It was not quite a year afterwards that the wedding-day of Rose and
Horace was set. It was July, shortly after the beginning of the
summer vacation. The summer was very cool, and the country looked
like June rather than July. Even the roses were not gone.
The wedding was to be in the evening, and all day long women worked
decorating the house. Rose had insisted on being married in the old
White homestead. She was to have quite a large wedding, and people
from New York and Boston crowded the hotel. Miss Hart was obliged to
engage three extra maids. Hannah Simmons had married the winter
before. She had married a young man from Alford, where she now lived,
and came over to assist her former mistress. Lucinda had a look of
combined delight and anxiety. "It's almost as bad as when they
thought we'd committed murder," she said to Hannah.
"It was queer how we found that," said Hannah.
"Hush," said Lucinda. "You remember what we agreed upon after we'd
told Albion Bennet that we'd keep it secret."
"Of course I remember," said Hannah; "but there ain't any harm in my
reminding you how queer it was that we found the arsenic, that the
poor thing had been taking to make her beautiful complexion, in her
room."
"It was awful," said Lucinda. "Poor soul! I always liked her. People
ought to be contented with what God has given them for complexions."
"I wonder if she would have looked very dreadful if she hadn't taken
it," Hannah said, ruminatingly. She was passing the kitchen
looking-glass as she spoke, and glanced in it. Hannah considered that
her own skin was very rough. "I suppose," said she, "that it would
never have happened if she had been careful. I suppose lots of women
do use such things."
Lucinda cast a sharp glance at Hannah. "It's downright wicked fooling
with them," said she. "I hope you won't get any such ideas into your
head."
"No, I sha'n't," replied Hannah. "I'm married."
"I heard pretty straight this morning," said Lucinda, "that Lucy
Ayres had got married out West, and had done real well."
"I'm mighty glad of it," said Hannah, sharply. "She was crazy enough
to get married when she was here."
Lucinda echoed her as sharply. "Guess you're right," she said.
"Albion Bennet told me some things. I shouldn't think she'd make much
of a wife, if she has got a pretty face."
"She's just the kind to settle down and be a real sensible woman,
after she's found out that she's on the earth and not in the clouds,"
returned Hannah, with an air of wisdom.
Then Albion Bennet came into the kitchen for some hot water for
shaving. He was going to the wedding, and had closed his store early,
and was about to devote a long time to preparations. Lucinda, also,
was going. She had a new black silk for the occasion.
When Albion left the kitchen he beckoned her to follow him. She made
an excuse and went out into the corridor. "What is it?" she said to
Albion, who was waiting, holding his pitcher of hot water.
"Nothing," said he, "only I was over to Alford this morning and--I
bought some violets. I thought you'd like to wear them to the
wedding."
Lucinda stared at him. "What for?" asked she.
Albion fidgeted and his pitcher of hot water tilted.
"Look out, you're spilling the water," said Lucinda. "What for?"
"I--thought you might like to wear them, you know," said Albion. He
had never before given violets to a woman, and she had never had any
given her by a man.
"Thank you," she said, faintly.
"I've ordered a hack to come for me at half-past seven, and--I
thought maybe you'd like to ride with me," said Albion, further.
Lucinda stared. "What for?" she said again.
"I thought you might like to ride."
Then Lucinda colored. "Why, folks would talk," said she.
"Let them. I don't care; do you?"
"Albion Bennet, I'm a lot older than you. I ain't old enough to be
your mother, but I'm a good deal older than you."
"I don't care," said Albion. "I know how old you are. I don't care.
I'd enough sight rather have you than those young things that keep
racing to my store. When I get you I shall know what I've got, and
when I've got them I shouldn't know. I'd rather have heavy bread, or
dry bread, and know it was bread, than new-fangled things that ain't
a mite more wholesome, and you don't know what you've got. I don't
know how you feel, Lucinda, but I ain't one who could ever marry
somebody he hadn't summered and wintered. I've summered and wintered
you, and you've summered and wintered me. I don't know how much
falling in love there is for either of us, but I reckon we can get on
together and have a good home, and that's what love-making has to
wind up in, if the mainspring don't break and all the works bust. I'm
making quite a little lot from my store. I suppose maybe the soda and
candy trade will fall off a little if I get married, but if it does I
can take a young clerk to draw it. You won't have to work so hard.
