Marcia hurried down to her own house early one morning. The phantoms of
her experiences in the old Green Tavern were pursuing her.
Once there she could do nothing but go over and over the dreadful things
that Harry Temple had said. In vain did she try to work. She went into the
library and took up a book, but her mind would wander to David.
She sat down at the piano and played a few tender chords and sang an old
Italian song which somebody had left at their house several years before:
“Dearest, believe,
When e’er we part:
Lonely I grieve,
In my sad heart:—”
With a sob her head dropped upon her hands in one sad little crash of
wailing tones, while the sound died away in reverberation after
reverberation of the strings till Marcia felt as if a sea of sound were
about her in soft ebbing, flowing waves.
The sound covered the lifting of the side door latch and the quiet step of
a foot. Marcia was absorbed in her own thoughts. Her smothered sobs were
mingling with the dying sounds of the music, still audible to her fine
ear.
David had come by instinct to his own home first. He felt that Marcia
would be there, and now that he was come and the morning sun flooded
everything and made home look so good he felt that he must find her first
of all before his relationship with home had been re-established. He
passed through kitchen, dining room and hall, and by the closed parlor
door. He never thought of her being in there with the door closed. He
glanced into the library and saw the book lying in his chair as she had
left it, and it gave a touch of her presence which pleased him. He went
softly toward the stairs thinking to find her. He had stopped at a shop
the last thing and bought a beautiful creamy shawl of China crêpe heavily
embroidered, and finished with long silken fringe. He had taken it from
his carpet-bag and was carrying it in its rice paper wrappings lest it
should be crushed. He was pleased as a child at the present he had brought
her, and felt strangely shy about giving it to her.
Just then there came a sound from the parlor, sweet and tender and
plaintive. Marcia had conquered her sobs and was singing again with her
whole soul, singing as if she were singing to David. The words drew him
strangely, wonderingly toward the parlor door, yet so softly that he heard
every syllable.
“Dearest, believe,
When e’er we part:
Lonely I grieve,
In my sad heart:—
Thy faithful slave,
Languishing sighs,
Haste then and save—”
Here the words trailed away again into a half sob, and the melody
continued in broken, halting chords that flickered out and faded into the
shadows of the room.
David’s heart was pierced with a belief that Aunt Clarinda was right and
something was the matter with Marcia. A great trouble and tenderness, and
almost jealousy, leaped up in his heart which were incomprehensible to
him. Who was Marcia singing this song for? That it was a true cry from a
lonely soul he could but believe. Was she feeling her prison-bars here in
the lonely old house with only a forlorn man whose life and love had been
thrown away upon another? Poor child! Poor child! If he might but save her
from suffering, cover her with his own tenderness and make her content
with that. Would it be possible if he devoted himself to it to make her
forget the one for whom she was sighing; to bring peace and a certain sort
of sweet forgetfulness and interest in other things into her life? He
wanted to make a new life for her, his little girl whom he had so
unthinkingly torn from the home nest and her future, and compelled to take
up his barren way with him. He would make it up to her if such a thing
were possible. Then he opened the door.
In the soft green light of the noonday coming through the shades Marcia’s
color did not show as it flew into her cheeks. Her hands grew weak and
dropped upon the keys with a soft little tinkle of surprise and joy. She
sprang up and came a step toward him, then clasped her hands against her
breast and stopped shyly. David coming into the room, questioning,
wondering, anxious, stopped midway too, and for an instant they looked
upon one another. David saw a new look in the girl’s face. She seemed
older, much older than when he had left her. The sweet round cheeks were
thinner, her mouth drooped sadly, pathetically. For an instant he longed
to take her in his arms and kiss her. The longing startled him. So many
months he had thought of only Kate in that way, and then had tried to
teach himself never to think of Kate or any woman as one to be caressed by
him, that it shocked him. He felt that he had been disloyal to himself, to
honor,—to Kate—no—not to Kate, he had no call to be loyal to her. She had
not been loyal to him ever. Perhaps rather he would have put it loyalty to
Love for Love’s sake, love that is worthy to be crowned by a woman’s love.
