They got through the supper without any trouble, and the aunts went home
in the early twilight, each with her bonnet strings tied precisely, her
lace mitts drawn smoothly over her bony hands, and her little knitting bag
over her right arm. They walked decorously up the shaded, elm-domed
street, each mindful of her aristocratic instep, and trying to walk erect
as in the days when they were gazed upon with admiration, knowing that
still an air of former greatness hovered about them wherever they went.
They had brightened considerably at the supper table, under the genial
influence of David’s presence. They came as near to worshiping David as
one can possibly come to worshiping a human being. David, desirous above
all things of blinding their keen, sure-to-say-“I-told-you-so” old eyes,
roused to be his former gay self with them, and pleased them so that they
did not notice how little lover-like reference he made to his bride, who
was decidedly in the background for the time, the aunts, perhaps
purposely, desiring to show her a wife’s true place,—at least the true
place of a wife of a David.
They had allowed her to bring their things and help them on with capes and
bonnets, and, when they were ready to leave, Aunt Amelia put out a
lifeless hand, that felt in its silk mitt like a dead fish in a net, and
said to Marcia:
“Our sister Clarinda is desirous of seeing David’s wife. She wished us
most particularly to give you her love and say to you that she wishes you
to come to her at the earliest possible moment. You know she is lame and
cannot easily get about.”
“Young folks should always be ready to wait upon their elders,” said Aunt
Hortense, grimly. “Come as soon as you can,—that is, if you think you can
stand the smell of salt-rising.”
Marcia’s face flushed painfully, and she glanced quickly at David to see
if he had noticed what his aunt had said, but David was already
anticipating the moment when he would be free to lay aside his mask and
bury his face in his hands and his thoughts in sadness.
Marcia’s heart sank as she went about clearing off the supper things. Was
life always to be thus? Would she be forever under the espionage of those
two grim spectres of women, who seemed, to her girlish imagination, to
have nothing about them warm or loving or woman-like?
She seemed to herself to be standing outside of a married life and looking
on at it as one might gaze on a panorama. It was all new and painful, and
she was one of the central figures expected to act on through all the
pictures, taking another’s place, yet doing it as if it were her own. She
glanced over at David’s pale, grave face, set in its sadness, and a sharp
pain went through her heart. Would he ever get over it? Would life never
be more cheerful than it now was?
He spoke to her occasionally, in a pleasant abstracted way, as to one who
understood him and was kind not to trouble his sadness, and he lighted a
candle for her when the work was done and said he hoped she would rest
well, that she must still be weary from the long journey. And so she went
up to her room again.
She did not go to bed at once, but sat down by the window looking out on
the moonlit street. There had been some sort of a meeting at the church
across the way, and the people were filing out and taking their various
ways home, calling pleasant good nights, and speaking cheerily of the
morrow. The moon, though beginning to wane, was bright and cast sharp
shadows. Marcia longed to get out into the night. If she could have got
downstairs without being heard she would have slipped out into the garden.
But downstairs she could hear David pacing back and forth like some hurt,
caged thing. Steadily, dully, he walked from the front hall back into the
kitchen and back again. There was no possibility of escaping his notice.
Marcia felt as if she might breathe freer in the open air, so she leaned
far out of her window and looked up and down the street, and thought.
Finally,—her heart swelled to bursting, as young hearts with their first
little troubles will do,—she leaned down her dark head upon the window
seat and wept and wept, alone.
It was the next morning at breakfast that David told her of the
festivities that were planned in honor of their home coming. He spoke as
if they were a great trial through which they both must pass in order to
have any peace, and expressed his gratitude once more that she had been
willing to come here with him and pass through it. Marcia had the
impression, after he was done speaking and had gone away to the office,
that he felt that she had come here merely for these few days of ceremony
and after they were passed she was dismissed, her duty done, and she might
go home. A great lump arose in her throat and she suddenly wished very
much indeed that it were so. For if it were, how much, how very much she
would enjoy queening it for a few days—except for David’s sadness. But
already, there had begun to be an element to her in that sadness which in
spite of herself she resented. It was a heavy burden which she began dimly
to see would be harder and harder to bear as the days went by. She had not
yet begun to think of the time before her in years.
