrs. Whitman, won't you?&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I've got so much to do I ought not to stop long,&rdquo;
said Sylvia, &ldquo;but I thought I'd run in a minute.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Walk right in,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;You always look so cool in here,&rdquo; she said,
&ldquo;and it's a warm morning for so early in the
season.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's the plants and vines, I guess,&rdquo; replied Mrs.
Ayres, sitting down opposite Mrs. Whitman. &ldquo;Lucy has real
good luck with them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How is Lucy this morning?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. Ayres wrinkled her forehead again. &ldquo;She's in bed with
a sick headache,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;She has an awful lot of
them lately. I'm afraid she's kind of run down.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why don't you get a tonic?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It doesn't seem right,&rdquo; agreed Mrs. Whitman.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's just it,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres, wrinkling her
forehead. &ldquo;The color's pretty, but you can see too plain
where the red leaves off and where the white begins.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Speaking about color,&rdquo; said Mrs. Whitman, &ldquo;I
am going to ask you something.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you really think Miss Farrel's color is
natural?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know. It looks so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know anything about it,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres,
in her weary, gentle fashion. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I know one thing,&rdquo; said she: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. Ayres's face took on a strange expression. Her sweet eyes
hardened and narrowed. &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; she asked,
sharply.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What was it she said?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Ayres.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't mean to make trouble. I never did, and I ain't
going to begin now,&rdquo; said Sylvia. Her face took on a sweet,
hypocritical expression.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What did she say?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia fidgeted. She was in reality afraid to speak, and yet her
very soul itched to do so. She answered, evasively. &ldquo;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,&rdquo;
said she. She nodded her head unpleasantly.</p>
<p>Mrs. Ayres reddened. &ldquo;I suppose you mean she has been
talking about my Lucy,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Folks are silly enough for anything. Of course, I knew
better; you know that, Mrs. Ayres.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know what I know,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Why, who is
that?&rdquo; she cried, nervously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's Tommy Smith from Gray &amp; Snow's with some
groceries I ordered,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Oh, it is awful!&rdquo; gasped Mrs. Ayres.
&ldquo;It is awful! Miss Eliza Farrel is dead, and&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia grasped the other woman nervously by the arm. &ldquo;And
what?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;They say&mdash;&rdquo; he began, but
Mrs. Ayres forestalled him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They say Lucinda Hart murdered her,&rdquo; she screamed
out.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good land!&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, gayly; &ldquo;they say she give her rat
poison. They've sent for the sheriff from Alford.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She never did it in the world. Why, I went to school with
her,&rdquo; gasped Mrs. Ayres.</p>
<p>Sylvia had the same conviction, but she backed it with logic.
&ldquo;What should she do it for?&rdquo; she demanded. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;School ain't going to keep to-day,&rdquo; remarked the
boy, with glee.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course it ain't,&rdquo; said Sylvia, angrily.
&ldquo;What reason do they give?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I 'ain't heard of none,&rdquo; said the boy.
&ldquo;S'pose that will come out at the trial. Hannah Simmons is
going to be arrested, too. They think she knowed something about
it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hannah Simmons wouldn't hurt a fly,&rdquo; said Sylvia.
&ldquo;What makes them think she knew anything about it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Johnny Soule, that works at the hotel stable, says she
did,&rdquo; said the boy. &ldquo;They think he knows a good
deal.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia sniffed contemptuously. &ldquo;That Johnny Soule!&rdquo;
said she. &ldquo;He's half Canadian. Father was French. I wouldn't
take any stock in what he said.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lucinda never did it,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres. &ldquo;I
went to school with her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy sobbed again wildly, then she laughed loudly. Her mother
turned and looked at her. &ldquo;Lucy,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy sobbed and laughed again. &ldquo;Stop right where you
are,&rdquo; said her mother, with a wonderful, firm
gentleness&mdash;&ldquo;right where you are. Put this thing right
out of your mind. It's nothing you can help.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;I say,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;Isn't it so?&rdquo; she cried.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I dare say it ain't. You had better mind your
ma.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I dare say it's all a rumor,&rdquo; said Sylvia,
soothingly.</p>
<p>Mrs. Ayres echoed her. &ldquo;All a made-up story, I
think,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Go right up-stairs, Lucy, and put it
out of your head.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy crept up-stairs with soft sobs, and they heard a door
close. Then the boy spoke again. &ldquo;It's so, fast
enough,&rdquo; he said, in a whisper, &ldquo;but there ain't any
need for her to know it yet.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, there isn't, poor child,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She's dreadful nervous,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres,
&ldquo;and she thought a lot of Miss Farrel&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she is dreadful nervous,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And I think she ate too much candy yesterday, too,&rdquo;
said Mrs. Ayres. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;Poor
child.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The grocer's boy made a motion to go. &ldquo;I wonder if they'll
hang her,&rdquo; he said, cheerfully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hang her!&rdquo; gasped Mrs. Ayres. &ldquo;She never did
it any more than I did. I went to school with Lucinda
Hart.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why should she kill a steady boarder, when the hotel has
run down so and she's been so hard up for money?&rdquo; demanded
Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Why should she kill a steady boarder, much as she needed
one?&rdquo; she queried.</p>
<p>And Horace responded at once. &ldquo;There is no possible
motive,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The arrest is a mere farce. It will
surely prove so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Henry spoke. &ldquo;I don't understand, for my part, why
she is arrested at all,&rdquo; he said, grimly.</p>
<p>Horace laughed as grimly. &ldquo;Because there is no one else to
arrest, and the situation seems to call for some action,&rdquo; he
replied.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But they must have some reason.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is all nonsense,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What they claim is that arsenic was in the
peppermint,&rdquo; said Horace, in an odd, almost indifferent
voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Arsenic in the peppermint!&rdquo; repeated Sylvia.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now, Sylvia, he had to tell if he was asked,&rdquo; Henry
said, soothingly, for Sylvia was beginning to show signs of
hysterical excitement. &ldquo;He couldn't do anything
else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He could have forgot,&rdquo; Sylvia returned, shrilly.
&ldquo;Men ain't so awful conscientious about forgetting. He could
have forgot.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He had to tell,&rdquo; repeated Henry. &ldquo;Don't get
all wrought up over it, Sylvia.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ain't it most time to see about dinner?&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Women are a queer lot,&rdquo; said Horace, in a miserable
tone.</p>
<p>Then the door opened suddenly, and Sylvia's think, excited face
appeared.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't suppose they'll send them to prison?&rdquo; she
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They'll both be acquitted,&rdquo; said Horace.
&ldquo;Don't worry, Mrs. Whitman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's a dreadful thing,&rdquo; said Henry; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think some have that opinion now,&rdquo; said
Horace.</p>
<p>Sylvia sniffed. &ldquo;A woman don't kill herself as long as
she's got spirit enough to fix herself up,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;I saw her only yesterday in a brand-new dress, and her hair
was crimped tight enough to last a week, and her cheeks&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come, Sylvia,&rdquo; said Henry, admonishingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; said Sylvia.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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&mdash;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&mdash;if murder it was&mdash;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. &ldquo;I couldn't feel
worse if he was my own son,&rdquo; he thought. He wished
desperately that he had gone out in the grove and interrupted the
interview. &ldquo;I'm old enough to be his father,&rdquo; he told
himself, &ldquo;and I know what young men are. I'm to blame
myself.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I don't know but I ought to go to Mr. Meeks with this
instead of you,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;well, she wanted to see me alone about
something very particular, and she&mdash;&rdquo; Horace paused and
reddened. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry nodded gravely. He now looked at Horace, and there was
relief in his frowning face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can tell you some of the things that she said to
me,&rdquo; continued Horace, &ldquo;and I am going to. You are
connected with it&mdash;that is, you are through your wife. Miss
Farrel wasn't Miss at all. She was a married woman.&rdquo; Henry
nodded again. &ldquo;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. &lsquo;I might as well be a snake as a woman.&rsquo; 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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry looked at Horace with the eyes of a philosopher.
&ldquo;Maybe it was because she wanted to charm,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Perhaps you are right,&rdquo; he said, reflectively.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have seen the Ayres girl with her,&rdquo; said
Henry.</p>
<p>Horace changed color. &ldquo;She is not one of the
school-girls,&rdquo; he replied, hastily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think I have heard Sylvia say that Mrs. Ayres had asked
her there to tea.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I believe she has. I think perhaps the Ayres family
have paid some attention to her,&rdquo; Horace said,
constrainedly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have seen the Ayres girl with her a good deal, I
know,&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo; Horace paused.
Henry waited.</p>
<p>Then Horace resumed. He spoke briefly and to the purpose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Miss Abrahama White, who left her property to your wife,
had a sister,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.
&lsquo;I can't bear to think that nobody will come,&rsquo; she
said. Of course I laughed at her. I thought her very morbid,
but&mdash;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She must come here,&rdquo; Henry said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I could think of no other place,&rdquo; said Horace.
&ldquo;You think Mrs. Whitman&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; Henry said. He started up to speak to
Sylvia, but Horace stopped him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I forgot,&rdquo; he said, quickly. &ldquo;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. &lsquo;Let her come just because she thinks I am her
relative,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;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.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It sounds like a mighty queer story to tell
Sylvia,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;What is to pay now?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Henry told her in few words.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo; said Sylvia. She looked sharply at Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied, feebly. Horace stood looking out
of the window.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She wa'n't,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now, Sylvia.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Come,
Sylvia,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;she won't be here until night. Now
you had better get dinner. It's past twelve.&rdquo; Sylvia gave a
quick, frightened glance at him. Then she went silently out of the
room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mrs. Whitman does not seem well,&rdquo; Horace said,
softly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think her nerves are all out of order with what she has
gone through with lately,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>He stopped, for Sylvia opened the door suddenly. &ldquo;If she
wa'n't dead and gone, I wouldn't believe one word of such a tomfool
story,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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>&ldquo;I wonder if she looks like her mother,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;She's
come!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I look as if I had been
pulled through a knot-hole,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I hardly know
how to introduce you,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;I hardly know the
relationship. But, Mrs. Whitman, here is Miss Fletcher&mdash;Miss
Rose Fletcher.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who accepts your hospitality with the utmost
gratitude,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I have never fully
known, in such a case,&rdquo; he remarked, &ldquo;whether the
relationship is second cousin or first cousin once removed.&rdquo;
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>&ldquo;Mr. Whitman, this is Miss Abrahama White's niece,&rdquo;
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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia saw the glance and interpreted it. &ldquo;She looks like
her mother,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;You look tired to death,&rdquo; said
she, and there was a sweet tone in her force voice.</p>
<p>Rose brightened, and smiled at her like a pleased child.
&ldquo;Oh, I am very tired!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't keep a hired girl,&rdquo; said Sylvia. She
looked, as Henry had, both angry and abashed. &ldquo;I will fasten
up your dress in the neck if that is what you want,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, that is all,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I drive a
carriage to accommodate, but I ain't no porter.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Therefore, Henry and Horace carried up the trunk and unstrapped
it. Rose looked around her with delight. &ldquo;Oh, what a lovely
room!&rdquo; she cried.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It gets the morning sun,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;The
paper is a little mite faded, but otherwise it's just as good as it
ever was.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is perfectly charming,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Good gracious!&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;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&mdash;that more
soft-coal smoke comes in those large windows; don't you think
so?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia colored, but her honesty was fearless. &ldquo;I don't
know what a Pullman is,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Rose stared for a second. &ldquo;Oh, a parlor-car,&rdquo; she
said. &ldquo;A great many people always say parlor-car.&rdquo; Rose
was almost apologetic.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did you come in a parlor-car?&rdquo; asked Sylvia. Rose
wondered why her voice was so amazed, even aggressive.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, of course; I always do,&rdquo; said Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I've seen them go through here,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you mind telling me where my bath-room is?&rdquo;
asked Rose, looking vaguely at the doors. She opened one.
&ldquo;Oh, this is a closet!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;What a lovely
large one!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There ain't such a thing as a bath-room in this
house,&rdquo; replied Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose reddened. Again sophistication felt abashed before
dauntless ignorance. She ran to the wash-stand. &ldquo;Oh, I beg
your pardon!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Of course this will do
beautifully. What a charming old wash-stand!&mdash;and the water is
delightfully soft.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I'll hang it here, where it won't get all of a
muss,&rdquo; said she. Already she began to feel a pleasure which
she had never known&mdash;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>&ldquo;Oh, thank you,&rdquo; said the girl, still bending over
the wash-basin. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;You don't weigh much, do you?&rdquo;
she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;A little over a hundred, I think.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You must eat lots of fresh vegetables and eggs, and drink
milk, and get more flesh on your bones,&rdquo; said Sylvia, and her
voice was full of delight, although now&mdash;as always,
lately&mdash;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. &ldquo;I suppose you thought a good deal of my
aunt who died,&rdquo; she ventured, timidly.</p>
<p>Sylvia regarded her with quick suspicion. She paled a little.
&ldquo;I thought enough of her,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;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&mdash;although I own I can't
help being glad to have so many nice things&mdash;to think she had
to go away and leave them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know you must feel so,&rdquo; said Rose. &ldquo;I
suppose you feel sometimes as if they weren't yours at
all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia turned so pale that Rose started. &ldquo;Why, what is the
matter? Are you ill?&rdquo; she cried, running to her. &ldquo;Let
me get some water for you. You are so white.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia pushed her away. &ldquo;There's nothing the matter with
me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Folks can't always be the same color
unless they're painted.&rdquo; She gave her head a shake as if to
set herself right, and turned resolutely towards Rose's trunk.