With all these mingling feelings David was embarrassed. He came toward her
slowly, trying to be natural, trying to get back his former way with her.
He put out his hand stiffly to shake hands as he had done when he left,
and timidly she put hers into it, yet as their fingers closed there leaped
from one to the other a thrill of sweetness, that neither guessed the
other knew and each put by in memory for closer inspection as to what it
could mean. Their hands clung together longer than either had meant, and
there was something pleasant to each in the fact that they were together
again. David thought it was just because it was home, rest, and peace, and
a relief from his anxiety about Marcia now that he saw she was all right.
Marcia knew it was better to have David standing there with his strong
fingers about her trembling ones, than to have anything else in the world.
But she would not have told him so.
“That was a sweet song you were singing,” said David. “I hope you were
singing it for me, and that it was true! I am glad I am come home, and you
must sing it again for me soon.”
It was not in the least what he intended to say, and the words tumbled
themselves out so tumultuously that he was almost ashamed and wondered if
Marcia would think he had lost his mind in New York. Marcia, dear child,
treasured them every word and hugged them to her heart, and carried them
in her prayers.
They went out together and got dinner as if they had been two children,
with a wild excited kind of glee; and they tried to get back their natural
ways of doing and saying things, but they could not.
Instead they were forever blundering and halting in what they said; coming
face to face and almost running over one another as they tried to help
each other; laughing and blushing and blundering again.
When they each tried to reach for the tea kettle to fill the coffee pot
and their fingers touched, each drew back and pretended not to notice, but
yet had felt the contact sweet.
They were lingering over the dinner when Hannah Heath came to the door.
David had been telling of some of his adventures in detail and was
enjoying the play of expression on Marcia’s face as she listened eagerly
to every word. They had pushed their chairs back a little and were sitting
there talking,—or rather David was talking, Marcia listening. Hannah stood
for one jealous instant and saw it all. This was what she had dreamed for
her own long years back, she and David. She had questioned much just what
feeling there might be between him and Marcia, and now more than ever she
desired to bring him face to face with Kate and read for herself what the
truth had been. She hated Marcia for that look of intense delight and
sympathy upon her face; hated her that she had the right to sit there and
hear what David had to say—some stupid stuff about railroads. She did not
see that she herself would have made an ill companion for a man like
David.
As yet neither Marcia nor David had touched upon the subjects which had
troubled them. They did not realize it, but they were so suddenly happy in
each other’s company they had forgotten for the moment. The pleasant
converse was broken up at once. Marcia’s face hardened into something like
alarm as she saw who stood in the doorway.
“Why, David, have you got home at last?” said Hannah. “I did not know it.”
That was an untruth. She had watched him from behind Grandmother Heath’s
rose bush. “Where did you come from last? New York? Oh, then you saw Mrs.
Leavenworth. How is she? I fell in love with her when I was there.”
Now David had never fully taken in Kate’s married name. He knew it of
course, but in his present state of happiness at getting home, and his
absorption in the work he had been doing, the name “Mrs. Leavenworth”
conveyed nothing whatever to David’s mind. He looked blankly at Hannah and
replied indifferently enough with a cool air. “No, Miss Hannah, I had no
time for social life. I was busy every minute I was away.”
David never expected Hannah to say anything worth listening to, and he was
so full of his subject that he had not noticed that she made no reply.
Hannah watched him curiously as he talked, his remarks after all were
directed more to Marcia than to her, and when he paused she said with a
contemptuous sneer in her voice, “I never could understand, David, how you
who seem to have so much sense in other things will take up with such
fanciful, impractical dreams as this railroad. Lemuel says it’ll never
run.”
Hannah quoted her lover with a proud bridling of her head as if the matter
were settled once and for all. It was the first time she had allowed the
world to see that she acknowledged her relation to Lemuel. She was not
averse to having David understand that she felt there were other men in
the world besides himself. But David turned merry eyes on her.
