Marcia Schuyler
by Grace Livingston Hill Lutz
Edition 1, (August 2007)
MARCIA SCHUYLER
SIXTH EDITION
[Illustration: Copyright by C. Klackner
“OH, YOU NAUGHTY MAN!” SHE EXCLAIMED PRETTILY, “HOW DARE YOU!”]
Copyright by C. Klackner
“OH, YOU NAUGHTY MAN!” SHE EXCLAIMED PRETTILY, “HOW DARE YOU!”
Marcia Schuyler
by
Grace Livingston Hill Lutz
Author of “The Story of a Whim,” “According to the
Pattern,” “An Unwilling Guest,” etc.
_Illustrations by_
E. L. HENRY, N.A.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS · NEW YORK
Copyright, 1908
By J. B. Lippincott Company
Published February, 1908
_Electrotyped and printed by J. B. Lippincott Company_
_The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A._
TO
THE DEAR MEMORY OF
MY FATHER
The Rev. CHARLES MONTGOMERY LIVINGSTON
WHOSE COMPANIONSHIP AND ENCOURAGEMENT
HAVE BEEN MY HELP THROUGH
THE YEARS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
AD PAGES
ERRATA
Marcia Schuyler
CHAPTER I
The sun was already up and the grass blades were twinkling with sparkles
of dew, as Marcia stepped from the kitchen door.
She wore a chocolate calico with little sprigs of red and white scattered
over it, her hair was in smooth brown braids down her back, and there was
a flush on her round cheeks that might have been but the reflection of the
rosy light in the East. Her face was as untroubled as the summer morning,
in its freshness, and her eyes as dreamy as the soft clouds that hovered
upon the horizon uncertain where they were to be sent for the day.
Marcia walked lightly through the grass, and the way behind her sparkled
again like that of the girl in the fairy-tale who left jewels wherever she
passed.
A rail fence stopped her, which she mounted as though it had been a steed
to carry her onward, and sat a moment looking at the beauty of the
morning, her eyes taking on that far-away look that annoyed her stepmother
when she wanted her to hurry with the dishes, or finish a long seam before
it was time to get supper.
She loitered but a moment, for her mind was full of business, and she
wished to accomplish much before the day was done. Swinging easily down to
the other side of the fence she moved on through the meadow, over another
fence, and another meadow, skirting the edge of a cool little strip of
woods which lured her with its green mysterious shadows, its whispering
leaves, and twittering birds. One wistful glance she gave into the sweet
silence, seeing a clump of maiden-hair ferns rippling their feathery locks
in the breeze. Then resolutely turning away she sped on to the slope of
Blackberry Hill.
It was not a long climb to where the blackberries grew, and she was soon
at work, the great luscious berries dropping into her pail almost with a
touch. But while she worked the vision of the hills, the sheep meadow
below, the river winding between the neighboring farms, melted away, and
she did not even see the ripe fruit before her, because she was planning
the new frock she was to buy with these berries she had come to pick.
Pink and white it was to be; she had seen it in the store the last time
she went for sugar and spice. There were dainty sprigs of pink over the
white ground, and every berry that dropped into her bright pail was no
longer a berry but a sprig of pink chintz. While she worked she went over
her plans for the day.
There had been busy times at the old house during the past weeks. Kate,
her elder sister, was to be married. It was only a few days now to the
wedding.
There had been a whole year of preparation: spinning and weaving and fine
sewing. The smooth white linen lay ready, packed between rose leaves and
lavender. There had been yards and yards of tatting and embroidery made by
the two girls for the trousseau, and the village dressmaker had spent days
at the house, cutting, fitting, shirring, till now there was a goodly
array of gorgeous apparel piled high upon bed, and chairs, and hanging in
the closets of the great spare bedroom. The outfit was as fine as that
made for Patience Hartrandt six months before, and Mr. Hartrandt had given
his one daughter all she had asked for in the way of a “setting out.” Kate
had seen to it that her things were as fine as Patience’s,—but, they were
all for Kate!