They were to go to the aunts’ to tea that evening, and after tea a company
of David’s old friends—or rather the old friends of David’s aunts—were
coming in to meet them. This the aunts had planned: but it seemed they had
not counted her worthy to be told of the plans, and had only divulged them
to David. Marcia had not thought that a little thing could annoy her so
much, but she found it vexed her more and more as she thought upon it
going about her work.
There was not so much to be done in the house that morning after the
breakfast things were cleared away. Dinners and suppers would not be much
of a problem for some days to come, for the house was well stocked with
good things.
The beds done and the rooms left in dainty order with the sweet summer
breeze blowing the green tassels on the window shades, Marcia went softly
down like some half guilty creature to the piano. She opened it and was
forthwith lost in delight of the sounds her own fingers brought forth.
She had been playing perhaps half an hour when she became conscious of
another presence in the room. She looked up with a start, feeling that
some one had been there for some time, she could not tell just how long.
Peering into the shadowy room lighted only from the window behind her, she
made out a head looking in at the door, the face almost hidden by a
capacious sunbonnet. She was not long in recognizing her visitor of the
day before. It was like a sudden dropping from a lofty mountain height
down into a valley of annoyance to hear Miranda’s sharp metallic voice:
“Morning!” she courtesied, coming in as soon as she perceived that she was
seen. “At it again? I ben listening sometime. It’s as pretty as Silas
Drew’s harmonicker when he comes home evenings behind the cows.”
Marcia drew her hands sharply from the keys as if she had been struck.
Somehow Miranda and music were inharmonious. She scarcely knew what to
say. She felt as if her morning were spoiled. But Miranda was too full of
her own errand to notice the clouded face and cool welcome. “Say, you
can’t guess how I got over here. I’ll tell you. You’re going over to the
Spafford house to-night, ain’t you? and there’s going to be a lot of folks
there. Of course we all know all about it. It’s been planned for months.
And my cousin Hannah Heath has an invite. You can’t think how fond Miss
Amelia and Miss Hortense are of her. They tried their level best to make
David pay attention to her, but it didn’t work. Well, she was talking
about what she’d wear. She’s had three new frocks made last week, all
frilled and fancy. You see she don’t want to let folks think she is down
in the mouth the least bit about David. She’ll likely make up to you, to
your face, a whole lot, and pretend she’s the best friend you’ve got in
the world. But I’ve just got this to say, don’t you be too sure of her
friendship. She’s smooth as butter, but she can give you a slap in the
face if you don’t serve her purpose. I don’t mind telling you for she’s
given me many a one,” and the pale eyes snapped in unison with the color
of her hair. “Well, you see I heard her talking to Grandma, and she said
she’d give anything to know what you were going to wear to-night.”
“How curious!” said Marcia surprised. “I’m sure I do not see why she
should care!” There was the coolness born of utter indifference in her
reply which filled the younger girl with admiration. Perhaps too there was
the least mite of haughtiness in her manner, born of the knowledge that
she belonged to an old and honored family, and that she had in her
possession a trunk full of clothes that could vie with any that Hannah
Heath could display. Miranda wished silently that she could convey that
cool manner and that wide-eyed indifference to the sight of her cousin
Hannah.
“H’m!” giggled Miranda. “Well, she does! If you were going to wear blue
you’d see she’d put on her green. She’s got one that’ll kill any blue
that’s in the same room with it, no matter if it’s on the other side. Its
just sick’ning to see them together. And she looks real well in it too. So
when she said she wanted to know so bad, Grandma said she’d send me over
to know if you’d accept a jar of her fresh pickle-lily, and mebbe I could
find out about your clothes. The pickle-lily’s on the kitchen table. I
left it when I came through. It’s good, but there ain’t any love in it.”
And Miranda laughed a hard mirthless laugh, and then settled down to her
subject again.
“Now, you needn’t be a mite afraid to tell me about it. I won’t tell it
straight, you know. I’d just like to see what you are going to wear so I
could keep her out of her tricks for once. Is your frock blue?”
Now it is true that the trunk upstairs contained a goodly amount of the
color blue, for Kate Schuyler had been her bonniest in blue, and the
particular frock which had been made with reference to this very first
significant gathering was blue. Marcia had accepted the fact as
unalterable. The garment was made for a purpose, and its mission must be
fulfilled however much she might wish to wear something else, but suddenly
as Miranda spoke there came to her mind the thought of rebellion. Why
should she be bound down to do exactly as Kate would do in her place? If
she had accepted the sacrifice of living Kate’s life for her, she might at
least have the privilege of living it in the pleasantest possible way, and
surely the matter of dress was one she might be allowed to settle for
herself if she was old enough at all to be trusted away from home. Among
the pretty things that Kate had made was a sweet rose-pink silk tissue.