&ldquo;Can you unpack, yourself, or do you want me to help
you?&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I'm afraid it will be too much trouble,&rdquo; she said,
hesitatingly. &ldquo;Marie always unpacked my trunk, but you have
no&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess if I had a girl I wouldn't set her to unpacking
your trunk,&rdquo; said Sylvia, vigorously. &ldquo;Where is your
key?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;In my bag,&rdquo; replied Rose, and she searched for the
key in her dark-blue, gold-trimmed bag. &ldquo;Mrs. Wilton's maid,
Anne, packed my trunk for me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo; She
stopped. She had intended to say&mdash;&ldquo;how long I should
stay,&rdquo; but she was afraid.</p>
<p>Sylvia finished for her. &ldquo;You can stay just as long as you
are a mind to,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose looked at Sylvia in amazement as she knelt stiffly on the
floor unlocking her trunk. &ldquo;Thank you, you are very
kind,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;You know this was your own aunt's house and your own
aunt's things,&rdquo; said Sylvia, beginning to remove articles
from the trunk, &ldquo;and I want you to feel at home
here&mdash;just as if you had a right here.&rdquo; The words were
cordial, but there was a curious effect as if she were repeating a
well-rehearsed lesson.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;That is
a tea-gown; I think I will put it on now,&rdquo; said Rose.
&ldquo;It will be so comfortable, and you are not formal here, are
you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Eh?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are not formal here in East Westland, are
you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Sylvia, &ldquo;we ain't formal. So you
want to put on&mdash;this?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I think I will.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia laid the tea-gown on the bed, and turned to the trunk
again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You know, of course, that Aunt Abrahama and mamma were
estranged for years before mamma died,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Yes, I knew something about it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; she went on, confidentially, &ldquo;how
soon after poor mamma's death all my money came to me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia turned on her. &ldquo;Have you got money?&rdquo; said
she. &ldquo;I thought you were poor.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;very little and shabby&mdash;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&mdash;&rdquo; Rose stopped and
turned white, and a look of horror came over her face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What then?&rdquo; asked Sylvia. &ldquo;Don't you feel
well, child?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I feel well&mdash;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Don't; you
mustn't take on so,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Don't try to remember
anything if it makes you feel like that. You'll be down
sick.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am trying not to remember, and always the awful dread
lest I shall comes over me,&rdquo; sobbed the girl. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Come, now,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I do remember one thing,&rdquo; she said, with a shudder,
&ldquo;and I always know if I could remember back of that the
dreadful thing would come to me.&rdquo; She paused for a moment,
then she said, in a shocked voice: &ldquo;Mrs. Whitman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you think of it another minute,&rdquo; Sylvia said,
sternly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I won't; I won't, really. I&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;For goodness' sake, child, don't hang that heavy coat
over that lace waist&mdash;you'll ruin it!&rdquo; cried Sylvia.</p>
<p>Rose removed the coat hurriedly, and resumed, as Sylvia took it
out of her hand: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You had better put on that now,&rdquo; said Sylvia,
indicating the fluffy mass on the bed. &ldquo;I'll help
you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't like to trouble you,&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;What is the matter? Don't I look nice?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Do they wear sleeves like that now in
New York?&rdquo; asked she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, yes!&rdquo; replied Rose. &ldquo;This tea-gown came
home only last week from Madame Felix.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They wear sleeves puffed at the bottom instead of the
top, and a good deal longer, in East Westland,&rdquo; said
Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, this was made from a Paris model,&rdquo; said Rose,
meekly. Again sophistication was abashed before the confidence of
conservatism.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know anything about Paris models,&rdquo; said
Sylvia. &ldquo;Mrs. Greenaway gets all her patterns right from
Boston.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hardly think madame would have made the sleeves this
way unless it was the latest,&rdquo; said Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know anything about the latest,&rdquo; said
Sylvia. &ldquo;We folks here in East Westland try to get the
<em>best</em>.&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;For mercy's sake, hold up your dress going
down-stairs,&rdquo; she admonished. &ldquo;I swept the stairs this
morning, but the dust gathers before you can say boo, and that
dress won't do up.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Putting on society airs,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Dressed
up as if she were going to a ball, in a dress made like a
night-gown,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;What is this, oh, what is this?&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose threw herself on a chair, and sobbed and sobbed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I loved her; I did love her,&rdquo; she kept repeating,
like a distressed child. &ldquo;I did love her, poor Cousin Eliza,
and she was murdered. I did love her.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;How are you?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well enough; why shouldn't I be?&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I don't know why you shouldn't be,&rdquo; replied Sylvia.
She herself cast an angry glance at the people around them, and
that angry glance was like honey to Lucinda. &ldquo;You were a fool
to give up your place in the choir,&rdquo; said Sylvia, still with
that angry, wandering gaze. &ldquo;I'd sung. I'd shown 'em; and I'd
sung out of tune if I'd wanted to.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't know what it was like last Sunday,&rdquo; said
Lucinda then. She did not speak complainingly or piteously. There
was proud strength in her voice, but it was emphatic.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess I do know,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;I saw
everybody craning their necks, and all them strangers. You've got a
lot of strangers at the hotel, haven't you, Lucinda?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Lucinda, and there was an echo in her
monosyllable like an expletive.</p>
<p>Sylvia nodded sympathizingly. &ldquo;Some of them write for the
papers, I suppose?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You must have your hands full.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes; I had to get Abby Smith to come in and
help.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She ain't good for much.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Why, good-day, Miss Hart!&rdquo; he said, raising his
hat.</p>
<p>Lucinda nodded stiffly and walked on. She did not speak to him,
but to Sylvia. &ldquo;He is staying at the hotel. He writes for a
New York paper,&rdquo; she informed Sylvia, distinctly.</p>
<p>The young man laughed. &ldquo;And Miss Hart is going to write
for it, too,&rdquo; he said, pleasantly and insinuatingly.
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Lucinda, with stolidity.</p>
<p>Sylvia stared with amazement. &ldquo;Why, Lucinda!&rdquo; she
gasped.</p>
<p>&ldquo;When I find out folks won't take no, I give 'em
yes,&rdquo; said Lucinda, grimly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I knew I could finally persuade Miss Hart,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;He's crazy over the country,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;He writes for a New York paper,&rdquo; said Lucinda to
Sylvia, in exactly the same tone which she had used previously.
&ldquo;He wants me to write a piece for his paper on my first
twenty-four hours under suspicion of crime.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And you are going to write it, aren't you, Miss
Hart?&rdquo; asked the gentleman.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Lucinda, with alacrity.</p>
<p>This time the gentleman looked a trifle suspicious. He pressed
his inquiry. &ldquo;Can you let us have the copy by
Wednesday?&rdquo; he asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Lucinda. Her &ldquo;yes&rdquo; 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
&ldquo;yes.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;This lady writes for a Boston paper,&rdquo; said Lucinda.
&ldquo;She came yesterday. She wants me to write a piece for her
paper upon women's unfairness to women.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Based upon the late unfortunate occurrence at Miss Hart's
hotel,&rdquo; said the woman.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Lucinda, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And you are going to write it?&rdquo; said the woman,
eagerly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Lucinda.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, thank you! you are a perfect dear,&rdquo; said the
woman. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The woman had left them, with a swish of a frilled silk
petticoat under a tailored skirt, when Sylvia looked at Lucinda.
&ldquo;You ain't goin' to?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you said so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And you don't mean to write a thing?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess I ain't going to begin writing for the papers at
my time of life.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But what will they do?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They won't get the pieces.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Can't they sue you, or anything?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let them sue if they want to. After what I've been
through lately I guess I sha'n't mind that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And you are telling every one of them you'll write a
piece?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I am. It's the only thing they'll let me tell
them. I want to get rid of them somehow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia looked at Lucinda anxiously. &ldquo;Is it true that
Albion Bennet has left?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But how are you going to get along, Lucinda?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is it true that Amos Quimby has jilted Hannah on account
of&mdash;?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Guess so. He hasn't been near her since.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ain't it a shame?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hannah's got to live with what's heaped on her shoulders,
too,&rdquo; said Lucinda. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lucinda,&rdquo; said Sylvia, earnestly. &ldquo;Folks
can't really believe you'd go and do such a thing.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's like flies after molasses,&rdquo; said Lucinda.
&ldquo;I never felt I was so sweet before in my life.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What can they think you'd go and poison a good, steady
boarder like that for?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She paid a dollar a day,&rdquo; said Lucinda.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know she did.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And I liked her,&rdquo; said Lucinda. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, I thought she had a real good place in the
high-school; and teachers earn their money dreadful
easy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It wasn't that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What was it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucinda hesitated. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she said, finally,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not Mr. Allen? You don't mean Mr. Allen,
Lucinda?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How did you find out?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;By keeping my eyes and ears open. How does anybody find
out anything?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't believe Mr. Allen ever once thought of
her,&rdquo; said Sylvia, and there was resentment in her voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course he didn't. Maybe he'll take a shine to that
girl you've got with you now.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Neither one of them has even thought of such a
thing,&rdquo; declared Sylvia, and her voice was almost
violent.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I don't know,&rdquo; Lucinda said, indifferently.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hadn't,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;Not but
she&mdash;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she does,&rdquo; replied Lucinda. &ldquo;She sings
enough sight better than I do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I don't know much about music,&rdquo; admitted
Sylvia. &ldquo;I can't tell if anybody gets off the key.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can,&rdquo; said Lucinda, firmly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-bye,&rdquo; said Sylvia. She hesitated a moment,
then she said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't feel bad,&rdquo; said Lucinda. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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, &ldquo;Left, right; left, right.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Rose,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;I am not
in the least tired,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and it did not hurt me
to walk in the sun, and I like to sit here under the
trees.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;You had better go into the house,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Don't be scared,&rdquo; she said, holding the
yellow envelope behind her. Rose stared at her, round-eyed, from
her white nest. She turned pale.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; she said, tremulously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There's no need for you to go and think anything has
happened until you read it,&rdquo; Sylvia said. &ldquo;You must be
calm.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, what is it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;A telegram,&rdquo; replied Sylvia, solemnly. &ldquo;You
must be calm.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose laughed. &ldquo;Oh, Mrs. Wilton and Miss Pamela are forever
sending telegrams,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Very likely it is only
to say somebody will meet me at the Grand Central.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;If anything has happened, you must be calm,&rdquo; said
Sylvia, looking at her anxiously. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose laughed again, but in rather a perplexed fashion.
&ldquo;Nothing has happened,&rdquo; she said&mdash;&ldquo;at least,
nothing that you are thinking of&mdash;but&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>A great brightness overspread Sylvia's face. &ldquo;Well, you
ain't left stranded,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You've got your home
here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose looked gratefully at her. &ldquo;You do make me feel as if
I had, and I don't know what I should do if you did not,
but&rdquo;&mdash;she frowned perplexedly&mdash;&ldquo;all the same,
one would not have thought they would have gone off in this way
without giving me a moment's notice,&rdquo; she said, in rather an
injured fashion, &ldquo;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&mdash;at least they
might have told me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Suddenly her frown of perplexity cleared away. &ldquo;I know
what has happened,&rdquo; she said, with a nod to Sylvia. &ldquo;I
know exactly what has happened.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Was she very rich?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo; Rose looked a little
troubled for a moment, then she laughed. &ldquo;They kept me as
long as they needed me,&rdquo; said she, with a pleasant cynicism,
&ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose laughed, and Sylvia beamed upon her. &ldquo;If you feel
that you can stay here,&rdquo; she said, timidly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;<em>If</em> I feel that I can,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Those folks she lived with in New York are going to
Europe to-morrow,&rdquo; she told Henry, when she was down-stairs
again, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, she can stay with us as long as she is
contented,&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I rather guess she can,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I don't know how to go to work,&rdquo; she said to Sylvia
one day. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia and Rose were sitting together in the south room that
afternoon. Sylvia looked pathetically and wistfully at the girl.
&ldquo;What do you want a maid for?&rdquo; she asked, timidly.</p>
<p>Rose stared. &ldquo;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&mdash;everything,&rdquo; ended Rose,
comprehensively.</p>
<p>Sylvia continued to regard her with that wistful, pathetic
look.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Rose ran over to her and went down on her knees beside her.
&ldquo;You dear,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;as if you didn't have
enough to do now!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;This is a very convenient house to do work in,&rdquo;
said Sylvia, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You dear,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;But I
have always had a maid,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;if you must have a maid,
write your friends, and I will have another leaf put in the
dining-table.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose raised her head and stared at her. &ldquo;Another leaf in
the dining-table?&rdquo; said she, vaguely.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes. I don't think there's room for more than four
without another leaf.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But&mdash;my maid would not eat at the table with
us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Would she be willing to eat in the kitchen&mdash;cold
victuals&mdash;after we had finished?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose looked exceedingly puzzled. &ldquo;No, she would not; at
least, no maid I ever had would have,&rdquo; she admitted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where is she going to eat, then? Would she wait till
after we were through and eat in the dining-room?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't believe she would like that, either.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where is she going to eat?&rdquo; demanded Sylvia,
inexorably.</p>
<p>Rose gazed at her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She could have a little table in here, or in the
parlor,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>Rose laughed. &ldquo;Oh, that would never do!&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She has got to eat somewhere. Where is she going to
eat?&rdquo; asked Sylvia, pressing the question.</p>
<p>Rose got up and kissed her. &ldquo;Oh, well, I won't bother
about it for a while, anyway,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia took one of Rose's little hands and looked at it.