Of course, that was right! Kate was to be married, not Marcia, and
everything must make way for that. Marcia was scarcely more than a child
as yet, barely seventeen. No one thought of anything new for her just
then, and she did not expect it. But into her heart there had stolen a
longing for a new frock herself amid all this finery for Kate. She had her
best one of course. That was good, and pretty, and quite nice enough to
wear to the wedding, and her stepmother had taken much relief in the
thought that Marcia would need nothing during the rush of getting Kate
ready.
But there were people coming to the house every day, especially in the
afternoons, friends of Kate, and of her stepmother, to be shown Kate’s
wardrobe, and to talk things over curiously. Marcia could not wear her
best dress all the time. And _he_ was coming! That was the way Marcia
always denominated the prospective bridegroom in her mind.
His name was David Spafford, and Kate often called him Dave, but Marcia,
even to herself, could never bring herself to breathe the name so
familiarly. She held him in great awe. He was so fine and strong and good,
with a face like a young saint in some old picture, she thought. She often
wondered how her wild, sparkling sister Kate dared to be so familiar with
him. She had ventured the thought once when she watched Kate dressing to
go out with some young people and preening herself like a bird of Paradise
before the glass. It all came over her, the vanity and frivolousness of
the life that Kate loved, and she spoke out with conviction:
“Kate, you’ll have to be very different when you’re married.” Kate had
faced about amusedly and asked why.
“Because _he_ is so good,” Marcia had replied, unable to explain further.
“Oh, is that all?” said the daring sister, wheeling back to the glass.
“Don’t you worry; I’ll soon take that out of him.”
But Kate’s indifference had never lessened her young sister’s awe of her
prospective brother-in-law. She had listened to his conversations with her
father during the brief visits he had made, and she had watched his face
at church while he and Kate sang together as the minister lined it out:
“Rock of Ages cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee,” a new song which
had just been written. And she had mused upon the charmed life Kate would
lead. It was wonderful to be a woman and be loved as Kate was loved,
thought Marcia.
So in all the hurry no one seemed to think much about Marcia, and she was
not satisfied with her brown delaine afternoon dress. Truth to tell, it
needed letting down, and there was no more left to let down. It made her
feel like last year to go about in it with her slender ankles so plainly
revealed. So she set her heart upon the new chintz.
Now, with Marcia, to decide was to do. She did not speak to her stepmother
about it, for she knew it would be useless; neither did she think it worth
while to go to her father, for she knew that both his wife and Kate would
find it out and charge her with useless expense just now when there were
so many other uses for money, and they were anxious to have it all flow
their way. She had an independent spirit, so she took the time that
belonged to herself, and went to the blackberry patch which belonged to
everybody.
Marcia’s fingers were nimble and accustomed, and the sun was not very high
in the heavens when she had finished her task and turned happily toward
the village. The pails would not hold another berry.
Her cheeks were glowing with the sun and exercise, and little wisps of
wavy curls had escaped about her brow, damp with perspiration. Her eyes
were shining with her purpose, half fulfilled, as she hastened down the
hill.
Crossing a field she met Hanford Weston with a rake over his shoulder and
a wide-brimmed straw hat like a small shed over him. He was on his way to
the South meadow. He blushed and greeted her as she passed shyly by. When
she had passed he paused and looked admiringly after her. They had been in
the same classes at school all winter, the girl at the head, the boy at
the foot. But Hanford Weston’s father owned the largest farm in all the
country round about, and he felt that did not so much matter. He would
rather see Marcia at the head anyway, though there never had been the
slightest danger that he would take her place. He felt a sudden desire now
to follow her. It would be a pleasure to carry those pails that she bore
as if they were mere featherweights.
He watched her long, elastic step for a moment, considered the sun in the
sky, and his father’s command about the South meadow, and then strode
after her.
It did not take long to reach her side, swiftly as she had gone.
As well as he could, with the sudden hotness in his face and the tremor in
his throat, he made out to ask if he might carry her burden for her.