“Lemuel says?” he repeated, and he made a sudden movement with his arm
which sent a knife and spoon from the table in a clatter upon the floor.
“And how much does Lemuel know about the matter?”
“Lemuel has good practical common sense,” said Hannah, vexed, “and he
knows what is possible and what is not. He does not need to travel all
over the country on a wild goose chase to learn that.”
Now that she had accepted him Hannah did not intend to allow Lemuel to be
discounted.
“He has not long to wait to be convinced,” said David thoughtfully and
unaware of her tart tone. “Before the year is out it will be a settled
fact that every one can see.”
“Well, it’s beyond comprehension what you care, anyway,” said Hannah
contemptuously. “Did you really spend all your time in New York on such
things? It seems incredible. There certainly must have been other
attractions?”
There was insinuation in Hannah’s voice though it was smooth as butter,
but David had had long years of experience in hearing Hannah Heath’s sharp
tongue. He minded it no more than he would have minded the buzzing of a
fly. Marcia’s color rose, however. She made a hasty errand to the pantry
to put away the bread, and her eyes flashed at Hannah through the close
drawn pantry door. But Hannah did not give up so easily.
“It is strange you did not stay with Mrs. Leavenworth,” she said. “She
told me you were one of her dearest friends, and you used to be quite fond
of one another.”
Then it suddenly dawned upon David who Mrs. Leavenworth was, and a
sternness overspread his face.
“Mrs. Leavenworth, did you say? Ah! I did not understand. I saw her but
once and that for only a few minutes soon after I first arrived. I did not
see her again.” His voice was cool and steady. Marcia coming from the
pantry with set face, ready for defence if there was any she could give,
marvelled at his coolness. Her heart was gripped with fear, and yet
leaping with joy at David’s words. He had not seen Kate but once. He had
known she was there and yet had kept away. Hannah’s insinuations were
false. Mr. Temple’s words were untrue. She had known it all the time, yet
what sorrow they had given her!
“By the way, Marcia,” said David, turning toward her with a smile that
seemed to erase the sternness in his voice but a moment before. “Did you
not write me some news? Miss Hannah, you are to be congratulated I
believe. Lemuel is a good man. I wish you much happiness.”
And thus did David, with a pleasant speech, turn aside Hannah Heath’s
dart. Yet while she went from the house with a smile and a sound of
pleasant wishes in her ears, she carried with her a bitter heart and a
revengeful one.
David was suddenly brought face to face with the thing he had to tell
Marcia. He sat watching her as she went back and forth from pantry to
kitchen, and at last he came and stood beside her and took her hands in
his looking down earnestly into her face. It seemed terrible to him to
tell this thing to the innocent girl, now, just when he was growing
anxious to win her confidence, but it must be told, and better now than
later lest he might be tempted not to tell it at all.
“Marcia!” He said the name tenderly, with an inflection he had never used
before. It was not lover-like, nor passionate, but it reached her heart
and drew her eyes to his and the color to her cheeks. She thought how
different his clasp was from Harry Temple’s hateful touch. She looked up
at him trustingly, and waited.
“You heard what I said to Hannah Heath just now, about—your——” He paused,
dissatisfied—“about Mrs. Leavenworth”—it was as if he would set the
subject of his words far from them. Marcia’s heart beat wildly,
remembering all that she had been told, yet she looked bravely, trustingly
into his eyes.