&ldquo;I guess you can't do much with hands like yours,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;What in creation ails you, Sylvia?&rdquo; asked
Henry.</p>
<p>She extended towards him a plate on which the water stood in
drops. &ldquo;Just see this plate that dear child thinks she has
wiped,&rdquo; she chuckled.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You women do beat the Dutch,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Don't you think it would be suitable if I had it made
with some black lace?&rdquo; asked Sylvia, wistfully. &ldquo;Henry
thinks it is too young for me, but&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not black,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;It will make a perfectly lovely gown for you if you use
the pink for a petticoat,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and have the gown
made of this delicious old stuff.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The pink for a petticoat?&rdquo; gasped Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is the only way,&rdquo; said Rose; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Doesn't she look
simply lovely?&rdquo; she asked Horace.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She certainly does,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I'm too old to be made a fool of,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;and I've got a good looking-glass.&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;Why, what ails you, Mr. Allen?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Don't
you feel well?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perfectly well.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You look pale.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is the shadow of the oaks.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia noticed a dainty little white box in Rose's lap.
&ldquo;What is that?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is a box of candy that dear, sweet Lucy Ayres who sang
to-day made her own self and gave to me,&rdquo; replied Rose.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo; Rose looked defiantly at Horace. &ldquo;Mr.
Allen has been trying to make me promise not to eat this nice
candy,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't think candy is good for anybody, and girls eat
altogether too much of it,&rdquo; said Horace, with a strange
fervor which the occasion hardly seemed to warrant.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wouldn't I know he was a school-teacher when I heard him
speak like that, even if nobody had ever told me?&rdquo; said Rose.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will send for some to Boston to-morrow,&rdquo; cried
Horace, eagerly.</p>
<p>Rose regarded him with amazement. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Why, Mr. Allen!&rdquo; said Rose. Then she added,
haughtily: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia also turned upon Horace. &ldquo;Home-made candy wouldn't
hurt her,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Why, Mr. Allen, what do you
mean?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing. I am very sorry,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;What did he do such a thing for?&rdquo; asked Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Goodness knows,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>Rose was quite pale. She began to look alarmed. &ldquo;You don't
suppose he's taken suddenly insane or anything?&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My land! no,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;Men do act queer
sometimes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should think so, if this is a sample of it,&rdquo; said
Rose, eying the trampled candy. &ldquo;Why, he ground his heel into
it! What right had he to tell me I should or should not eat
it?&rdquo; she said, indignantly, again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;None at all. Men are queer. Even Mr. Whitman is queer
sometimes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I don't know as he ever did; but men do queer
things.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't like Mr. Allen at all,&rdquo; said Rose, walking
beside Sylvia towards the house. &ldquo;Not at all. I don't like
him as well as Mr. James Duncan.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia looked at her with quick alarm. &ldquo;The man who wrote
you last week?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, and wanted to know if there was a hotel here so he
could come.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought&mdash;&rdquo; began Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I had begun the letter, telling him the hotel wasn't
any good, because I knew he would know what that meant&mdash;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,&rdquo; said Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you don't mean&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know what I do mean,&rdquo; said Rose, nervously.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo; Rose was almost crying.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Go up-stairs and lay down a little while before
dinner,&rdquo; said Sylvia, anxiously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Rose; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Uncle Henry?&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;Well?&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Uncle Henry, do you think a man can tell another man's
reasons for doing a queer thing better than a woman can?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perhaps.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I almost know a woman could tell why a woman did a queer
thing, better than a man could,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Suppose,&rdquo; said Rose, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>The girl's face wore an expression of the keenest inquiry. Henry
looked at her, wrinkling his forehead. &ldquo;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?&rdquo; he repeated.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry looked at her. He heard a door shut up-stairs. &ldquo;I
shouldn't have done it,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But suppose you had done it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shouldn't have.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose shrugged her shoulders. &ldquo;You are horrid, Uncle
Henry,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But I shouldn't have done it,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I am in such a devil of a mess as never man was yet, I
believe,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>Henry nodded gravely.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The worst of it is I can't tell a living mortal,&rdquo;
Horace said, in a whisper. &ldquo;I am afraid even to think
it.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;I am going to run over and see Lucy
Ayres,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I am going to tell her an accident
happened to my candy, and maybe she will give me some
more.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry saw Horace's face change. &ldquo;Candy is not good for
girls; it spoils their complexion. I have just been reading about
it in the Sunday paper,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I don't think you ought to eat candy when you have so
little appetite for good, wholesome meat and vegetables,&rdquo; she
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I want to see Lucy, too,&rdquo; said Rose. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry's eyes questioned Horace's, which said, plainly, to the
other man, &ldquo;For God's sake, don't let her go; don't let her
go!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose had run up-stairs for her parasol. Horace turned away. He
understood that Henry would help him. &ldquo;Don't let her go over
there this afternoon,&rdquo; said Henry to Sylvia, who looked at
him in the blankest amazement.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why not, I'd like to know?&rdquo; asked Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't let her go,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Hm! Mr. Allen wants
Rose to stay at home so he can see her himself, and Henry knows
it.&rdquo;</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&mdash;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. &ldquo;I
don't see why she shouldn't go,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is Sunday,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Sunday,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
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. &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>Sylvia patted her on the shoulder. &ldquo;Nothing is the
matter,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; he whispered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come out in the grove and have a smoke,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I don't know what it is, and I don't know that it is
anything, and that is the worst of it,&rdquo; he said, gloomily;
&ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo; He stopped abruptly and blew a ring of smoke from
his cigar.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Something is queer about my wife lately,&rdquo; said
Henry, in a low voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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&mdash;no man
could,&rdquo; said Horace.</p>
<p>&ldquo;In my case there ain't talk enough,&rdquo; said Henry.
&ldquo;I ain't in a fog; I'm in pitch darkness.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Sitting out there all this time, and smoking, and never
seeming to speak a word,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;What on
earth did they want to stop Rose from going to see Lucy for?&rdquo;
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. &ldquo;Where has he
gone?&rdquo; she inquired, with a jerk of her shoulder towards the
road.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mr. Allen?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How should I know?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you know?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe I do,&rdquo; said Henry, smiling at Sylvia with his
smile of affection and remembrance that she was a woman.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why don't you tell?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now, Sylvia,&rdquo; said Henry, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia looked at Henry with a baffled expression. &ldquo;I think
he might spend his time a good deal more profitably Sunday
afternoon than sitting under the trees and smoking, or going
walking,&rdquo; said she, rashly and inconsequentially. &ldquo;If
he would only sit down and read some good book.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You can't dictate to Mr. Allen what he shall or shall not
do,&rdquo; Henry repeated.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why didn't you want Rose to go to Lucy's?&rdquo; asked
Sylvia, making a charge in an entirely different quarter.</p>
<p>Henry scorned to lie. &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;You men have mighty queer streaks, that's
all I've got to say,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I can't stand it another minute,&rdquo; said Horace,
almost with violence. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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>&ldquo;I knew it was Miss Fletcher; I told you so,
mother,&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;Good-afternoon, Miss Fletcher,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;Please walk in.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She said for me to call her Rose,&rdquo; cried Lucy.
&ldquo;Please come in, Rose. I am glad to see you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>In spite of the cordial words the girl's voice was strange. Rose
stared from daughter to mother and back again. &ldquo;If you were
engaged,&rdquo; she said, rather coldly, &ldquo;if you would prefer
that I come some other time&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, indeed,&rdquo; cried Lucy, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Rose and I have some
things to talk over, mother,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing, I guess, that your mother cannot hear,&rdquo;
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>&ldquo;I look like a fright, I know,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I
was tired after church, and slipped off my dress and lay down. My
hair is all in a muss.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is such lovely hair that it looks pretty
anyway,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Lucy!&rdquo; said her mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, mother, do let me alone!&rdquo; cried the girl. Then
she said, looking angrily at her tress of hair, then at Rose:
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lucy!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I hate it,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I did enjoy your
singing so much this morning,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; said Rose, &ldquo;that I don't like to say anything
about her singing. But I will say this much: I did enjoy
yours.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; she said, as she
poured out the red liquor. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy seized the glass and drank the wine eagerly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It must be a nervous strain,&rdquo; said Rose, &ldquo;to
stand up there, before such a crowded audience as there was this
morning, and sing.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, it is,&rdquo; agreed Mrs. Ayres, in a harsh voice,
&ldquo;and especially when anybody isn't used to it. Lucy is not at
all strong.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope it won't be too much for her,&rdquo; said Rose;
&ldquo;but it is such a delight to listen to her after&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I am tired and sick of hearing Miss Hart's
name!&rdquo; cried Lucy, unpleasantly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lucy!&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I am,&rdquo; said Lucy, defiantly. &ldquo;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 &lsquo;poor Miss Hart&rsquo;
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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think perhaps I had better not stay,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Of course you are going to stay,&rdquo; Lucy said, and
her voice was sweet again. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Why, dear, you brush your
hair as if it had offended you,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't brush so hard, Lucy,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I just hate my old hair, anyway,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;How beautifully you do up your hair,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I wish my neck was as plump as yours,&rdquo; said
Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she has a nice, plump neck,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres.
While the words showed maternal pride, the tone never relaxed from
its nervous anxiety.</p>
<p>Lucy's smile vanished suddenly. &ldquo;Well, what if it is
plump?&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose laughed. &ldquo;I have some low-neck gowns,&rdquo; said
she, &ldquo;but I can't wear them, either. Maybe that is fortunate
for me, my neck is so thin.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You will wear them in other places,&rdquo; said Lucy.
&ldquo;You won't stay here all your days. You will have plenty of
chances to wear your low-neck gowns.&rdquo; She spoke again in her
unnaturally high voice. She turned towards her closet to get her
dress.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lucy!&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, it is the truth,&rdquo; said Lucy. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My neck was as pretty as yours when I was a girl, and I
never wore a low-neck dress in my life,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, well, you got married when you were eighteen,&rdquo;
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>&ldquo;You are dear in that blue gown,&rdquo; said Rose.</p>
<p>Lucy smiled. Then she scowled as suddenly. She could see Rose
over her shoulder in the glass. &ldquo;It is awful
countrified,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Look at the sleeves and look
at yours. Where was yours made?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dressmaker in New York made it,&rdquo; faltered Rose.
She felt guilty because her gown was undeniably in better
style.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There's no use trying to have anything in East
Westland,&rdquo; said Lucy.</p>
<p>While she was fastening a little gold brooch at her throat, Rose
again tried to change the subject. &ldquo;That candy of yours
looked perfectly delicious,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;You must teach
me how you make it.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Did you like it?&rdquo; she asked,
carelessly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;An accident happened to it, I am sorry to say,&rdquo;
explained Rose. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Were you and he alone out there?&rdquo; asked Lucy, in a
very quiet voice.</p>
<p>Rose looked at her amazedly. &ldquo;Why, no, not when that
happened!&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;Aunt Sylvia was there,
too.&rdquo; She spoke a little resentfully. &ldquo;What if Mr.
Allen and I had been alone; what is that to her?&rdquo; she
thought.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is some more candy,&rdquo; said Lucy, calmly.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Here is the
candy, dear,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;thank you,
mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come, Rose,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;You are a dear,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Lucy nestled closer. &ldquo;I know you must have thought me
perfectly horrid to speak as I did to mother,&rdquo; said she,
&ldquo;but you don't understand.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy hesitated. Rose waited.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You see, the trouble is,&rdquo; Lucy went on, &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy hesitated again for a longer period. Rose waited.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mother has times of being very nervous,&rdquo; Lucy said,
in a whisper. &ldquo;I sometimes think, when she follows me about
so, that she is not for the time being quite herself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose started and looked at the other girl in horror. &ldquo;Why
don't you have a doctor?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I don't mean that she&mdash;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&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I didn't know,&rdquo; said Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never mean to be impatient,&rdquo; Lucy went on,
&ldquo;but to-day I was very tired, and I wanted to see you
especially. I wanted to ask you something.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy looked away from Rose. She seemed to shrink within herself.
The color faded from her face. &ldquo;I heard something,&rdquo; she
said, faintly, &ldquo;but I said I wouldn't believe it until I had
asked you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I heard that you were engaged to marry Mr.
Allen.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose flushed and moved away a little from Lucy. &ldquo;You can
contradict the rumor whenever you hear it again,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then it isn't true?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, it isn't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy nestled against Rose, in spite of a sudden coldness which
had come over the other girl. &ldquo;You are so dear,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>Rose looked straight ahead, and sat stiffly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am thoroughly angry at such rumors, merely because a
girl happens to be living in the same house with a marriageable
man,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, that is so,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;You sweet, funny creature,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I
can make you blush, looking at you, as if I were a man. Well, maybe
I love you as well as one.&rdquo; Lucy took the bowl of candy from
the bench and extended it to Rose. &ldquo;Do have some
candy,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said Rose. She looked bewildered, and
felt so. She took a sugared almond and began nibbling at it.