Marcia stopped annoyed. She had forgotten all about him, though he was an
attractive fellow, sometimes called by the girls “handsome Hanford.”
She had been planning exactly how that pink sprigged chintz was to be
made, and which parts she would cut first in order to save time and
material. She did not wish to be interrupted. The importance of the matter
was too great to be marred by the appearance of just a schoolmate whom she
might meet every day, and whom she could so easily “spell down.” She
summoned her thoughts from the details of mutton-leg sleeves and looked
the boy over, to his great confusion. She did not want him along, and she
was considering how best to get rid of him.
“Weren’t you going somewhere else?” she asked sweetly. “Wasn’t there a
rake over your shoulder? What have you done with it?”
The culprit blushed deeper.
“Where were you going?” she demanded.
“To the South meadow,” he stammered out.
“Oh, well, then you must go back. I shall do quite well, thank you. Your
father will not be pleased to have you neglect your work for me, though
I’m much obliged I’m sure.”
Was there some foreshadowing of her womanhood in the decided way she
spoke, and the quaint, prim set of her head as she bowed him good morning
and went on her way once more? The boy did not understand. He only felt
abashed, and half angry that she had ordered him back to work; and, too,
in a tone that forbade him to take her memory with him as he went.
Nevertheless her image lingered by the way, and haunted the South meadow
all day long as he worked.
Marcia, unconscious of the admiration she had stirred in the boyish heart,
went her way on fleet feet, her spirit one with the sunny morning, her
body light with anticipation, for a new frock of her own choice was yet an
event in her life.
She had thought many times, as she spent long hours putting delicate
stitches into her sister’s wedding garments, how it would seem if they
were being made for her. She had whiled away many a dreary seam by
thinking out, in a sort of dream-story, how she would put on this or that
at will if it were her own, and go here or there, and have people love and
admire her as they did Kate. It would never come true, of course. She
never expected to be admired and loved like Kate. Kate was beautiful,
bright and gay. Everybody loved her, no matter how she treated them. It
was a matter of course for Kate to have everything she wanted. Marcia felt
that she never could attain to such heights. In the first place she
considered her own sweet serious face with its pure brown eyes as
exceedingly plain. She could not catch the lights that played at hide and
seek in her eyes when she talked with animation. Indeed few saw her at her
best, because she seldom talked freely. It was only with certain people
that she could forget herself.
She did not envy Kate. She was proud of her sister, and loved her, though
there was an element of anxiety in the love. But she never thought of her
many faults. She felt that they were excusable because Kate was Kate. It
was as if you should find fault with a wild rose because it carried a
thorn. Kate was set about with many a thorn, but amid them all she
bloomed, her fragrant pink self, as apparently unconscious of the many
pricks she gave, and as unconcerned, as the flower itself.
So Marcia never thought to be jealous that Kate had so many lovely things,
and was going out into the world to do just as she pleased, and lead a
charmed life with a man who was greater in the eyes of this girl than any
prince that ever walked in fairy-tale. But she saw no harm in playing a
delightful little dream-game of “pretend” now and then, and letting her
imagination make herself the beautiful, admired, elder sister instead of
the plain younger one.
But this morning on her way to the village store with her berries she
thought no more of her sister’s things, for her mind was upon her own
little frock which she would purchase with the price of the berries, and
then go home and make.
A whole long day she had to herself, for Kate and her stepmother were gone
up to the neighboring town on the packet to make a few last purchases.
She had told no one of her plans, and was awake betimes in the morning to
see the travellers off, eager to have them gone that she might begin to
carry out her plan.
Just at the edge of the village Marcia put down the pails of berries by a
large flat stone and sat down for a moment to tidy herself. The lacing of
one shoe had come untied, and her hair was rumpled by exercise. But she
could not sit long to rest, and taking up her burdens was soon upon the
way again.