“It was true what I told her. I met Mrs. Leavenworth but once while I was
away. It was in her own home and she sent for me saying she was in
trouble. She told me that she was in terrible anxiety lest I would not
forgive her. She begged me to say that I forgave her, and when I told her
I did she asked me to kiss her once to prove it. I was utterly overcome
and did so, but the moment my lips touched hers I knew that I was doing
wrong and I put her from me. She begged me to remain, and I now know that
she was utterly false from the first. It was but a part she was playing
when she touched my heart until I yielded and sinned. I have only learned
that recently, within a few days, and from words written by her own hand
to another. I will tell you about it all sometime. But I want to confess
to you this wrong I have done, and to let you know that I went away from
her that day and have never seen her since. She had said she was without
money, and I left her all I had with me. I know now that that too was
unwise,—perhaps wrong. I feel that all this was a sin against you. I would
like you to forgive me if you can, and I want you to know that this other
woman who was the cause of our coming together, and yet has separated us
ever since we have been together, is no longer anything to me. Even if she
and I were both free as we were when we first met, we could never be
anything but strangers. Can you forgive me now, Marcia, and can you ever
trust me after what I have told you?”
Marcia looked into his eyes, and loved him but the more for his
confession. She felt she could forgive him anything, and her whole soul in
her countenance answered with her voice, as she said: “I can.” It made
David think of their wedding day, and suddenly it came over him with a
thrill that this sweet womanly woman belonged to him. He marvelled at her
sweet forgiveness. The joy of it surprised him beyond measure.
“You have had some sad experiences yourself. Will you tell me now all
about it?” He asked the question wistfully still holding her hands in a
firm close grasp, and she let them lie nestling there feeling safe as
birds in the nest.
“Why, how did you know?” questioned Marcia, her whole face flooded with
rosy light for joy at his kind ways and relief that she did not have to
open the story.
“Oh, a little bird, or a guardian angel whispered the tale,” he said
pleasantly. “Come into the room where we can be sure no Hannah Heaths will
trouble us,” and he drew her into the library and seated her beside him on
the sofa.
“But, indeed, Marcia,” and his face sobered, “it is no light matter to me,
what has happened to you. I have been in an agony all the way home lest I
might not find you safe and well after having escaped so terrible a
danger.”
He drew the whole story from her bit by bit, tenderly questioning her, his
face blazing with righteous wrath, and darkening with his wider knowledge
as she told on to the end, and showed him plainly the black heart of the
villain who had dared so diabolical a conspiracy; and the inhumanity of
the woman who had helped in the intrigue against her own sister,—nay even
instigated it. His feelings were too deep for utterance. He was shaken to
the depths. His new comprehension of Kate’s character was confirmed at the
worst. Marcia could only guess his deep feelings from his shaken
countenance and the earnest way in which he folded his hands over hers and
said in low tones filled with emotion: “We should be deeply thankful to
God for saving you, and I must be very careful of you after this. That
villain shall be searched out and punished if it takes a lifetime, and
Miranda,—what shall we do for Miranda? Perhaps we can induce her
grandmother to let us have her sometime to help take care of us. We seem
to be unable to get on without her. We’ll see what we can do sometime in
return for the great service she has rendered.”
But the old clock striking in the hall suddenly reminded David that he
should go at once to the office, so he hurried away and Marcia set about
her work with energy, a happy song of praise in her heart.
There was much to be done. David had said he would scarcely have time to
go over to his aunts that night, so she had decided to invite them to tea.
She would far rather have had David to herself this first evening, but it
would please them to come, especially Aunt Clarinda. There was not much
time to prepare supper to be sure, but she would stir up a gingerbread,
make some puffy cream biscuits, and there was lovely white honey and fresh
eggs and peach preserves.
So she ran to Deacon Appleby’s to get some cream for her biscuits and to
ask Tommy Appleby to harness David’s horse and drive over for Aunt
Clarinda. Then she hurried down to the aunts to give her invitation.
Aunt Clarinda sat down in her calico-covered rocking chair, wiped her dear
old eyes and her glasses, and said, over and over again: “Dear child!
Bless her! Bless her!”
It was a happy gathering that evening. David was as pleased as they could
have desired, and looked about upon the group in the dining-room with
genuine boyish pleasure. It did his heart good to see Aunt Clarinda there.