Madam Schuyler had frowned upon it as frivolous, and besides she did not
think it becoming to Kate. She had a fixed theory that people with blue
eyes and gold hair should never wear pink or red, but Kate as usual had
her own way, and with her wild rose complexion had succeeded in looking
like the wild rose itself in spite of blue eyes and golden hair. Marcia
knew in her heart, in fact she had known from the minute the lovely pink
thing had come into the house, that it was the very thing to set her off.
Her dark eyes and hair made a charming contrast with the rose, and her
complexion was even fresher than Kate’s. Her heart grew suddenly eager to
don this dainty, frilley thing and outshine Hannah Heath beyond any chance
of further trying. There were other frocks, too, in the trunk. Why should
she be confined to the stately blue one that had been marked out for this
occasion? Marcia, with sudden inspiration, answered calmly, just as though
all these tumultuous possibilities of clothes had not been whirling
through her brain in that half second’s hesitation:
“I have not quite decided what I shall wear. It is not an important
matter, I’m sure. Let us go and see the piccalilli. I’m very much obliged
to your grandmother, I’m sure. It was kind of her.”
Somewhat awed, Miranda followed her hostess into the kitchen. She could
not reconcile this girl’s face with the stately little airs that she wore,
but she liked her and forthwith she told her so.
“I like you,” she said fervently. “You remind me of one of Grandma’s
sturtions, bright and independent and lively, with a spice and a color to
’em, and Hannah makes you think of one of them tall spikes of gladiolus
all fixed up without any smell.”
Marcia tried to smile over the doubtful compliment. Somehow there was
something about Miranda that reminded her of Mary Ann. Poor Mary Ann!
_Dear_ Mary Ann! For suddenly she realized that everything that reminded
her of the precious life of her childhood, left behind forever, was dear.
If she could see Mary Ann at this moment she would throw her arms about
her neck and call her “Dear Mary Ann,” and say, “I love you,” to her.
Perhaps this feeling made her more gentle with the annoying Miranda than
she might have been.
When Miranda was gone the precious play hour was gone too. Marcia had only
time to steal hurriedly into the parlor, close the instrument, and then
fly about getting her dinner ready. But as she worked she had other
thoughts to occupy her mind. She was becoming adjusted to her new
environment and she found many unexpected things to make it hard. Here,
for instance, was Hannah Heath. Why did there have to be a Hannah Heath?
And what was Hannah Heath to her? Kate might feel jealous, indeed, but not
she, not the unloved, unreal, wife of David. She should rather pity Hannah
that David had not loved her instead of Kate, or pity David that he had
not. But somehow she did not, somehow she could not. Somehow Hannah Heath
had become a living, breathing enemy to be met and conquered. Marcia felt
her fighting blood rising, felt the Schuyler in her coming to the front.
However little there was in her wifehood, its name at least was hers. The
tale that Miranda had told was enough, if it were true, to put any woman,
however young she might be, into battle array. Marcia was puzzling her
mind over the question that has been more or less of a weary burden to
every woman since the fatal day that Eve made her great mistake.
David was silent and abstracted at the dinner table, and Marcia absorbed
in her own problems did not feel cut by it. She was trying to determine
whether to blossom out in pink, or to be crushed and set aside into
insignificance in blue, or to choose a happy medium and wear neither. She
ventured a timid little question before David went away again: Did he,
would he,—that is, was there any thing,—any word he would like to say to
her? Would she have to do anything to-night?
David looked at her in surprise. Why, no! He knew of nothing. Just go and
speak pleasantly to every one. He was sure she knew what to do. He had
always thought her very well behaved. She had manners like any woman. She
need not feel shy. No one knew of her peculiar position, and he felt
reasonably sure that the story would not soon get around. Her position
would be thoroughly established before it did, at least. She need not feel
uncomfortable. He looked down at her thinking he had said all that could
be expected of him, but somehow he felt the trouble in the girl’s eyes and
asked her gently if there was anything more.
“No,” she said slowly, “unless, perhaps—I don’t suppose you know what it
would be proper for me to wear.”
“Oh, that does not matter in the least,” he replied promptly. “Anything.