&ldquo;Aren't you going to eat any candy yourself?&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have eaten so much already that it has made my head
ache,&rdquo; replied Lucy. &ldquo;Is it good?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Simply delicious. You must teach me how you make such
candy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lucy will be glad to teach you any day,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Aren't you going to offer your mother some?&rdquo; she
asked, laughing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mother can't eat candy. Dr. Wallace has forbidden
it,&rdquo; Lucy said, quickly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, that is quite true,&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;Good-afternoon, Mr. Allen,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Let me offer you
some, Mr. Allen,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It is home-made candy, and
quite harmless, I assure you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Her fair, elderly face confronted him smilingly, her voice was
calm.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Sit down, Lucy,&rdquo;
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>&ldquo;I think it is very funny that they have not come
home,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I dare say they will be along pretty soon,&rdquo; said
Henry.</p>
<p>Sylvia looked keenly at him. &ldquo;Henry Whitman, did he go to
the Ayres's?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Henry, cornered, told the truth. &ldquo;Well, I shouldn't
wonder,&rdquo; he admitted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think it is pretty work,&rdquo; said Sylvia, angry red
spots coming in her cheeks.</p>
<p>Henry said nothing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The idea that a young man can't be in the house with a
girl any longer than this without his fairly chasing her,&rdquo;
said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who knows that he is?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you think he is interested in the Ayres
girl?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I don't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then it is Rose,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;Pretty work,
I call it. Here she is with her own folks in this nice home, with
everything she needs.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry looked at Sylvia with astonishment. &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;girls get married! You got married
yourself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know I did,&rdquo; said Sylvia, &ldquo;but that hasn't
got anything to do with it. Of course he has to chase her the
minute she comes within gunshot.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;Nobody is going to make Rose marry
any man.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She don't act a mite in love with him,&rdquo; said
Sylvia, ruminatingly. &ldquo;She seemed real mad with him this noon
about that candy. Henry, that was a funny thing for him to
do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked Henry, who had so far only gotten
Rose's rather vague account of the candy episode.</p>
<p>Sylvia explained. &ldquo;He actually knocked that candy out of
her hand, and made her spill the whole box, and then trampled on
it. I saw him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry stared at Sylvia. &ldquo;It must have been an
accident,&rdquo; said he.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It looked like an accident on purpose,&rdquo; said
Sylvia. &ldquo;Well, I guess I'll go out and make some of that
salad they like so much for supper.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;I
have an errand, a business errand,&rdquo; explained Henry.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;All right,&rdquo; replied Horace.</p>
<p>After he had passed them Henry caught the words, &ldquo;I think
you owe me an explanation,&rdquo; in Rose's voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is about this blamed candy,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;What in creation is it all about?&rdquo;
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>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;They can talk all they want to about murder and
suicide,&rdquo; he had said to Sylvia. &ldquo;I don't believe a
word of it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But the doctors found&mdash;&rdquo; began Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Found nothing,&rdquo; interposed Henry. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor Lucinda's cooking is enough to hurt 'most
anybody,&rdquo; admitted Sylvia; &ldquo;but they say they found&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't talk such stuff,&rdquo; said Henry, fiercely.
&ldquo;She et something. I don't know what you women like best to
suck at, candy or horrors.&rdquo;</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&mdash;?
There Henry brought himself up with a jolt. He absolutely
refused to suspect. &ldquo;I'd jest as soon eat all that's left of
the truck myself,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;only I couldn't bear
candy since I was a child, and I ain't going to eat it for
anybody.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Here I am
in a vortex of crime and misrule,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Guess I won't take any now, thank you,&rdquo; said Henry.
&ldquo;It's just before supper.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe you are wise,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;It
might go to your head,&rdquo; said Sidney. &ldquo;It went to mine a
little, but that was unavoidable. After one of those papers there
my head was mighty near being a vacuum.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What do you read the papers for?&rdquo; asked Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Because,&rdquo; said Sidney, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry told him the story in a few words.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gee whiz!&rdquo; said Meeks. &ldquo;I thought I had
finished the Sunday papers and here you are with another sensation.
Let's see the stuff.&rdquo;</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.
&ldquo;It's all beyond me,&rdquo; he said, finally. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You will not say a word&mdash;&rdquo; began Henry, but
Meeks interrupted him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you know me well enough by this time?&rdquo; he
demanded, and Henry admitted that he did.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you suppose I want all this blessed little town in a
tumult, and the devil to pay?&rdquo; said Meeks. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose there's something in it,&rdquo; said Henry,
rather doubtfully.</p>
<p>Meeks laughed. &ldquo;Oh, I don't expect any man with a wife to
agree with me,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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.
&ldquo;It's mighty queer work, anyway,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;What are you doing, Lucy?&rdquo; Mrs. Ayres asked, in a
voice which was at once tender and stern.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Getting out of this old dress,&rdquo; replied Lucy,
fiercely.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stand round here by the light,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Lucy,&rdquo; said
Mrs. Ayres, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Mother's lamb,&rdquo; she said, softly. &ldquo;There,
there, dear, mother knows all about it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't,&rdquo; gasped the girl. &ldquo;What do you
know? You&mdash;you were married when you were years younger than I
am.&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I know it,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres. &ldquo;I know it, and
I know what you mean, Lucy; but there is something else which I
know and you do not.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'd like to know what!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How a mother reads the heart of her child.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy stared at her mother. Her face softened. Then it grew
burning red and angrier. &ldquo;You taunt me with that,&rdquo; she
said, in a whisper&mdash;&ldquo;with that and everything.&rdquo;
She buried her face in her crushed pillow again and burst into long
wails.</p>
<p>Mrs. Ayres smoothed her hair. &ldquo;Lucy,&rdquo; said she,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'd like to know how.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You can't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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&mdash;I know about this
last.&rdquo; Her voice sank to a whisper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have had some reason,&rdquo; Lucy said, with a terrible
eagerness of self-defence. &ldquo;I have, mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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, &lsquo;How beautiful that is!&rsquo; But,
mother, he meant me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What else?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You remember he called here once.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, Lucy, to ask you to sing at the school
entertainment.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mother, it was for more than that. You did not hear him
speak at the door. He said, &lsquo;I shall count on you; you cannot
disappoint me.&rsquo; You did not hear his voice,
mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What else, Lucy?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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&mdash;quite a while; he
did, mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What else, Lucy?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You remember that picnic, the trolley picnic to Alford.
He sat next to me coming home, and&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There were only&mdash;four on the seat, and he&mdash;he
sat very close, and told me some more about himself: how he had
been alone ever since he was a little boy, and&mdash;how hard it
had been. Then he asked how long ago father died, and if I
remembered, and if I missed him still.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't quite understand, dear, how that&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You didn't hear the way he spoke, mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What else, Lucy?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He has always looked at me very much across the church,
and whenever I have met him it has not been so much what&mdash;he
said as&mdash;his manner. You have not known what his manner was,
and you have not heard how he spoke, nor seen his eyes
when&mdash;he looked at me&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, dear, you are right. I have not. Then you have
thought he was in love with you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sometimes he has made me think so, mother,&rdquo; Lucy
sobbed.</p>
<p>Mrs. Ayres gazed pitifully at the girl. &ldquo;Then when you
thought perhaps he was not you felt badly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, mother!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You were not yourself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, mother!&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Lucy,&rdquo; she
whispered, &ldquo;your mother never lost sight
of&mdash;anything.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy turned deadly white. She stared back at her mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You thought perhaps he was in love with Miss Farrel,
didn't you?&rdquo; Mrs. Ayres said, in a very low whisper.</p>
<p>Lucy nodded, still staring with eyes of horrified inquiry at her
mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You had seen him with her?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ever so many times, walking, and he took her to ride, and
I saw him coming out of the hotel. I thought&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Listen, Lucy.&rdquo; Mrs. Ayres's whisper was hardly
audible. &ldquo;Mother made some candy and sent it to Miss Farrel.
She&mdash;never had any that anybody else made. It&mdash;was candy
that would not hurt anybody that she had.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy's face lightened as if with some veritable
illumination.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mother perhaps ought not to have let you think&mdash;as
you did, so long,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They are living in the same house,&rdquo; returned Lucy,
in a stifled shriek, &ldquo;and&mdash;and&mdash;I found out this
afternoon that she&mdash;she is in love with him. And she is so
pretty, and&mdash;&rdquo; Lucy sobbed wildly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mother has been watching every minute,&rdquo; said Mrs.
Ayres.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mother, I haven't killed him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, dear. Mother made the candy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy sobbed and trembled convulsively. Mrs. Ayres stroked her
hair until she was a little quieter, then she spoke.
&ldquo;Lucy,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;the time has come for you to
listen to mother, and you must listen.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy looked up at her with her soft, terrible eyes.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are not in love with this last man,&rdquo; said Mrs.
Ayres, quietly. &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy interrupted with a wild cry. &ldquo;Oh, mother, you will
take care of me, you will watch me!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You need not be afraid, Lucy,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres,
grimly and tenderly. &ldquo;I will watch you, and&mdash;&rdquo;
She hesitated a moment, then she continued, &ldquo;If I ever catch
you buying that again&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>But Lucy interrupted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, mother,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;this last time it was
not&mdash;it really was not&mdash;<em>that!</em> It was only
something that would have made her sick a little. It would not
have&mdash;It was not <em>that!</em>&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If I ever do catch you buying that again,&rdquo; said
Mrs. Ayres, &ldquo;you will know what a whipping is.&rdquo; Her
tone was almost whimsical, but it had a terrible emphasis.</p>
<p>Lucy shrank. &ldquo;I didn't put enough of <em>that</em> in
to&mdash;to do much harm,&rdquo; she murmured, &ldquo;but I never
will again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, you had better not,&rdquo; assented Mrs. Ayres.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Well?&rdquo; said Henry, interrogatively.</p>
<p>&ldquo;All right,&rdquo; responded Meeks. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not that I know of,&rdquo; replied Henry. Then he
repeated Meeks's comment. &ldquo;It beats me,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>When Henry re-entered the house Sylvia looked at him.
&ldquo;What were you and Mr. Meeks talking about out in the
street?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; replied Henry, lying as a man may to a
woman or a child.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He's in there with her,&rdquo; whispered Sylvia.
&ldquo;They went in there the minute Mr. Meeks and you went
out.&rdquo; Sylvia pointed to the best parlor and looked miserably
jealous.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Henry, tentatively.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If they've got anything to say I don't see why they can't
say it here,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The door is open,&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I ain't going to listen, if it is, and you know I can't
hear with one ear,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; 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
coup&eacute; 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&mdash;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>&ldquo;It is very early,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Let us go in there a little while,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;That same moon lit the world for the builders of the
Pyramids,&rdquo; he said, tritely enough.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;It shone upon all those ancient
battle-fields of the Old Testament, and the children of Israel in
their exile,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>Rose looked at him. &ldquo;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,&rdquo;
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>&ldquo;Do you feel the draught?&rdquo; asked Horace.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I like it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am afraid you will catch cold.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't catch cold at all easily.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The wind is very damp,&rdquo; argued Horace, with
increasing confidence. He grew very bold. He seized upon one of her
little white hands. &ldquo;I won't believe it unless I can feel for
myself that your hands are not cold,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Oh&mdash;&rdquo; he began. Then he stopped suddenly as
Rose snatched her hand away and again gazed at the moon.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is a beautiful night,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Yes, a perfectly beautiful
night.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then he observed Sylvia Whitman standing beside them. &ldquo;It
is a nice night enough,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;but you'll both
catch your deaths of cold at this open window. The wind is blowing
right in on you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She made a motion to close it, stepping between Rose and Horace,
but the young man sprang to his feet. &ldquo;Let me close it, Mrs.
Whitman,&rdquo; said he, and did so.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It ain't late enough in the season to set right beside an
open window and let the wind blow in on you,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;It is a pleasant night,&rdquo; said she, as if answering
Rose's remark, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you ever now?&rdquo; asked Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now we go to bed and to sleep,&rdquo; replied Sylvia,
decisively. There was a silence. &ldquo;I guess it's pretty
late,&rdquo; said Sylvia, in a meaning tone. &ldquo;What time is
it, Mr. Allen?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Horace consulted his watch. &ldquo;It is not very late,&rdquo;
said he. It did not seem to him that Mrs. Whitman could stay.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It can't be very late,&rdquo; said Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What time is it?&rdquo; asked Sylvia, relentlessly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;About half-past ten,&rdquo; replied Horace, with
reluctance.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I call that very late,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;It is
late for Rose, anyway.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't feel at all tired,&rdquo; said Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You must be,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;You can't always
go by feelings.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;I think it is getting rather late,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is very late,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Good-night, Mr. Allen,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-night,&rdquo; returned Horace. &ldquo;Good-night,
Mrs. Whitman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is time you went to bed, too,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think I'll go in and have a smoke with Mr. Whitman
first,&rdquo; said Horace.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He's going to bed, too,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;You look all tired out,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am not at all tired,&rdquo; said Rose. She was all
quivering with impatience, but her voice was sweet and docile. She
put up her face for Sylvia to kiss. &ldquo;Good-night, dear Aunt
Sylvia,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-night,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I don't think you'd ought to have
gone in there,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They can set in there in the moonlight if they want
to,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;I didn't hinder them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think they wanted to be alone.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;When they set in the moonlight, I'm going to set,
too,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Sylvia,&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Does anything worry you lately?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia looked at him with sharp suspicion. &ldquo;I'd like to
know why you should think anything worries me,&rdquo; she said,
&ldquo;as comfortable as we are off now.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sylvia, have you got anything on your mind?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want to see young folks making fools of
themselves,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;That ain't it,&rdquo; said Henry, quietly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, if you want to know,&rdquo; said Sylvia,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course we can't let her,&rdquo; agreed Henry. Then he
added, &ldquo;This was all her own aunt's property, anyway, and if
there hadn't been a will it would have come to her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There was a will,&rdquo; said Sylvia, fastening her
cotton night-gown tightly around her skinny throat.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course she's going to stay as long as she's contented,
and she ain't going to pay board,&rdquo; said Henry; &ldquo;but
that ain't the trouble. Have you got anything on your mind,
Sylvia?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope so,&rdquo; replied Sylvia, sharply. &ldquo;I hope
I've got a little something on my mind. I ain't a fool.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;He's smoking,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you got anything on your mind, Sylvia?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;There's one very nice little horse at the
livery-stable,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Why, what's the matter?&rdquo; asked Sylvia. &ldquo;Don't
you feel well, Mr. Allen?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perfectly well; never felt better.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You haven't eaten enough to keep a sparrow
alive.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have eaten fast,&rdquo; said Horace. &ldquo;I have to
make an early start this morning. I have some work to do before
school.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose apparently paid no attention. She went on with her plans
for her drive.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are you sure you know how to manage a horse?&rdquo; said
Sylvia, anxiously. &ldquo;I used to drive, but I can't go with you
because the washerwoman is coming.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I can drive,&rdquo; said Rose. &ldquo;I love to
drive. And I don't believe there's a horse in the stable that would
get out of a walk, anyway.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You won't try to pass by any steam-rollers, and you'll
look out for automobiles, won't you?&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Oh, good-morning!&rdquo; she said, breathlessly, as if
she had been running.</p>
<p>Horace returned her greeting gravely. &ldquo;Can I see you a few
moments, Miss Lucy?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Miss
Lucy&mdash;&rdquo; he began. Lucy cast her eyes down and waited,
her whole attitude was that of utter passiveness and yielding.
&ldquo;Good Lord! She thinks I have come here at eight o'clock in
the morning to propose!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;You are not going so soon?&rdquo; she
stammered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have to get to school early this morning,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Lucy!&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Lucy started away from Horace, and gazed in a sort of fear and
wrath at her mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lucy,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres, &ldquo;go up to your own
room.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;What did you come for, Mr. Allen?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Suddenly Horace thought of the obvious thing to say, the
explanation to give. &ldquo;Miss Fletcher is thinking of coming
later to take Miss Lucy for a drive,&rdquo; said he.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And you called to tell her?&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres.</p>
<p>Horace looked at her. Mrs. Ayres understood. &ldquo;Miss
Fletcher must come with a double-seated carriage so that I can
go,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;My daughter is very nervous about
horses. I never allow her to go to drive without me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She observed, with a sort of bitter sympathy, the look of relief
overspread Horace's face. &ldquo;I will send a telephone message
from Mrs. Steele's, next door, so there will be no mistake,&rdquo;
she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; replied Horace. His face was
burning.</p>
<p>Mrs. Ayres went on with a melancholy and tragic calm. &ldquo;I
saw what I saw when I came in,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I have only
to inform you that&mdash;any doubts which you may have entertained,
any fears, are altogether groundless. Everything has been as
harmless as&mdash;the candy you ate last night.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I made it,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres. &ldquo;I attend to
everything. I have attended to everything.&rdquo; She gazed at him
with a strange, pathetic dignity. &ldquo;I have no apologies nor
excuses to make to you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I will go over to Mrs. Steele's and telephone
immediately,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ayres, calmly. &ldquo;Good-morning,
Mr. Allen.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-morning,&rdquo; said Horace. There was something
terrible about the face of patient defiance which the woman lifted
to his.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You will not&mdash;&rdquo; she began.</p>
<p>Horace caught her thin hand and pressed it heartily. &ldquo;Good
God, Mrs. Ayres!&rdquo; he stammered.</p>
<p>She nodded. &ldquo;Yes, I understand. I can trust you,&rdquo;
she said. &ldquo;I am very glad it happened with you.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;What that woman
must have to put up with!&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; Horace thought, as his eyes met one and
another of the girl-faces. &ldquo;She is not, cannot be, a common
type.&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Another,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;She went to Alford,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;It is perfectly impossible, Aunt Sylvia,&rdquo; Rose had
declared, and Sylvia had listened. She listened with much more
docility than at first to the decrees of sophistication.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The painting ain't nearly as natural,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Oh, but, Aunt Sylvia, to think of comparing for one
minute ware like that with this perfectly wonderful old willow
ware!&rdquo; Rose had said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, have your own way,&rdquo; said Sylvia, with a sigh.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;I think it is very much better that you
have no maid,&rdquo; Rose said. &ldquo;I simply would not trust a
maid to care for china like this.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose took care of her room now, and very daintily. &ldquo;She'll
be real capable after awhile,&rdquo; Sylvia told Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; said
Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's the way her mother was brought up, and the way she
lived, and what's in the blood will work out,&rdquo; said Sylvia.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Miss Farrel was a queer woman,&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess she wasn't any too well balanced,&rdquo; agreed
Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What do you suppose tired Rose out so much this
morning?&rdquo; asked Henry. &ldquo;It isn't such a very long ride
to Alford.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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&mdash;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>&ldquo;It ain't,&rdquo; said Henry; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sidney looked gravely at Henry, who had aged considerably during
the last few weeks. &ldquo;Well, I am ready to admit,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sylvia&mdash;&rdquo; began Henry.</p>
<p>But Sidney cut in. &ldquo;If you haven't found out,&rdquo; said
he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; Henry said, in a puzzled, weary way.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know,&rdquo; said Sidney. &ldquo;Get back to your
tracks.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sylvia would feel all cut up over it. She wouldn't
understand.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;You ain't reading that
book at all,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I have been watching you, and
you 'ain't turned a single page since I spoke last.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see why I should,&rdquo; returned Henry. &ldquo;I
don't see why anybody but a fool should ever open the book, to
begin with.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is the book?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry looked at the title-page. &ldquo;It is
<cite>Whatever</cite>, by Mrs. Fane Raymond,&rdquo; he said,
absently.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I've heard it was a beautiful book.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Most women would like it,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Henry Whitman, it ain't true!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose it ain't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No book is true&mdash;that is, no story.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If it ain't true, so much the less reason to tell such a
pack of stupid lies,&rdquo; said Henry. He closed the book with a
snap.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Henry, ain't you going to finish it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I ain't. I'm going back to the shop to
work.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Henry Whitman, you ain't!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Henry Whitman, be you crazy?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, but I shall be if I set round this way much
longer.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't need to do a mite of work.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't suppose it's the money I'm thinking about! It's
the work.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What will folks say?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't care what they say.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Henry Whitman, I thought I knew you, but I declare it
seems as if I have never known you at all,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Sylvia,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia stared at him. &ldquo;Me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, you know I couldn't do it, Henry Whitman!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It ain't the same thing at all,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Because it ain't.&rdquo; Sylvia closed her thin lips
conclusively. This, to her mind, was reasoning which completely
blocked all argument.</p>
<p>Henry looked at her hopelessly. &ldquo;I didn't suppose you
would understand,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see why you thought so,&rdquo; said Sylvia.
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have told you why.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You haven't told me why at all.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;What do you think she would say if you went back to the
shop?&rdquo; asked Sylvia. She jerked her head with an upward,
sidewise movement towards Rose's room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;It ain't likely it would
make much difference to her.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said she, fiercely.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You would make her stay if she didn't want to?&rdquo;
said Henry, gazing at her wonderingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She's got to want to stay,&rdquo; said Sylvia, still with
the same strange passion. &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I am sure I hope she will,&rdquo; said Henry, still
regarding his wife with wonder.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There might be worse smells.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's just because you are used to it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's just it,&rdquo; cried Henry, pathetically.
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There ain't any need for you to work in the shop. We've
got plenty of money without,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; Sylvia observed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose you know what's bound to happen if she and Mr.
Allen stay on in the same house,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Again Sylvia turned white, and stared at her husband almost with
horror. &ldquo;I don't see why you think it is bound to
happen,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Henry laughed. &ldquo;It doesn't take a very long head to think
so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It sha'n't happen. That child ain't going to marry
anybody.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sylvia, you don't mean that you want her to be an old
maid!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's the best thing for any girl, if she only thought so,
to be an old maid,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>Henry laughed a little. &ldquo;That's a compliment to
me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry laughed again, a little bitterly this time. &ldquo;Then
you wouldn't have married me if you had had enough to live
on?&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>Sylvia looked at him, and an odd, shamed tenderness came into
her elderly face. &ldquo;There's no use talking about what wasn't,
anyway,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, perhaps not; maybe it won't,&rdquo; 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 &amp; 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. &ldquo;Draw up, Henry,&rdquo; said
Sidney.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I've had supper.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sylvia had chicken salad and flapjacks and hot
biscuits.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sidney sniffed. &ldquo;Cut a slice off that ham,&rdquo; he
ordered, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry obeyed. He found himself sitting opposite Sidney, eating
and drinking with intense enjoyment. Sidney chuckled.
&ldquo;Good?&rdquo; said he.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know when my victuals have tasted right
before,&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;Squabs,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'm going back to the shop to-morrow,&rdquo; said
Henry.</p>
<p>Sidney looked at him. &ldquo;Most folks would say you were an
uncommon fool,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I suppose you know
that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't help it,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;What on earth is the matter?&rdquo; demanded Sylvia, in a
honeyed tone, which at once stung and sweetened. &ldquo;Here you
are in the dark, crying and going without your victuals. You ought
to be ashamed of yourself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As she spoke Sylvia struck a match and lit the lamp. Rose buried
her face deeper in the bed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want any lamp,&rdquo; she gasped.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Now, what is
the matter?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; repeated Sylvia,
insistently.</p>
<p>Suddenly Rose sat up. &ldquo;Nothing is the matter,&rdquo; she
said. &ldquo;I am just nervous.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Here is a clean
handkerchief,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and I've put some of your
perfumery on it. Give me the other.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose took the sweet-smelling square of linen and tried to smile
again. &ldquo;I just got nervous,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Set down here in this chair,&rdquo; said Sylvia,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you, Aunt Sylvia; you're a dear,&rdquo; said Rose,
pitifully, &ldquo;but&mdash;I don't think I can eat
anything.&rdquo; In spite of herself the girl's face quivered again
and fresh tears welled into her eyes. She passed her scented
handkerchief over them. &ldquo;I am not a bit hungry,&rdquo; she
said, brokenly.</p>
<p>Sylvia drew a large, chintz-covered chair forward. &ldquo;Set
right down in this chair,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;There,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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.
&ldquo;I heard some news this morning,&rdquo; said she. She
attempted to make her voice exceedingly light and casual.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I heard about Mr. Allen's engagement.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Engagement to who?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;To&mdash;Lucy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lucy!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lucy Ayres. She seems to be a very sweet girl. She is
very pretty. I hope she will make him very happy.&rdquo; Rose's
voice trembled with sad hypocrisy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who told you?&rdquo; demanded Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She told me herself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did her mother hear it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What did she tell you in French for? Why didn't she speak
in English?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose gazed at Sylvia with sudden eagerness. &ldquo;What makes
you think so, Aunt Sylvia?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you don't think&mdash;?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know better. I'll ask Mr. Allen.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you asked him it would make it very hard for him if it
wasn't so,&rdquo; said Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see why.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mr. Allen is a gentleman, and he could not practically
accuse a woman of making an unauthorized claim of that sort,&rdquo;
said Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I won't say anything about it to him if you think I
had better not,&rdquo; said Sylvia, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am going to. They are delicious. I didn't think I was
hungry at all, but to have things brought up this way&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You've got to eat a saucer of strawberries
afterwards,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Lucy Ayres is a queer girl,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia indicated by her out-stretched hand a point about a foot
and a half from the floor.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It seems as if she must have had some reason
sometimes,&rdquo; said Rose, with an impulse of loyalty towards the
other girl. &ldquo;She is very pretty.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;As far as I know, no young man in East Westland has ever
thought of marrying her,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have never seen her do anything unbecoming,&rdquo;
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. &ldquo;I have
seen her making eyes,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Rose was silent. She realized that she, also, had seen poor Lucy
making eyes.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; said
Sylvia, leading directly up to the subject in the secret place of
her mind.</p>
<p>Rose blushed, with apparently no reason. &ldquo;But she can't
have her mother always, you know, Aunt Sylvia,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Her mother's folks are awful long-lived.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But Lucy is younger. In the course of nature she will
outlive her mother, and then she will be all alone.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I always thought it would be very dreadful to live
alone,&rdquo; Rose said, with another blush.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But it isn't quite like&mdash;&rdquo; Rose
hesitated.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Like what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It wouldn't seem quite so much as if you had your own
home, would it, as if&mdash;&rdquo; Rose hesitated again.</p>
<p>Sylvia interrupted her. &ldquo;A girl is a fool to get married
if she's got money enough to live on,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Aunt Sylvia, wouldn't you have married Uncle Henry
if you had had plenty of money?&rdquo; asked the girl, exactly as
Henry had done.</p>
<p>Sylvia colored faintly. &ldquo;That was a very different
matter,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But why?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Because it was,&rdquo; said Sylvia, bringing up one of
her impregnable ramparts against argument.</p>
<p>But the girl persisted. &ldquo;I don't see why,&rdquo; she
said.</p>
<p>Sylvia colored again. &ldquo;Well, for one thing, your uncle
Henry is one man in a thousand,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know what you mean.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I mean we've had no family,&rdquo; said Sylvia, firmly,
although her color deepened. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you didn't have any,&rdquo; said Rose, in a curiously
na&iuml;ve and hopeful tone.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We are the only ones of all that got married about the
time we did who didn't have any,&rdquo; said Sylvia, in her
conclusive tone.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But, Aunt Sylvia,&rdquo; said Rose, &ldquo;you wouldn't
stop everybody's getting married? Why, there wouldn't be any people
in the world in a short time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There's some people in the world now that would be a good
sight better off out of it, for themselves and other folks,&rdquo;
said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you don't think anybody ought to get
married?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But I don't see why, after all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Because she is,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I am glad you relished your supper,&rdquo; said
Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was very nice,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;What on earth is the matter?&rdquo; cried Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I almost remembered, then,&rdquo; gasped the girl.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia was as white as the girl, but she rose briskly.
&ldquo;There's nothing to remember,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;What is it, Aunt
Sylvia?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Sylvia laughed. &ldquo;Something to show you that belongs to
you,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, what have you got that belongs to me, Aunt
Sylvia?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You wait a minute.&rdquo;</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.
&ldquo;Why, Aunt Sylvia!&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;All these things belonged to your aunt Abrahama, and now
they belong to you,&rdquo; said Sylvia, in a triumphant tone.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, but these are perfectly beautiful things!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But they belong to you, Aunt Sylvia.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia took up the most valuable thing there, a really good
pearl necklace, and held it dangling from her skinny hand. &ldquo;I
should look pretty with this around my neck, shouldn't I?&rdquo;
she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;These amethysts are exquisite,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;You could wear these,&rdquo; she said to Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess I sha'n't begin to wear jewelry at my time of
life,&rdquo; declared Sylvia. Her voice sounded almost angry in its
insistence. &ldquo;Everything here is yours,&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;There!&rdquo; said she to Sylvia, and laughed again.</p>
<p>Sylvia also laughed, and her laugh had the ring of a child's.
&ldquo;Don't you feel as if you were pretty well off as you
are?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Rose sprang forward and hugged Sylvia. &ldquo;Well off!&rdquo;
said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I have them all on now,&rdquo; she said, and her laugh
rang out again.</p>
<p>Sylvia surveyed her with a sort of rapture. She had never heard
of &ldquo;Faust,&rdquo; but the whole was a New England version of
the &ldquo;Jewel Song.&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;What was the matter? Why were you
crying?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose turned upon her with a smile of perfect radiance.
&ldquo;Nothing at all, dear Aunt Sylvia,&rdquo; she cried, happily.
&ldquo;Nothing at all.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Rose wasn't crying because she thought
Mr. Allen was going to marry another girl,&rdquo; she told herself.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She stood gazing at Rose for a long moment before she spoke.
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;you look like a whole jewelry
shop. I don't see, for my part, how your aunt came to have so
many&mdash;why she wanted them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe they were given to her,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Poor
Aunt Abrahama!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see why,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It wouldn't make a mite,&rdquo; said Sylvia, stoutly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see why.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Because it wouldn't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose laughed, and looked again at herself in the glass.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now you had better take off those things and go to bed,
and try to go to sleep,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, Aunt Sylvia,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I
declare, Sylvia, you look like yourself to-night,&rdquo; he said.
&ldquo;You've been looking kind of curious to me lately.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You imagined it,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Maybe I did,&rdquo; admitted Henry. &ldquo;You look like
yourself to-night, anyhow. How is Rose?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo; Sylvia laughed with tender
triumph.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose now she'll be decking herself out, and every
young man in East Westland will be after her,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Rose is perfectly contented just the way she is,&rdquo;
declared Sylvia, turning upon him. &ldquo;I shouldn't be surprised
if she lived out her days here, just as her aunt did.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe it would be the best thing,&rdquo; said Henry.
&ldquo;She's got us as long as we live.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;How a girl can do so!&rdquo; she
thought.</p>
<p>Intuitively she knew that what she felt for Horace was a far
nobler love than Lucy's. &ldquo;Love&mdash;was it love, after
all?&rdquo; Rose did not know, but she gave her head a proud shake.
&ldquo;I never would put him in such a position, and lie about him,
just because&mdash;&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;What are you saying?&rdquo; she had asked Lucy, sharply.
And Lucy had lied. &ldquo;I said what a pleasant day it is,&rdquo;
she replied.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You said it in French.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Next time say it in English,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;She must be a very strange
girl,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Hush,&rdquo; whispered Rose. She stifled a laugh.
&ldquo;Step back out in the yard just a minute,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Now come down as far as the gate, out of the
shadows,&rdquo; whispered Rose. &ldquo;I want to show you
something.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The two stole down to the gate. Then Rose faced Horace in full
glare of moonlight.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look at me,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Look at me,&rdquo; she whispered again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am looking.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you see?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is beautiful enough now,&rdquo; said Horace, with a
sort of gasp. &ldquo;Those are pearls around your neck?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, it is,&rdquo; replied Horace, regarding the delicate
spray of seed pearls on Rose's head.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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&mdash;I believe
ear-rings are coming into vogue again&mdash;or would you have them
made into rings?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Rings,&rdquo; said Horace, emphatically.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose held up her hands and twirled her ring-laden fingers, and
laughed again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They are pretty large, most of the rings,&rdquo; said
she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should rather have packed away my name,&rdquo; said
Horace.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, she would be pleased, too, if she knew.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course she would, and as for the things themselves,
they are fulfilling their mission.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose laughed. &ldquo;Maybe jewels don't like to be shut up for
years and years in a drawer, away from the light,&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;They do seem almost alive. Look, you can really see the
green in that emerald!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Horace was trembling from head to foot. He could hardly
reply.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, you are shivering,&rdquo; said Rose. &ldquo;Are you
cold?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No&mdash;well, perhaps yes, a little. It is rather cool
to-night after the hot day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where have you been?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I walked to Tunbury and back.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why should she mind?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Horace hesitated.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Please be very still,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;One of my rings,&rdquo; whispered Rose.</p>
<p>Horace stooped and felt over the stone slab, and finally his
hand struck the tiny thing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's that queer little flat gold one,&rdquo; continued
Rose, who was now serious.</p>
<p>A sudden boldness possessed Horace. &ldquo;May I have it?&rdquo;
he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's not a bit pretty. I don't believe you can wear
it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Horace slipped the ring on his little finger. &ldquo;It just
fits.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't care,&rdquo; Rose said, hesitatingly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you think it will make any trouble for you&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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&mdash;&ldquo;Let love
abide whate'er betide.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Horace laughed tenderly. &ldquo;She has given me more than she
knows,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Henry!&rdquo; she called. &ldquo;Henry
Whitman!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry turned around obediently.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; asked Sylvia again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Down street,&rdquo; replied Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Whereabouts down street?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry said again, with a meek doggedness, &ldquo;Down
street.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come here,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>Henry walked slowly towards her, between the rows of box. He was
about three feet away when she spoke again. &ldquo;Where are you
going?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Down street.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia looked at Henry, and he trembled inwardly. Had she any
suspicion? When she spoke an immense relief overspread him.
&ldquo;I wish you'd go into the drug store and get me a quarter of
a pound of peppermints,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Of course I'll get them,&rdquo; said Henry, with
enthusiasm. He mentally resolved upon a pound instead of a
quarter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't feel quite right in my stomach, and I think
they're good for me,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;What are you to work again for, Henry?&rdquo;
&ldquo;You've got money enough to live on.&rdquo; &ldquo;What in
thunder are you working for?&rdquo;</p>
<p>One thing was said many times which hit him hard. &ldquo;You are
taking the bread out of the mouth of some other man who needs work;
don't you know it, Henry?&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Good Lord!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;do you suppose I
do it for the money? I tell you it's for the work.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The work!&rdquo; sneered the other man.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I tell you I've worked so long I can't stop, and
live.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The other man stared. &ldquo;Either you're a damned fool, or the
men or the system&mdash;whatever it is that has worked you so long
that you can't stop&mdash;ought to go to&mdash;&rdquo; he
growled.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You can't shake off a burden that's grown to you,&rdquo;
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>&ldquo;As soon try to shake off a hump,&rdquo; he said, and
nodded.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's so,&rdquo; said the boy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But as far as keeping the bread from another man goes&mdash;&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;As far as that goes, I'm willing to give
away&mdash;a&mdash;good part of what I earn.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The first man laughed, harshly. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I 'ain't got so much as all that, after all,&rdquo; said
Henry. &ldquo;Because my wife has had a little left to her, it
don't follow that we are millionaires.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good reason why,&rdquo; said the boy on the other side.
&ldquo;He drinks.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He drinks every time he gets out of work and gets clean
discouraged,&rdquo; retorted the man.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said the boy, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I have gone back to the hotel to board,&rdquo; he
informed Henry, while tying up the parcel. He colored a little
under his black, bristling cheeks as he spoke.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought you left,&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So I did. I went to board at the Joneses', but&mdash;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have heard Miss Hart wasn't a very good cook,&rdquo;
said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How do you know?&rdquo; asked Henry, paying for the
peppermints. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So she did, and it all went to kill rats,&rdquo; said
Albion. &ldquo;Lots of folks have bought arsenic here to kill rats
with. They didn't all of them poison Miss Farrel.&rdquo; Albion
nodded wisely and mysteriously. &ldquo;No, Lucinda's all
right,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry looked curiously at the other man. &ldquo;So you've found
out something?&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I ain't at liberty to say,&rdquo; replied Albion.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Where in the world have you been?&rdquo; she said. Henry
advanced, smiling, with the peppermints. &ldquo;Why, Henry,&rdquo;
she cried, in a voice of dismay which had a gratified ring in it,
&ldquo;you've been and bought a whole pound! I only said to buy a
quarter.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They're good for you,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;What did you change your coat
for?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Henry shivered as if with cold. &ldquo;I thought the house
seemed kind of damp when I came in,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and this
coat is some heavier.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia looked at him with fretful anxiety. &ldquo;You've got
cold. I knew you would,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Again was Henry's way made plain for him. &ldquo;Perhaps I
had,&rdquo; said he, eagerly. &ldquo;I'll go down and get some
after dinner.&rdquo;</p>
<p>But Horace innocently offered to save him the trouble. &ldquo;I
go past the drug store,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Let me get
them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>But Sylvia unexpectedly came to Henry's aid. &ldquo;No,&rdquo;
she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry brightened, but Rose interposed. &ldquo;Why, I would love
to run down to the drug store and get the medicine,&rdquo; she
said. &ldquo;You lie down after dinner, Uncle Henry, and I'll
go.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;The last time I took those pellets,&rdquo; he said,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is just what I think myself,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Mrs. Whitman don't know it yet,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Horace stared at Henry with some alarm. &ldquo;What on earth is
it?&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing, only I have gone back to work in the
shop.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Horace looked amazed. &ldquo;But I thought&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You thought we had enough so I hadn't any need to work,
and you are right,&rdquo; said Henry, with a pathetic firmness.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Horace nodded soberly. &ldquo;I think I understand,&rdquo; said
he.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'm glad you do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But Mrs. Whitman&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo; concluded Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wouldn't worry about that. There is nothing very
disagreeable about it,&rdquo; Horace replied, laughing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will always change my coat and wash my hands real
particular before I set down to the table,&rdquo; said Henry,
wistfully. Then he added, after a second's hesitation: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You mean Rose&mdash;Miss Fletcher?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think even if she has been brought up differently, as
you say, that she has a great deal of sense,&rdquo; replied Horace.
&ldquo;I don't think you need to worry about that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry paused, and Horace waited.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I want to ask you if you've noticed anything queer about
Sylvia lately,&rdquo; Henry said, at last.</p>
<p>Horace looked at him. &ldquo;Do you mean in her looks or her
manners?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Both.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Horace hesitated in his turn. &ldquo;Now you speak of it&mdash;&rdquo; he began.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Henry, &ldquo;speak out just what you
think.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have not been sure that there was anything
definite,&rdquo; Horace said, slowly. &ldquo;I have not been sure
that it was not all imagination on my part.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's just the way I've been feeling,&rdquo; Henry said,
eagerly. &ldquo;What is it that you've been noticing?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I told you I am not sure that it is not all imagination,
but&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry nodded. &ldquo;That's just the way Sylvia's been looking
to me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know but she looks as well as ever.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She's grown thin.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry nodded still more emphatically. &ldquo;That's just the way
it's seemed to me, and we 'ain't either of us imagined it. It's
so,&rdquo; said he.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you any idea&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why don't you ask her?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;I don't suppose it can be anything serious,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; he told himself.</p>
<p>He realized that he was not dependent upon the public concerning
the merit of his work&mdash;he could not be until the work appeared
in print&mdash;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>&ldquo;Good Lord! It might depend upon whether the readers had
indigestion,&rdquo; he thought; and at the same time he accepted
the situation with a philosophic pride of surrender.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's about one chance in a good many thousand,&rdquo; he
told himself. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;There's a storm overhead,&rdquo; remarked Horace.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Rose. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;It looks almost wild enough for a cyclone,&rdquo; she
said, gazing up at the rapid scud of gray, shell-like clouds.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Rose, come right away from that window,&rdquo; cried
Sylvia, entering from the dining-room. &ldquo;Only last summer a
woman in Alford got struck standing at a window in a
tempest.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I want to look at the clouds,&rdquo; said Rose, but she
obeyed.</p>
<p>Sylvia put a chair away from the fireplace and out of any
draught. &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Set down here.&rdquo;
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. &ldquo;If you don't come
away from that window and set on the sofa I shall have a conniption
fit,&rdquo; she said. Horace obeyed. As he sat down he thought of
Henry, and without stopping to think, inquired where he was.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He went down to Mr. Meeks's,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;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 &lsquo;good riddance, bad
rubbish.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you feel so about it I'm glad he's gone back to
Lucinda,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess there wasn't quite so much smoke without a little
fire,&rdquo; said Mrs. Jim Jones, and her small face looked fairly
evil.</p>
<p>Then Sylvia was aroused. &ldquo;Now, Mrs. Jones, you know
better,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Well, I don't pretend to
know,&rdquo; said she, with angry sullenness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am holding my tongue, ain't I? What has got into you,
Sylvia Whitman?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, you didn't hold your tongue when you said that about
there not being so much smoke without some fire.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, there always is fire when there's smoke, ain't
there?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Sylvia Whitman, how you do talk! You're almost
swearing.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have it swearing if you want to,&rdquo; said Sylvia.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, it's &lsquo;good riddance, bad rubbish,&rsquo; as
far as I'm concerned,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;You've got two
boarders, ain't you?&rdquo; inquired Mrs. Jim Jones.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I've got one boarder,&rdquo; replied Sylvia, with
dignity, &ldquo;and we keep him because he can't bear to go
anywhere else in East Westland, and because we like his
company.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought Abrahama White's niece&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I didn't know. She takes after her grandmother White,
don't she? She was mortal homely.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Sylvia fairly turned pale with resentment. &ldquo;She
doesn't look any more like old Mrs. White than your cat
does,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Rose is a beauty; everybody says so.
She's the prettiest girl that ever set foot in this
town.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Everybody to their taste,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Jim Jones,
in the village formula of contempt. &ldquo;I heard Mr. Allen, your
boarder, was going to marry her,&rdquo; she added.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He ain't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'm glad to hear it from headquarters,&rdquo; said Mrs.
Jim Jones. &ldquo;I said I couldn't believe it was true.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mr. Allen won't marry any girl in East Westland,&rdquo;
said Sylvia.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is there anybody in Boston?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Jim Jones,
losing her self-possession a little.</p>
<p>Sylvia played her trump card. &ldquo;I don't know
anything&mdash;that is, I ain't going to say anything,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I felt real sorry for
you when I heard the news,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I thought,&rdquo; said Mrs. Jim Jones, driven to her last
gun, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia turned a little pale, but her gaze never flinched. She
grunted again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I supposed,&rdquo; said Mrs. Jim Jones, mouthing her
words with intensest relish, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Sylvia spoke. &ldquo;You needn't have felt bad,&rdquo; said
she. &ldquo;Nobody asked you to.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. Jim Jones stared.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nobody asked you to,&rdquo; repeated Sylvia.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. Jim Jones felt fairly defrauded. &ldquo;Then you don't feel
bad?&rdquo; said she, in a crestfallen way.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nobody feels bad here,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;I guess
nobody in East Westland feels bad unless it's you, and nobody wants
you to.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Come in quick, for mercy's sake!&rdquo; she called. Henry
entered. He was dripping with rain. Sylvia did not ask a question.
&ldquo;Stand right where you are till I bring you some dry
clothes,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Mr. Whitman has got home from Mr. Meeks's, and he's
dripping wet,&rdquo; she said to Horace and Rose. &ldquo;I am going
to get him some dry things and hang the wet ones by the kitchen
stove.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Hurry and get off those wet things or you'll catch your
death of cold,&rdquo; 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:
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Does she know?&rdquo; whispered Horace.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If she does know, and has taken a notion never to let
anybody know she knows, she never will,&rdquo; replied Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You mean that she will never mention it even to
you?&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Of course I do,&rdquo; she replied.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, you keep asking him why he doesn't go away, and I
began to think you didn't,&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I want him to stay,&rdquo; said Sylvia, &ldquo;but I
don't want any foolishness.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Foolishness?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Off together somewhere,&rdquo; Sylvia had replied.
Then the conversation had ensued.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, foolishness,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I don't know what you mean by foolishness, I guess,
Sylvia.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry sat on the porch step. He wore a black mohair coat, and
his thin hair was well brushed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It does seem,&rdquo; said Sylvia, &ldquo;as if a young
man and a young woman might live in the same house and behave
themselves.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry stared at her. &ldquo;Why, Sylvia, you don't mean&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I mean just what I said&mdash;behave themselves. It does
seem sometimes as if everything any girl or young man thought of
was falling in love and getting married,&rdquo; Sylvia
said&mdash;&ldquo;falling in love and getting married,&rdquo; with
a bitter and satirical emphasis.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see,&rdquo; said Henry, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He can marry whoever he wants to,&rdquo; said Sylvia,
&ldquo;but he sha'n't marry her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't mean you don't want her ever to get
married?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I do mean just that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Sylvia, are you crazy?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I ain't crazy,&rdquo; replied Sylvia, doggedly.
&ldquo;I don't want her to get married, and I'm in the right of it.
She's no call to get married.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see why she 'ain't got a call as well as other
girls.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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&mdash;he's a good hand&mdash;to see if he can't get a good,
safe horse and pretty carriage for her, so she can ride
out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry stared. &ldquo;I dunno as I can take care of a horse,
Sylvia,&rdquo; he said, doubtfully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Does she want a horse and carriage?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shouldn't think of it if I didn't s'pose she
did.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What made me ask,&rdquo; said Henry, &ldquo;was, I'd
never heard her speak of it, and I knew she had money enough for
anything if she did want it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are you grudging my spending money her own aunt left on
her?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry looked reproachfully at his wife. &ldquo;I didn't quite
deserve that from you, Sylvia,&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;Henry,&rdquo; she said, pitifully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What, Sylvia?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo; Suddenly Sylvia thrust her
hand under her white apron and swept it up to her face. She shook
convulsively.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Here are your scissors,
Sylvia,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wish,&rdquo; sobbed Sylvia, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is that what's troubling you, Sylvia?&rdquo; said Henry,
slowly. &ldquo;If that's all,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;why&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>But Sylvia interrupted him. She swept the apron from her face
and showed it grimly set. There was no trace of tears. &ldquo;That
ain't troubling me,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry rose. &ldquo;I'd admire to get the corn,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Henry, &ldquo;the kettle's on the
stove.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How much corn did you get?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I allowed three ears apiece. They're pretty good
size. I thought that was about right.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia nodded.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The corn's holding out pretty well,&rdquo; said Henry.
&ldquo;That other later kind will be ready by the time the lima
beans are ripe.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That 'll go nice for succotash,&rdquo; said Sylvia,
taking another stitch.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's what I was thinking,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;What time is
it?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Do you know?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was half-past five by the kitchen clock.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They ain't in sight yet.&rdquo; Sylvia stared and frowned
at the distance. &ldquo;This house does set too far back,&rdquo;
she said, impatiently.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now, Sylvia, I wouldn't give up a mite of this front
yard.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;It's awful set, I think,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's been here for years, and the people who belonged
here have never been short-lived,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;I like
it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't,&rdquo; said Sylvia. She looked at the road.
&ldquo;I don't see where they can be.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, they'll be along soon. Don't worry,
Sylvia.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Sylvia, in a strident voice, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia got up, and her scissors dropped again onto the step.
Henry picked them up. &ldquo;Here are your scissors,&rdquo; said
he.</p>
<p>Sylvia took them and went into the house with a flounce. Henry
heard a door slam and dishes rattle. &ldquo;She's all wrought up
again,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Hullo,&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How are you?&rdquo; said Meeks. &ldquo;It's a corking hot
day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, it is pretty hot, but I think it's a little cooler
than it was an hour ago.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Try walking and you won't think so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Set down,&rdquo; said Henry, pointing to the chair Sylvia
had just vacated. &ldquo;Set down and stay to supper.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, back of the orchard.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I know she won't. There are going to be bushels of
Concords and Delawares.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You can have them, and welcome. I know Sylvia will say
so, too.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, come along. We can go around the house.&rdquo;</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:
&ldquo;I don't know what you can see in me to love.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Will you go quietly home?&rdquo; said
he, &ldquo;or shall Mr. Whitman and I go with you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will go,&rdquo; Lucy replied, in a hoarse whisper.</p>
<p>Meeks looked keenly at her. &ldquo;Now, Lucy,&rdquo; he said, in
a gentle voice, &ldquo;there's no use; you've got to go
home.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;Go home to your ma, right
away, like a good girl.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy remained motionless. Her poor young eyes seemed to see
nothing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good Lord!&rdquo; sighed Meeks, wiping his forehead with
his disengaged hand. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucy said nothing. Meeks wiped his forehead again, freed her,
and gave her a gentle shove between her shoulders. &ldquo;Now,
march,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Thank the Lord it isn't far,&rdquo; muttered Meeks,
wiping his forehead. &ldquo;It's d&mdash;n hot.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Lucy,&rdquo; she began, &ldquo;where&mdash;?&rdquo; Then
she realized that Meeks and Henry were with the girl.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Henry, you just keep an eye on her,&rdquo; said Meeks.
Then he spoke to Mrs. Ayres with old-fashioned ceremony.
&ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;will you be so kind as to step
aside? I have a word I would like to say to you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. Ayres, with a scared glance at Lucy, complied.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Just this way a moment,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Thank you, Mr. Meeks,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. Ayres lied, and Meeks respected her for it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We are to start before long for St. Louis, where my
brother lives,&rdquo; continued Mrs. Ayres. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That woman lied like a gentleman,&rdquo; Meeks said to
Henry when they were on their way home. &ldquo;Good Lord! I was
thankful to her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry was regarding him with a puzzled look. &ldquo;Do you think
the poor girl is in love with Mr. Allen, too?&rdquo; he asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think she is in love with love, and nothing will cure
that,&rdquo; said Meeks.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XVIII</h4>
<p>Henry looked more and more disturbed as they went down the
street. &ldquo;I declare, I don't know what Sylvia will say,&rdquo;
he remarked, moodily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You mean about the pretty little love-affair?&rdquo; said
Meeks, walking along fanning himself with his hat.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she'll be dreadful upset.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Upset; why?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It beats me to know why. Who ever does know the why of a
woman?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What in creation is the fellow, anyhow?&rdquo; said
Meeks, with a laugh. &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Get out! You know better,&rdquo; cried Henry,
impatiently. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thinks he isn't good enough?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't believe it's that. I don't know what it is. She
says she don't want Rose to marry anybody.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess Rose has had chances.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If she hasn't, all the men who have seen her have been
stone blind.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know what has got into Sylvia, and that's the
truth,&rdquo; Henry said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe Sylvia is in love with the girl,&rdquo; said Meeks,
shrewdly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know she is,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So have I, but these popular ideas are sometimes
nonsense. I have always heard that myself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sylvia and I have been happy enough together,&rdquo; said
Henry. &ldquo;It can't be that her own life as a married woman
makes her think it a better plan to remain single.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's stuff.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you suppose they'll tell her to-night?&rdquo; asked
Meeks.</p>
<p>Henry regarded him with an expression of actual terror.
&ldquo;Seems as if they might wait, and let Sylvia have her night's
sleep,&rdquo; he muttered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess I won't stay to supper,&rdquo; said Meeks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stay, for the Lord's sake.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Meeks laughed. &ldquo;I believe you are afraid,
Henry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hate to see a woman upset over anything.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So do I, for that matter. Do you think my staying might
make it any better?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, it might. Here we are in sight of the house. You
ain't going to back out?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Meeks laughed again, although rather uneasily. &ldquo;All
right,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she said, with a snap, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I'll risk it,&rdquo; Sidney said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where have <em>you</em> been?&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I'm to blame for that,&rdquo; said Meeks. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Take all you want, and welcome,&rdquo; said Sylvia.
&ldquo;Now, I'll put supper on the table, and we'll eat it. I ain't
going to wait any longer for anybody.&rdquo;</p>
<p>After Sylvia had gone, with a jerk, out of the room, the two men
looked at each other. &ldquo;Couldn't you give Allen a hint to lay
low to-night, anyhow?&rdquo; whispered Meeks.</p>
<p>Henry shook his head. &ldquo;They'll be sure to show it some
way,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I don't know what's got into
Sylvia.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It seems a pretty good sort of match, to me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come to supper,&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;I'd like to know what they think,&rdquo; said Sylvia,
dishing up the baked beans. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;These are baked beans that are baked beans,&rdquo; said
Meeks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I always have said that Sylvia knows just how to
bake beans,&rdquo; said Henry. &ldquo;I go to church suppers, and
eat other folks' baked beans, but they 'ain't got the knack of
seasoning, or something.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's partly the seasoning and partly the cooking,&rdquo;
said Sylvia, in a somewhat appeased voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;This is brown bread, too,&rdquo; said Meeks. His
flattering tone was almost fulsome.</p>
<p>Henry echoed him eagerly. &ldquo;Yes, I always feel just the
same about the brown bread that Sylvia makes,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>But the brown bread touched a discordant tone.</p>
<p>Sylvia frowned. &ldquo;Mr. Allen always wants it hot,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;and it 'll be stone cold. I don't see where they
went to.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here they are now,&rdquo; said Henry. He and Meeks cast
an apprehensive glance at each other. Voices were heard, and Horace
and Rose entered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are we late?&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I am awfully sorry if we have kept you waiting, Mrs.
Whitman,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Pass your plate up, if you please, Mr.
Allen,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Henry, hand Mr. Allen the brown
bread. I expect it's stone cold.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I like it better cold,&rdquo; said Horace,
cheerfully.</p>
<p>Sylvia stared at him, then she turned to Rose. &ldquo;Where on
earth have you been?&rdquo; she demanded.</p>
<p>Horace answered for her. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I'm thankful to have it put off to-night, anyhow,&rdquo;
he said. &ldquo;Sylvia was all wrought up about their being late to
supper, and she wouldn't have got a mite of sleep.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't think anything will be said
to-night?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I guess not. I heard Sylvia tell Rose she'd better go
to bed right after supper, and Rose said, &lsquo;Very well, Aunt
Sylvia,&rsquo; in that way she has. I never saw a human being who
seems to take other people's orders as Rose does.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Allen told me he'd got to sit up till midnight over some
writing,&rdquo; said Meeks. &ldquo;That may have made a difference
to the girl. Reckon she knew spooning was over for
to-day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry looked back at the house. There were two lighted windows
on the second floor. &ldquo;Rose is going to bed,&rdquo; he said.
&ldquo;That light's in her room.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She looked happy enough to dazzle one when she came in,
poor little thing,&rdquo; said Meeks. In his voice was an odd
mixture of tenderness, admiration, and regret. &ldquo;You've got
your wife,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You might have got married if you'd wanted to,&rdquo;
said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;well&mdash;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wouldn't she have you after Susy got married?&rdquo;
asked Henry. The words sounded blunt, but his voice was tender.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She was a handsome girl.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She was handsome,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;She's up there with
the girl, and Rose 'll tell her,&rdquo; he thought, uneasily.
&ldquo;She can't keep it to herself if she's alone with another
woman.&rdquo;</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.
&ldquo;Are you here?&rdquo; she asked. She meant her voice to be
harsh, but it rang sweet with tenderness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, Aunt Sylvia.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where are you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Over here beside the window.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What on earth are you setting in the dark for?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I just thought I'd sit down here a few minutes. I was
going to light the lamp soon.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;You'll get cold setting there,&rdquo; said Sylvia;
&ldquo;besides, folks can look right in. Get up and I'll unhook
your dress.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;What were you and Mr. Allen talking about so long down in
the orchard?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;A good many things&mdash;ever so many things,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Why don't you look at me?&rdquo; she said, in a hard
whisper.</p>
<p>Rose remained motionless.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look at me.&rdquo;</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&mdash;a smile of ecstasy.</p>
<p>Sylvia turned deadly pale. She gasped, and held the girl from
her, looking at her pitilessly. &ldquo;You don't mean it?&rdquo;
she exclaimed.</p>
<p>Then Rose spoke with a sudden burst of emotion. &ldquo;Oh, Aunt
Sylvia,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then it's so?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose gave her a glance of ineffable happiness and appeal for
sympathy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You and him are planning to get married?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You and him are planning to get married?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wasn't sure till this afternoon,&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;I wasn't sure,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;but
he&mdash;told me, and&mdash;now I am sure.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Rose wept a little, softly, against Sylvia's thin breast.
Sylvia stood like a stone. &ldquo;Haven't you had all you wanted
here?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Aunt Sylvia, you know I have. You've been so good to
me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had got my plans made to put in a bath-room,&rdquo;
said Sylvia. &ldquo;I've got the carpenters engaged, and the
plumber. They are going to begin next week.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You've been as good as can be to me, Aunt
Sylvia.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, you have; I know you have, dear Aunt Sylvia,&rdquo;
murmured Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have done all I knew how,&rdquo; repeated Sylvia, in a
stony fashion. She put the girl gently away and turned to go, but
Rose caught her arm.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Aunt Sylvia, you aren't going like this!&rdquo; she
cried. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are like my very own daughter,&rdquo; said Sylvia,
stiffly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then why don't you like Horace?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never said anything against him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then why do you look so?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia stood silent.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You won't go without kissing me, anyway, will you?&rdquo;
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.
&ldquo;Now go to bed,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Henry Whitman,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sylvia, you are as white as a sheet. What on earth ails
you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you know what has happened?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry's eyes fell before her wretched, questioning ones.
&ldquo;What do you mean, Sylvia?&rdquo; he said, in a faint
voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you know that Mr. Allen and Rose have come to an
understanding and are going to get married?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry stared at her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She has just told me,&rdquo; said Sylvia. &ldquo;Here I
have done everything in the world I could for her to make her
contented.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sylvia, what on earth makes you feel so? She is only
going to do what every girl who has a good chance does&mdash;what
you did yourself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look at here,&rdquo; said Sylvia, in an awful voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What are they?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What are they? Don't look so, Sylvia.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>Sylvia stood beside him, and their eyes remained fixed on each
other's white face. &ldquo;I suppose the others are the
same,&rdquo; Henry said, hoarsely.</p>
<p>Sylvia nodded. &ldquo;Only from different papers. It's terrible
how alike they are.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So you've had this on your mind?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia nodded grimly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;When did you find them?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We'd been living here a few days. I was up in the garret.
There was a box.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry remained motionless for a few moments. Then he sighed
heavily, rose, and took Sylvia by the hand. &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; he
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What are you going to do?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;There's a fire in the stove, ain't there?&rdquo;
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>&ldquo;Have you got any reason to believe that any living person
besides you and I knows anything about this?&rdquo; he asked.</p>
<p>Sylvia shook her head.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you think Miss Farrel knew?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia shook her head again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you think that lawyer out West, who takes care of her
money, knows?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo; Sylvia spoke in a thin, strained voice.
&ldquo;This must be what she is always afraid of
remembering,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Pray God she never does remember,&rdquo; Henry said.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You wondered why I didn't want her to get married to
him,&rdquo; said Sylvia.</p>
<p>Henry made an impatient motion. &ldquo;Look here, Sylvia,&rdquo;
he said. &ldquo;I love that young man like my own son, and your
feeling about it is rank idiocy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And I love her like my own daughter!&rdquo; cried Sylvia,
passionately. &ldquo;And I don't want to feel that she's marrying
and keeping anything back.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Oh, Uncle
Henry,&rdquo; she sobbed, &ldquo;Aunt Sylvia is worrying over
something, and she won't tell me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense,&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia spoke, hardly moving her thin lips. &ldquo;I have nothing
whatever against your marriage,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I did think
at first that you were better off as you were, but now I don't feel
so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you act so.&rdquo; Rose stumbled to her feet and ran
sobbing out of the room.</p>
<p>Henry turned to his wife, who sat like a statue. &ldquo;Sylvia,
you ought to be ashamed of yourself,&rdquo; he said, in a
bewildered tone. &ldquo;Here you are taking all the pleasure out of
that poor child's little love-affair, going about as you
do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There are other things besides love-affairs,&rdquo; said
Sylvia, in a strange, monotonous tone, almost as if she were deaf
and dumb, and had no knowledge of inflections. &ldquo;There are
affairs between the soul and its Maker that are more important than
love betwixt men and women.&rdquo;</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&mdash;some bridal lingerie which she was
making for Rose. &ldquo;Look here, Sylvia,&rdquo; said Henry,
&ldquo;you don't mean that you are fretting about&mdash;what you
told me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Sylvia, in her strange voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then what&mdash;?&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Here are your scissors,&rdquo;
said he.</p>
<p>Sylvia paid no attention. She was looking at him with stern,
angry eyes.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What I have to bear I have to bear,&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Something is on my wife's mind,&rdquo; he told Sidney,
when the two men were alone in the pleasant, untidy room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you think she feels badly about the
love-affair?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She says that isn't it,&rdquo; replied Henry, gloomily,
&ldquo;but she goes about with a face like grim death, and I don't
know what to make of it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She'll tell finally.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know whether she will or not.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Women always do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know whether she will or not.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She will.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I have told him I couldn't marry him, Aunt Sylvia,&rdquo;
she said.</p>
<p>Sylvia looked at her. &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; she asked,
harshly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't marry him and have you feel so dreadfully about
it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who said I felt dreadfully about it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nobody said so; but you look so dreadfully.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't help my looks. They have nothing whatever to do
with your love-affairs.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You say that just to pacify me, I know,&rdquo; said Rose,
pitifully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't know. Do you mean to say that you have
dismissed him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, and he is horribly angry with me,&rdquo; moaned
Rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;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?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He just slammed the door and ran.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia laid her work on the table and started out of the room
with an angry stride.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Now look at here, both of you,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I didn't know she felt so,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I
did think it would about kill her if it went on,&rdquo; she
whispered. &ldquo;I think I was mistaken.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And you didn't mind in the least how much I was hurt, as
long as she wasn't,&rdquo; said Horace.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I did.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I must say it did not have that appearance.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Rose wept softly against his rough coat-sleeve. &ldquo;I wanted
to do what was right, and she looked so dreadfully; and I didn't
want to be selfish,&rdquo; she sobbed.</p>
<p>Horace looked down at her, and his face softened. &ldquo;Oh
Rose,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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&mdash;or, rather, at the feet of your conscience.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I only wanted to do what was right,&rdquo; Rose sobbed
again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know you did, dear.&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Don't laugh at me,&rdquo; she whispered.</p>
<p>Horace kissed her. &ldquo;I am not laughing at you, but at the
eternal feminine, dear,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I won't talk so any more, darling.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't think I have much of the eternal feminine about
me, Horace.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course not, sweetheart.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I love you, anyway,&rdquo; Rose whispered, and put up her
face to be kissed again, &ldquo;and I didn't want to hurt you. I
only wanted to do my duty.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course you did, sweetheart. But now you think your
duty is to marry me, don't you?&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;She is talking to herself in there,&rdquo;
whispered Rose. &ldquo;Horace, what do you suppose it is about?
Poor Aunt Sylvia must be worrying horribly about something. What do
you think it is?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know, darling,&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;Ain't I doing everything I can?&rdquo; demanded Sylvia.
&ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;Why, who were you talking
to?&rdquo; he asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nobody,&rdquo; replied Sylvia, taking another stitch.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought I heard you talking.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How could I be talking when there ain't anybody here to
talk to?&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;It's almost as bad
as when they thought we'd committed murder,&rdquo; she said to
Hannah.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was queer how we found that,&rdquo; said Hannah.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush,&rdquo; said Lucinda. &ldquo;You remember what we
agreed upon after we'd told Albion Bennet that we'd keep it
secret.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I remember,&rdquo; said Hannah; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was awful,&rdquo; said Lucinda. &ldquo;Poor soul! I
always liked her. People ought to be contented with what God has
given them for complexions.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wonder if she would have looked very dreadful if she
hadn't taken it,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I
suppose,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that it would never have happened
if she had been careful. I suppose lots of women do use such
things.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucinda cast a sharp glance at Hannah. &ldquo;It's downright
wicked fooling with them,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I hope you won't
get any such ideas into your head.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I sha'n't,&rdquo; replied Hannah. &ldquo;I'm
married.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I heard pretty straight this morning,&rdquo; said
Lucinda, &ldquo;that Lucy Ayres had got married out West, and had
done real well.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'm mighty glad of it,&rdquo; said Hannah, sharply.
&ldquo;She was crazy enough to get married when she was
here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucinda echoed her as sharply. &ldquo;Guess you're right,&rdquo;
she said. &ldquo;Albion Bennet told me some things. I shouldn't
think she'd make much of a wife, if she has got a pretty
face.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;What is
it?&rdquo; she said to Albion, who was waiting, holding his pitcher
of hot water.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;only I was over to Alford
this morning and&mdash;I bought some violets. I thought you'd like
to wear them to the wedding.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lucinda stared at him. &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; asked she.</p>
<p>Albion fidgeted and his pitcher of hot water tilted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look out, you're spilling the water,&rdquo; said Lucinda.
&ldquo;What for?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I&mdash;thought you might like to wear them, you
know,&rdquo; said Albion. He had never before given violets to a
woman, and she had never had any given her by a man.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; she said, faintly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I've ordered a hack to come for me at half-past seven,
and&mdash;I thought maybe you'd like to ride with me,&rdquo; said
Albion, further.</p>
<p>Lucinda stared. &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; she said again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought you might like to ride.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Lucinda colored. &ldquo;Why, folks would talk,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let them. I don't care; do you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't care,&rdquo; said Albion. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Land!&rdquo; said Lucinda. &ldquo;I can do the work for
only two.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You're going to have a hired girl,&rdquo; said Albion,
firmly. &ldquo;I know of one I can get. She's a real good cook. Are
you going in the hack with me, Lucinda?&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;Good land!&rdquo; said Albion, &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can do up my hair like them, if I want to,&rdquo; said
Lucinda. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you'll go in the hack?&rdquo; said Albion.</p>
<p>Lucinda made a sudden, sharp wheel about. &ldquo;I sha'n't get
ready to go in a hack if I don't hurry and get these biscuits made
for supper,&rdquo; 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 r&ocirc;le 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. &ldquo;Lord!&rdquo; said
he, &ldquo;why ain't you been for candy and soda to the store,
too?&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;I believe I weigh
fifty pounds more than I did when the blamed thing was made,&rdquo;
he said to Henry, &ldquo;and the broadcloth is as thin as paper.
I'm afraid to move.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry looked very sober. &ldquo;What's the matter, Henry?&rdquo;
asked Sidney.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's Sylvia.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sylvia? I thought&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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. &ldquo;The idea of a man from a shoe-shop giving
away a bride in real lace at a swell wedding,&rdquo; said
Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She was the right sort to ask you, though,&rdquo; said
Meeks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Bless her little heart,&rdquo; said Henry, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;By Jove!&rdquo; said the lawyer, in a whisper.
&ldquo;What does ail her, Henry? She looks as if she was going to
jump at something.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;I have something to say,&rdquo; said she, in a thin,
strained voice. &ldquo;You wait.&rdquo;</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>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Stand back, Henry, and listen
with the others. You had nothing to do with it. You ain't concerned
in it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then she addressed the assembly. &ldquo;This man, my
husband,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;has known nothing of it. I want
you all to understand that before I begin.&rdquo; 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>&ldquo;I want,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia unfolded the roll of paper and began reading. The will
was very short and concise. It was as follows:</p>
<p>&ldquo;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>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&ldquo;(Signed) Abrahama White.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia read the will in her thin, strained voice, very clearly.
Every word was audible. Then she spoke again. &ldquo;I have kept it
secret all this time,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She stopped. There was a tense silence. Then Sidney Meeks spoke.
&ldquo;Mrs. Whitman,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;may I trouble you for
the date of that document you hold, and also for the names of the
witnesses?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia looked at Sidney in bewilderment, then she scrutinized
the will. &ldquo;I don't see any date,&rdquo; she said, at last,
&ldquo;and there is no name signed except just
Abrahama's.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Meeks stepped forward. &ldquo;Ladies and gentlemen,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia looked at the lawyer, and her face was ghastly. &ldquo;Do
you mean to say that I have been thinking I was committing theft,
when I wasn't, all this time?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I certainly do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry went to Sylvia and took hold of her arm, but she did not
seem to heed him. &ldquo;I was just as guilty,&rdquo; said she,
firmly, &ldquo;for I had the knowledge of sin in my heart and I
held it there. I was just as guilty.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She stared helplessly at the worthless will which she still
held. A young girl tittered softly. Sylvia turned towards the
sound. &ldquo;There is no occasion to laugh,&rdquo; said she,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Sylvia stopped. Rose had both arms around her, and was kissing
her and whispering. Sylvia pushed her gently away.
&ldquo;Now,&rdquo; she said to the minister, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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&mdash;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&mdash;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>&ldquo;This man,&rdquo; he was saying to himself, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;</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>





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