You can let some of this big hotel, and keep rooms enough for us, and
I'll hire a girl for the kitchen and you can do fancy-work."
"Land!" said Lucinda. "I can do the work for only two."
"You're going to have a hired girl," said Albion, firmly. "I know of
one I can get. She's a real good cook. Are you going in the hack with
me, Lucinda?"
Lucinda looked up at him, and her face was as the face of a young
girl. She had never had an offer, nor a lover. Albion Bennet looked
very dear to her.
"Good land!" said Albion, "you act as if you were a back number,
Lucinda. You look as young as lots of the young women. You don't do
up your hair quite like the girls that come for soda and candy, but
otherwise--"
"I can do up my hair like them, if I want to," said Lucinda. "It's
thick enough. I suppose I 'ain't fussed because I didn't realize that
anybody but myself ever thought about it one way or the other."
"Then you'll go in the hack?" said Albion.
Lucinda made a sudden, sharp wheel about. "I sha'n't get ready to go
in a hack if I don't hurry and get these biscuits made for supper,"
said she, and was gone.
It is odd how individuality will uprear itself before its own
consciousness, in the most adverse circumstances. Few in all the
company invited to the wedding wasted a thought upon Albion Bennet
and Lucinda Hart, but both felt as if they were the principal figures
of it all. Lucinda really did merit attention. She had taken another
role upon her stage of life. The change in her appearance savored of
magic. Albion kept looking at her as if he doubted his very eyes.
Lucinda did not wear the black silk which she had made for the
occasion. She had routed out an old lavender satin, which she had
worn years ago and had laid aside for mourning when her father died.
It was made in one of those quaint styles which defy fashion. Lucinda
had not changed as to her figure. She hesitated a little at the
V-shape of the neck. She wondered if she really ought not to fill
that in with lace, but she shook her head defiantly, and fastened
around her neck a black velvet ribbon with a little pearl pin. Then
she tucked Albion's violets in the lavender satin folds of her waist.
Her hair was still untouched with gray, and she had spoken the truth
when she had said she could arrange it like a girl. She had puffed it
low over her temples and given it a daring twist in the back.
Albion fairly gasped when he saw her. "Lord!" said he, "why ain't you
been for candy and soda to the store, too?"
Few people at the wedding noticed Lucinda and Albion, but they
noticed each other to that extent that all save themselves seemed
rather isolated from them. Albion whispered to Lucinda that she would
make a beautiful bride, and she looked up at him, and they were in
love.
They stood well back. Neither Lucinda nor Albion were pushing.
Lucinda considered that her wonderful city boarders belonged in the
front ranks, and Albion shared her opinion. It was a beautiful
wedding. The old house was transformed into a bower with flowers and
vines. Musicians played in the south room, which was like a grove
with palms. There was a room filled with the wedding-presents, and
the glitter of cut glass and silver seemed almost like another
musical effect.
The wedding was to be at eight o'clock. Everybody was there before
that time. Meeks and Henry stood together in the hall by the spiral
staircase, which was wound with flowers and vines. Henry wore a
dress-suit for the first time in his life. Meeks wore an ancient one,
in which he moved gingerly. "I believe I weigh fifty pounds more than
I did when the blamed thing was made," he said to Henry, "and the
broadcloth is as thin as paper. I'm afraid to move."
Henry looked very sober. "What's the matter, Henry?" asked Sidney.
"It's Sylvia."
"Sylvia? I thought--"
"Yes, I thought, too, that she had got what was on her mind off it,
but she hasn't. I don't know what ails her. She ain't herself. I'm
worried to death about her."
Then the wedding-march was played and the bridal party came down the
stairs. Rose was on the arm of the lawyer who had acted as her
trustee. He was to give her away. The task had been an impossible one
for Henry to undertake, although he had been the first one thought of
by Rose. Henry had told Meeks, and the two had chuckled together over
it. "The idea of a man from a shoe-shop giving away a bride in real
lace at a swell wedding," said Henry.
"She was the right sort to ask you, though," said Meeks.
"Bless her little heart," said Henry, "she wouldn't care if Uncle
Henry smelled strong enough of leather to choke out the smell of the
flowers. But I ain't going to make a spectacle of myself at my time
of life. If I stand that dress-suit I shall do well. Sylvia is going
to wear black lace with a tail to it. I know somebody will step on
it."