You always look nice. Why, I’ll tell you, wear the frock you had on the
night I came.” Then he suddenly remembered the reason why that was a
pleasant memory to him, and that it was not for her sake at all, but for
the sake of one who was lost to him forever. His face contracted with
sudden pain, and Marcia, cut to the heart, read the meaning, and felt sick
and sore too.
“Oh, I could not wear that,” she said sadly, “it is only chintz. It would
not be nice enough, but thank you. I shall be all right. Don’t trouble
about me,” and she forced a weak smile to light him from the house, and
shut from his pained eyes the knowledge of how he had hurt her, for with
those words of his had come the vision of herself that happy night as she
stood at the gate in the stillness and moonlight looking from the portal
of her maidenhood into the vista of her womanhood, which had seemed then
so far away and bright, and was now upon her in sad reality. Oh, if she
could but have caught that sentence of his about her little chintz frock
to her heart with the joy of possession, and known that he said it because
he too had a happy memory about her in it, as she had always felt the
coming, misty, dream-expected lover would do!
She spread the available frocks out upon the bed after the other things
were put neatly away in closet and drawer, and sat down to decide the
matter. David’s suggestion while impossible had given her an idea, and she
proceeded to carry it out. There was a soft sheer white muslin, whereon
Kate had expended her daintiest embroidering, edged with the finest of
little lace frills. It was quaint and simple and girlish, the sweetest,
most simple affair in all of Kate’s elaborate wardrobe, and yet, perhaps,
from an artistic point of view, the most elegant. Marcia soon made up her
mind.
She dressed herself early, for David had said he would be home by four
o’clock and they would start as soon after as he could get ready. His
aunts wished to show her the old garden before dark.
When she came to the arrangement of her hair she paused. Somehow her soul
rebelled at the style of Kate. It did not suit her face. It did not accord
with her feeling. It made her seem unlike herself, or unlike the self she
would ever wish to be. It suited Kate well, but not her. With sudden
determination she pulled it all down again from the top of her head and
loosened its rich waves about her face, then loosely twisted it behind,
low on her neck, falling over her delicate ears, until her head looked
like that of an old Greek statue. It was not fashion, it was pure instinct
the child was following out, and there was enough conformity to one of the
fashionable modes of the day to keep her from looking odd. It was lovely.
Marcia could not help seeing herself that it was much more becoming than
the way she had arranged it for her marriage, though then she had had the
wedding veil to soften the tightly drawn outlines of her head. She put on
the sheer white embroidered frock then, and as a last touch pinned the bit
of black velvet about her throat with a single pearl that had been her
mother’s. It was the bit of black velvet she had worn the night David
came. It gave her pleasure to think that in so far she was conforming to
his suggestion.
She had just completed her toilet when she heard David’s step coming up
the walk.
David, coming in out of the sunshine and beholding this beautiful girl in
the coolness and shadow of the hall awaiting him shyly, almost started
back as he rubbed his eyes and looked at her again. She was beautiful. He
had to admit it to himself, even in the midst of his sadness, and he
smiled at her, and felt another pang of condemnation that he had taken
this beauty from some other man’s lot perhaps, and appropriated it to
shield himself from the world’s exclamation about his own lonely life.
“You have done it admirably. I do not see that there is anything left to
be desired,” he said in his pleasant voice that used to make her
girl-heart flutter with pride that her new brother-to-be was pleased with
her. It fluttered now, but there was a wider sweep to its wings, and a
longer flight ahead of the thought.
Quite demurely the young wife accepted her compliment, and then she meekly
folded her little white muslin cape with its dainty frills about her
pretty shoulders, drew on the new lace mitts, and tied beneath her chin
the white strings of a shirred gauze bonnet with tiny rosebuds nestling in
the ruching of tulle about the face.
Once more the bride walked down the world the observed of all observers,
the gazed at of the town, only this time it was brick pavement not oaken
stairs she trod, and most of the eyes that looked upon her were sheltered
behind green jalousies. None the less, however, was she conscious of them
as she made her way to the house of solemn feasting with David by her
side. Her eyes rested upon the ground, or glanced quietly at things in the
distance, when they were not lifted for a moment in wifely humility to her
husband’s face at some word of his. Just as she imagined a hundred times
in her girlish thoughts that her sister Kate would do, so did she, and
after what seemed to her an interminable walk, though in reality it was
but four village blocks, they arrived at the house of Spafford.