Mary Ann Fothergill stepped from her own gate lingering till Marcia should
come up, and the two girls walked along side by side. Mary Ann had stiff,
straight, light hair, and high cheek bones. Her eyes were light and her
eyelashes almost white. They did not show up well beneath her checked
sunbonnet. Her complexion was dull and tanned. She was a contrast to
Marcia with her clear red and white skin. She was tall and awkward and
wore a linsey-woolsey frock as though it were a meal sack temporarily
appropriated. She had the air of always trying to hide her feet and hands.
Mary Ann had some fine qualities, but beauty was not one of them. Beside
her Marcia’s delicate features showed clear-cut like a cameo, and her
every movement spoke of patrician blood.
Mary Ann regarded Marcia’s smooth brown braids enviously. Her own sparse
hair barely reached to her shoulders, and straggled about her neck
helplessly and hopelessly, in spite of her constant efforts.
“It must be lots of fun at your house these days,” said Mary Ann
wistfully. “Are you most ready for the wedding?”
Marcia nodded. Her eyes were bright. She could see the sign of the village
store just ahead and knew the bolts of new chintz were displaying their
charms in the window.
“My, but your cheeks do look pretty,” admired Mary Ann impulsively. “Say,
how many of each has your sister got?”
“Two dozens,” said Marcia conscious of a little swelling of pride in her
breast. It was not every girl that had such a setting out as her sister.
“My!” sighed Mary Ann. “And outside things, too. I ’spose she’s got one of
every color. What are her frocks? Tell me about them. I’ve been up to
Dutchess county and just got back last night, but Ma wrote Aunt Tilly that
Mis’ Hotchkiss said her frocks was the prettiest Miss Hancock’s ever sewed
on.”
“We think they are pretty,” admitted Marcia modestly. “There’s a sprigged
chin—” here she caught herself, remembering, and laughed. “I mean
muslin-de-laine, and a blue delaine, and a blue silk——”
“My! silk!” breathed Mary Ann in an ecstasy of wonder. “And what’s she
going to be married in?”
“White,” answered Marcia, “white satin. And the veil was mother’s—our own
mother’s, you know.”
Marcia spoke it reverently, her eyes shining with something far away that
made Mary Ann think she looked like an angel.
“Oh, my! Don’t you just envy her?”
“No,” said Marcia slowly; “I think not. At least—I hope not. It wouldn’t
be right, you know. And then she’s my sister and I love her dearly, and
it’s nearly as nice to have one’s sister have nice things and a good time
as to have them one’s self.”
“You’re good,” said Mary Ann decidedly as if that were a foregone
conclusion. “But I should envy her, I just should. Mis’ Hotchkiss told Ma
there wa’nt many lots in life so all honey-and-dew-prepared like your
sister’s. All the money she wanted to spend on clo’es, and a nice set out,
and a man as handsome as you’ll find anywhere, and he’s well off too,
ain’t he? Ma said she heard he kept a horse and lived right in the village
too, not as how he needed to keep one to get anywhere, either. That’s what
I call luxury—a horse to ride around with. And then Mr. What’s-his-name? I
can’t remember. Oh, yes, Spafford. He’s good, and everybody says he won’t
make a bit of fuss if Kate does go around and have a good time. He’ll just
let her do as she pleases. Only old Grandma Doolittle says she doesn’t
believe it. She thinks every man, no matter how good he is, wants to
manage his wife, just for the name of it. She says your sister’ll have to
change her ways or else there’ll be trouble. But that’s Grandma! Everybody
knows her. She croaks! Ma says Kate’s got her nest feathered well if ever
a girl had. My! I only wish I had the same chance!”
Marcia held her head a trifle high when Mary Ann touched upon her sister’s
personal character, but they were nearing the store, and everybody knew
Mary Ann was blunt. Poor Mary Ann! She meant no harm. She was but
repeating the village gossip. Besides, Marcia must give her mind to
sprigged chintz. There was no time for discussions if she would accomplish
her purpose before the folks came home that night.
“Mary Ann,” she said in her sweet, prim way that always made the other
girl stand a little in awe of her, “you mustn’t listen to gossip. It isn’t
worth while. I’m sure my sister Kate will be very happy. I’m going in the
store now, are you?” And the conversation was suddenly concluded.