It had never occurred to him before that she could come. He turned to
Marcia with a light in his eyes that fully repaid her for the little
trouble she had had in carrying out her plan. He began to feel that home
meant something even though he had lost the home of his long dreams and
ideals.
He talked a great deal about his trip, and in between the sentences, he
caught himself watching Marcia, noting the curve of her round chin, the
dimple in her left cheek when she smiled, the way her hair waved off from
her forehead, the pink curves of her well-shaped ears. He found a distinct
pleasure in noting these things and he wondered at himself. It was as if
he had suddenly been placed before some great painting and become
possessed of the knowledge wherewith to appreciate art to its fullest. It
was as if he had heard a marvellous piece of music and had the eyes and
ears of his understanding opened to take in the gracious melodies and
majestic harmonies.
Aunt Clarinda watched his eyes, and Aunt Clarinda was satisfied. Aunt
Hortense watched his eyes, jealously and sighed. Aunt Amelia watched his
eyes and set her lips and feared to herself. “He will spoil her if he does
like that. She will think she can walk right over him.” But Aunt Clarinda
knew better. She recognized the eternal right of love.
They took the three old ladies home in the rising of an early moon, Marcia
walking demurely on the sidewalk with Aunt Amelia, while David drove the
chaise with Aunt Clarinda and Aunt Hortense.
As he gently lifted Aunt Clarinda down and helped her to her room David
felt her old hands tremble and press his arm, and when he had reached her
door he stooped and kissed her.
“Davie,” she said in the voice that used to comfort his little childish
troubles, or tell him of some nice surprise she had for him, “Davie, she’s
a dear child! She’s just as good as gold. She’s the princess I used to put
in all your fairy-tales. David, she’s just the right one for you!” and
David answered earnestly, solemnly, as if he were discovering a truth
which surprised him but yet was not unwelcome. “I believe she is, Aunt
Clarinda.”
They drove to the barn and Marcia sat in the chaise in the sweet
hay-scented darkness while David put up the horse by the cobwebby light of
the lantern; then they walked quietly back to the house. David had drawn
Marcia’s hand through his arm and it rested softly on his coat sleeve. She
was silently happy, she knew not why, afraid to think of it lest to-morrow
would show her there was nothing out of the ordinary monotony to be happy
about.
David was silent, wondering at himself. What was this that had come to
him? A new pleasure in life. A little trembling rill of joy bubbling up in
his heart; a rift in the dark clouds of fate; a show of sunshine where he
had expected never to see the light again. Why was it so pleasant to have
that little hand resting upon his arm? Was it really pleasant or was it
only a part of the restfulness of getting home again away from strange
faces and uncomfortable beds, and poor tables?
They let themselves into the house as if they were walking into a new
world together and both were glad to be there again. When she got up to
her room Marcia went and stood before the glass and looked at herself by
the flickering flame of the candle. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks
burned red in the centre like two soft deep roses. She felt she hardly
knew herself. She tried to be critical. Was this person she was examining
a pretty person? Would she be called so in comparison with Kate and Hannah
Heath? Would a man,—would David,—if his heart were not filled,—think so?
She decided not. She felt she was too immature. There was too much shyness
in her glance, too much babyishness about her mouth. No, David could never
have thought her beautiful, even if he had seen her before he knew Kate.
But perhaps, if Kate had been married first and away and then he had come
to their home, perhaps if he knew no one else well enough to love,—could
he have cared for her?
Oh, it was a dreadful, beautiful thought. It thrilled through and through
her till she hid her face from her own gaze. She suddenly kissed the hand
that had rested on his sleeve, and then reproached herself for it. She
loved him, but was it right to do so?
As for David, he was sitting on the side of his bed with his chin in his
hands examining himself.
He had supposed that with the reading of those letters which had come to
him but two short days before all possibility of love and happiness had
died, but lo! he found himself thrilling with pleasure over the look in a
girl’s soft eyes, and the touch of her hand. And that girl was his wife.
It was enough to keep him awake to try to understand himself.