Sylvia, in her black lace, came down the stairs in the wake of the
bridal party. She did not seem to see her husband as she passed him.
"By Jove!" said the lawyer, in a whisper. "What does ail her, Henry?
She looks as if she was going to jump at something."
Henry did not answer. He made his way as quickly as possible after
Sylvia, and Sidney kept with him.
Horace and Rose, in her bridal white, stood before the clergyman. The
music had ceased. The clergyman opened his mouth to begin the
wedding-service, when Sylvia interrupted him. She pushed herself like
a wedge of spiritual intent past the bridal pair and the bridesmaids
and best man, and stood beside the clergyman. He was a small, blond
man, naturally nervous, and he fairly trembled when Sylvia put her
hand on his arm and spoke.
"I have something to say," said she, in a thin, strained voice. "You
wait."
The clergyman looked aghast at her. People pressed forward, craning
their necks to hear more distinctly. Some tittered from nervousness.
Henry made his way to his wife's side, but she pushed him from her.
"No," she said. "Stand back, Henry, and listen with the others. You
had nothing to do with it. You ain't concerned in it."
Then she addressed the assembly. "This man, my husband," she said,
"has known nothing of it. I want you all to understand that before I
begin." Sylvia fumbled in the folds of her black lace skirt, while
the people waited. She produced a roll of paper and held it up before
them. Then she began her speech.
"I want," said she, "before all this company, before my old friends,
and the friends of these two young people who are about to be
married, to make my confession. I have not had the courage before. I
have courage now, and this is the fitting time and place, since it
metes out the fittest punishment and shame to me, who deserve so
much. You have assembled here to-night thinking that you were to be
at my house at this wedding. It is not so. It is not my house. None
of this property is mine. I have known it was not mine since a little
while after we came to live here. I have known it all belonged to
Rose Fletcher, Abrahama White's own niece. After Rose came to live
with us, I tried to put salve on my conscience by doing every single
thing I could for her. When my husband went to work again, I spent
every cent that came from her aunt's property on Rose. I gave her all
her aunt's jewelry. I tried to salve over my conscience and make it
seem right--what I had done, what I was doing. I tried to make it
seem right by telling myself that Rose had enough property of her own
and didn't need this, but I couldn't do it. I have been in torment,
holding wealth that didn't belong to me, that has gnawed at my very
heart all the time. Now I am going to confess. Here is Abrahama
White's last will and testament. I found it in a box in the garret
with some letters. Abrahama wrote letters to her sister asking her to
forgive her, and telling her how sorry she was, and begging her to
come home, but she never sent one of them. There they all were. She
had tried to salve her conscience as I have tried to salve mine. She
couldn't do it, either. She had to give it up, as I am doing. Then
she made her will and left all her property to Rose."
Sylvia unfolded the roll of paper and began reading. The will was
very short and concise. It was as follows:
"I, Abrahama White, being in sound mind and understanding, and moved
thereunto by a desire to make my peace with God for my sins before I
give up this mortal flesh, declare this to be my last will and
testament. I give and bequeath to my niece, Rose Fletcher, the
daughter of my beloved sister, deceased, my entire property, real and
personal, to her and her heirs forever. And I hereby appoint Sidney
Meeks, Esquire, as my executor.
"(Signed) Abrahama White."
Sylvia read the will in her thin, strained voice, very clearly. Every
word was audible. Then she spoke again. "I have kept it secret all
this time," said she. "My husband knew nothing of it. I kept it from
him. I tried to hide from God and myself what I was doing, but I
could not. Here is the will, and Miss Rose Fletcher, who stands
before you, about to be united to the man of her choice, is the owner
of this house and land and all the property which goes with it."
She stopped. There was a tense silence. Then Sidney Meeks spoke.
"Mrs. Whitman," he said, "may I trouble you for the date of that
document you hold, and also for the names of the witnesses?"
Sylvia looked at Sidney in bewilderment, then she scrutinized the
will. "I don't see any date," she said, at last, "and there is no
name signed except just Abrahama's."