Mary Ann followed meekly watching with wonder and envy as Marcia made her
bargain with the kindly merchant, and selected her chintz. What a
delicious swish the scissors made as they went through the width of cloth,
and how delightfully the paper crackled as the bundle was being wrapped!
Mary Ann did not know whether Kate or Marcia was more to be envied.
“Did you say you were going to make it up yourself?” asked Mary Ann.
Marcia nodded.
“Oh, my! Ain’t you afraid? I would be. It’s the prettiest I ever saw.
Don’t you go and cut both sleeves for one arm. That’s what I did the only
time Ma ever let me try.” And Mary Ann touched the package under Marcia’s
arm with wistful fingers.
They had reached the turn of the road and Mary Ann hoped that Marcia would
ask her out to “help,” but Marcia had no such purpose.
“Well, good-bye! Will you wear it next Sunday?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” answered Marcia breathlessly, and sped on her homeward way, her
cheeks bright with excitement.
[Illustration: Copyright by C. Klackner
KATE AND HER STEPMOTHER WERE GONE UP TO THE NEIGHBORING TOWN ON THE
PACKET.]
Copyright by C. Klackner
KATE AND HER STEPMOTHER WERE GONE UP TO THE NEIGHBORING TOWN ON THE
PACKET.
In her own room she spread the chintz out upon the bed and with trembling
fingers set about her task. The bright shears clipped the edge and tore
off the lengths exultantly as if in league with the girl. The bees hummed
outside in the clover, and now and again buzzed between the muslin
curtains of the open window, looked in and grumbled out again. The birds
sang across the meadows and the sun mounted to the zenith and began its
downward march, but still the busy fingers worked on. Well for Marcia’s
scheme that the fashion of the day was simple, wherein were few puckers
and plaits and tucks, and little trimming required, else her task would
have been impossible.
Her heart beat high as she tried it on at last, the new chintz that she
had made. She went into the spare room and stood before the long mirror in
its wide gilt frame that rested on two gilt knobs standing out from the
wall like giant rosettes. She had dared to make the skirt a little longer
than that of her best frock. It was almost as long as Kate’s, and for a
moment she lingered, sweeping backward and forward before the glass and
admiring herself in the long graceful folds. She caught up her braids in
the fashion that Kate wore her hair and smiled at the reflection of
herself in the mirror. How funny it seemed to think she would soon be a
woman like Kate. When Kate was gone they would begin to call her “Miss”
sometimes. Somehow she did not care to look ahead. The present seemed
enough. She had so wrapped her thoughts in her sister’s new life that her
own seemed flat and stale in comparison.
The sound of a distant hay wagon on the road reminded her that the sun was
near to setting. The family carryall would soon be coming up the lane from
the evening packet. She must hurry and take off her frock and be dressed
before they arrived.
Marcia was so tired that night after supper that she was glad to slip away
to bed, without waiting to hear Kate’s voluble account of her day in town,
the beauties she had seen and the friends she had met.
She lay down and dreamed of the morrow, and of the next day, and the next.
In strange bewilderment she awoke in the night and found the moonlight
streaming full into her face. Then she laughed and rubbed her eyes and
tried to go to sleep again; but she could not, for she had dreamed that
she was the bride herself, and the words of Mary Ann kept going over and
over in her mind. “Oh, don’t you envy her?” _Did_ she envy her sister? But
that was wicked. It troubled her to think of it, and she tried to banish
the dream, but it would come again and again with a strange sweet
pleasure.
She lay wondering if such a time of joy would ever come to her as had come
to Kate, and whether the spare bed would ever be piled high with clothes
and fittings for her new life. What a wonderful thing it was anyway to be
a woman and be loved!
Then her dreams blended again with the soft perfume of the honeysuckle at
the window, and the hooting of a young owl.
The moon dropped lower, the bright stars paled, dawn stole up through the
edges of the woods far away and awakened a day that was to bring a strange
transformation over Marcia’s life.