Meeks stepped forward. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "Mrs. Whitman
has, I am pleased to say, been under quite unnecessary anxiety of
spirit. The document which she holds is not valid. It is neither
dated nor signed. I have seen it before. The deceased lady, Miss
Abrahama White, called me in one morning, shortly before her death,
and showed me this document, which she had herself drawn up, merely
to make her wishes clear to me. She instructed me to make out a will
under those directions, and I was to bring it to her for her
signature, and produce the proper witnesses. Then, the next day, she
called me in to inform me that there had been a change in her plans
since she had heard of her niece's having a fortune, and gave me
directions for the later will, which was properly made out, signed,
witnessed, and probated after Miss White's decease. Mrs. Whitman is
the rightful heir; but since she has labored under the delusion that
she was not, I am sure we all appreciate her courage and sense of
duty in making the statement which you have just heard from her lips."
Sylvia looked at the lawyer, and her face was ghastly. "Do you mean
to say that I have been thinking I was committing theft, when I
wasn't, all this time?" said she.
"I certainly do."
Henry went to Sylvia and took hold of her arm, but she did not seem
to heed him. "I was just as guilty," said she, firmly, "for I had the
knowledge of sin in my heart and I held it there. I was just as
guilty."
She stared helplessly at the worthless will which she still held. A
young girl tittered softly. Sylvia turned towards the sound. "There
is no occasion to laugh," said she, "at one who thought she was
sinning, and has had the taste of sin in her soul, even though she
was not doing wrong. The intention was there."
Sylvia stopped. Rose had both arms around her, and was kissing her
and whispering. Sylvia pushed her gently away. "Now," she said to the
minister, "you can go on with your marrying. Even if Mr. Meeks had
told me before what he has just told me here in your presence, I
should have had to speak out. I've carried it on my shoulders and in
my heart just as long as I could and live and walk and speak under
it, let alone saying my prayers. I don't say I haven't got to carry
it now, for I have, as long as I live; but telling you all about it
was the only way I could shift a little of the heft of it. Now I feel
as if the Lord Almighty was helping me carry the burden, and always
would. That's all I've got to say. Now you can go on with your
marrying."
Sylvia stepped back. There was a hush, then a solemn murmur of one
voice, broken at intervals by other hushes and low responses.
When it was over, and the bridal pair stood in the soft shadow of
their bridal flowers--Rose's white garment being covered with a
lace-like tracery of vines and bride roses, and her head with its
chaplet of orange-blossoms shining out clearly with a white radiance
from the purple mist of leaves and flowers, which were real, yet
unreal, and might have been likened to her maiden dreams--Henry and
Sylvia came first to greet them.
Henry's dress-suit fitted well, but his shoulders, bent with his
life-work over the cutting-table, already moulded it. No tailor on
earth could overcome the terrible, triumphant rigidity of that back
fitted for years to its burden of toil. However, the man's face was
happy with a noble happiness. He simply shook hands, with awkward
solemnity, with the two, but in his heart was great, unselfish
exultation.
"This man," he was saying to himself, "has work to do that won't
grind him down and double him up, soul and body, like a dumb animal.
He can take care of his wife, and not let her get bent, either, and
the Lord knows I'm thankful."
He felt Sylvia's little nervous hand on his arm, and a great
tenderness for her was over him. He had not a thought of blame or
shame on her account.
Instead, he looked at Rose, blooming under her bridal flowers, not so
much smiling as beaming with a soft, remote radiance, like a star,
and he said to himself: "Thank the Lord that she will never get so
warped and twisted as to what is right and wrong by the need of money
to keep soul and body together, that she will have to do what my wife
has done, and bear such a burden on her pretty shoulders."
It seemed to Henry that never, not even in his first wedded rapture,
had he loved his wife as he loved her that night. He glanced at her,
and she looked wonderful to him; in fact, there was in Sylvia's face
that night an element of wonder. In it spirit was manifest, far above
and crowning the flesh and its sordid needs. Her shoulders, under the
fine lace gown, were bent; her very heart was bent; but she saw the
goal where she could lay her burden down.
The music began again. People thronged around the bride and groom.
There were soft sounds of pleasant words, gentle laughs, and happy
rejoinders. Everybody smiled. They witnessed happiness with perfect
sympathy. It cast upon them rosy reflections. And yet every one bore,
unseen or seen, the burden of his or her world upon straining
shoulders. The grand, pathetic tragedy inseparable from life, which
Atlas symbolized, moved multiple at the marriage feast, and yet love
would in the end sanctify it for them all.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Shoulders of Atlas, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman