He made her go into the parlor and sit down and she was all unnerved by
his gentle ways. The tears would come in spite of her. He took his own
fine wedding handkerchief and wiped them softly off her hot cheeks. He
untied the bonnet that was not hers, and flung it far into a corner in the
room. Marcia thought he put force into the fling. Then he unfolded the
shawl from her shoulders and threw that into another corner. Kate’s
beautiful thread lace shawl. Marcia felt a hysterical desire to laugh, but
David’s voice was steady and quiet when he spoke as one might speak to a
little child in trouble.
“There now, dear,” he said. He had never called her dear before. “There,
that was an ordeal, and I’m glad, it’s over. It will never trouble us that
way again. Let us put it aside and never think about it any more. We have
our own lives to live. I want you to go with me to-morrow morning to see
the train start if you feel able. We must start early and you must take a
good rest. Would you like to go?”
Marcia’s face like a radiant rainbow answered for her as she smiled behind
her tears, and all the while he talked David’s hand, as tender as a
woman’s, was passing back and forth on Marcia’s hot forehead and smoothing
the hair. He talked on quietly to soothe her, and give her a chance to
regain her composure, speaking of a few necessary arrangements for the
morning’s ride. Then he said, still in his quiet voice: “Now dear, I want
you to go to bed, for we must start rather early, but first do you think
you could sing me that little song you were singing the day I came home?
Don’t if you feel too tired, you know.”
Then Marcia, an eager light in her eyes, sprang up and went to the piano,
and began to play softly and sing the tender words she had sung once
before when he was listening and she knew it not.
“Dearest, believe,
When e’er we part:
Lonely I grieve,
In my sad heart:—”
Kate, standing within the chintz curtains across the yard shedding angry
tears upon her purple silk, heard presently the sweet tones of the piano,
which might have been hers; heard her sister’s voice singing, and began to
understand that she must bear the punishment of her own rash deeds.
The room had grown from a purple dusk into quiet darkness while Marcia was
singing, for the sun was almost down when they walked home. When the song
was finished David stood half wistfully looking at Marcia for a moment.
Her eyes shone to his through the dusk like two bright stars. He hesitated
as though he wanted to say something more, and then thought better of it.
At last he stooped and lifted her hand from the keys and led her toward
the door.
“You must go to sleep at once,” he said gently. “You’ll need all the rest
you can get.” He lighted a candle for her and said good-night with his
eyes as well as his lips. Marcia felt that she was moving up the stairs
under a spell of some gentle loving power that surrounded her and would
always guard her.
And it was about this time that Miranda, having been sent over to take a
forgotten piece of bride’s cake to Marcia, and having heard the piano, and
stolen discreetly to the parlor window for a moment, returned and detailed
for the delectation of that most unhappy guest Mrs. Leavenworth why she
could not get in and would have to take it over in the morning:
“The window was open in the parlor and they were in there, them two, but
they was so plum took up with their two selves, as they always are, that
there wasn’t no use knockin’ fer they’d never hev heard.”
Miranda enjoyed making those remarks to the guest. Some keen instinct
always told her where best to strike her blows.
When Marcia had reached the top stair she looked down and there was David
smiling up to her.
“Marcia,” said he in a tone that seemed half ashamed and half amused,
“have you, any—that is—things—that you had before—all your own I mean?”
With quick intuition Marcia understood and her own sweet shame about her
clothes that were not her own came back upon her with double force. She
suddenly saw herself again standing before the censure of her sister. She
wondered if David had heard. If not, how then did he know? Oh, the shame
of it!
She sat down weakly upon the stair.
“Yes,” said she, trying to think. “Some old things, and one frock.”
“Wear it then to-morrow, dear,” said David, in a compelling voice and with
the sweet smile that took the hurt out of his most severe words.
Marcia smiled. “It is very plain,” she said, “only chintz, pink and white.
I made it myself.”
“Charming!” said David. “Wear it, dear. Marcia, one thing more. Don’t wear
any more things that don’t belong to you. Not a Dud. Promise me? Can you
get along without it?”
“Why, I guess so,” said Marcia laughing joyfully. “I’ll try to manage. But
I haven’t any bonnet. Nothing but a pink sunbonnet.”
“All right, wear that,” said David.
“It will look a little queer, won’t it?” said Marcia doubtfully, and yet
as if the idea expressed a certain freedom which was grateful to her.
“Never mind,” said David. “Wear it. Don’t wear any more of those other
things. Pack them all up and send them where they belong, just as quick as
we get home.”
There was something masterful and delightful in David’s voice, and Marcia
with a happy laugh took her candle and got up saying, with a ring of joy
in her voice: “All right!” She went to her room with David’s second
good-night ringing in her ears and her heart so light she wanted to sing.
Not at once did Marcia go to her bed. She set her candle upon the bureau
and began to search wildly in a little old hair-cloth trunk, her own
special old trunk that had contained her treasures and which had been sent
her after she left home. She had scarcely looked into it since she came to
the new home. It seemed as if her girlhood were shut up in it. Now she
pulled it out from the closet.
What a flood of memories rushed over her as she opened it! There were
relics of her school days, and of her little childhood. But she had no
time for them now. She was in search of something. She touched them
tenderly, but laid them all out one after another upon the floor until
down in the lower corner she found a roll of soft white cloth. It
contained a number of white garments, half a dozen perhaps in all,
finished, and several others cut out barely begun. They were her own work,
every stitch, the first begun when she was quite a little girl, and her
stepmother started to teach her to sew. What pride she had taken in them!
How pleased she had been when allowed to put real tucks in some of them!
She had thought as she sewed upon them at different times that they were
to be a part of her own wedding trousseau. And then her wedding had come
upon her unawares, with the trousseau ready-made, and everything belonged
to some one else. She had folded her own poor little garments away and
thought never to take them out again, for they seemed to belong to her
dead self.
But now that dead self had suddenly come to life again. These hated things
that she had worn for a year that were not hers were to be put away, and,
pretty as they were, many of them, she regretted not a thread of them.
She laid the white garments out upon a chair and decided that she would
put on what she needed of them on the morrow, even though they were
rumpled with long lying away. She even searched out an old pair of her own
stockings and laid them on a chair with the other things. They were neatly
darned as all things had always been under her stepmother’s supervision.
Further search brought a pair of partly worn prunella slippers to light,
with narrow ankle ribbons.
Then Marcia took down the pink sprigged chintz that she had made a year
ago and laid it near the other things, with a bit of black velvet and the
quaint old brooch. She felt a little dubious about appearing on such a
great occasion, almost in Albany, in a chintz dress and with no wrap.
Stay! There was the white crêpe shawl, all her own, that David had brought
her. She had not felt like wearing it to Hannah Heath’s wedding, it seemed
too precious to take near an unloving person like Hannah. Before that she
had never felt an occasion great enough. Now she drew it forth
breathlessly. A white crêpe shawl and a pink calico sunbonnet! Marcia
laughed softly. But then, what matter! David had said wear it.
All things were ready for the morrow now. There were even her white lace
mitts that Aunt Polly in an unusual fit of benevolence had given her.
Then, as if to make the change complete, she searched out an old night
robe, plain but smooth and clean and arrayed herself in it, and so,
thankful, happy, she lay down as she had been bidden and fell asleep.
David in the room below pondered, strange to say, the subject of dress.
There was some pride beneath it all, of course; there always is behind the
great problem of dress. It was the rejected bonnet lying in the corner
with its blue ribbons limp and its blue flowers crushed that made that
subject paramount among so many others he might have chosen for his
night’s meditation.
He was going over to close the parlor window, when he saw the thing lying
innocent and discarded in the corner. Though it bore an injured look, it
yet held enough of its original aristocratic style to cause him to stop
and think.
It was all well enough to suggest that Marcia wear a pink sunbonnet. It
sounded deliciously picturesque. She looked lovely in pink and a sunbonnet
was pretty and sensible on any one; but the morrow was a great day. David
would be seen of many and his wife would come under strict scrutiny.
Moreover it was possible that Kate might be upon the scene to jeer at her
sister in a sunbonnet. In fact, when he considered it he would not like to
take his wife to Albany in a sunbonnet. It behoved him to consider. The
outrageous words which he had heard Mistress Leavenworth speak to his wife
still burned in his brain like needles of torture: revelation of the true
character of the woman he had once longed to call his own.
But that bonnet! He stood and examined it. What was a bonnet like? The
proper kind of a bonnet for a woman in his wife’s position to wear. He had
never noticed a woman’s bonnet before except as he had absent-mindedly
observed them in front of him in meeting. Now he brought his mind to bear
upon that bonnet. It seemed to be made up of three component parts—a
foundation: a girdle apparently to bind together and tie on the head; and
a decoration. Straw, silk and some kind of unreal flowers. Was that all?
He stooped down and picked the thing up with the tips of his fingers, held
it at arms length as though it were contaminating, and examined the
inside. Ah! There was another element in its construction, a sort of frill
of something thin,—hardly lace,—more like the foam of a cloud. He touched
the tulle clumsily with his thumb and finger and then he dropped the
bonnet back into the corner again. He thought he understood well enough to
know one again. He stood pondering a moment, and looked at his watch.
Yes, it was still early enough to try at least, though of course the shop
would be closed. But the village milliner lived behind her little store.
It would be easy enough to rouse her, and he had known her all his life.
He took his hat as eagerly as he had done when as a boy Aunt Clarinda had
given him a penny to buy a top and permission to go to the corner and buy
it before Aunt Amelia woke up from her nap. He went quietly out of the
door, fastening it behind him and walked rapidly down the street.
Yes, the milliner’s shop was closed, but a light in the side windows
shining through the veiling hop-vines guided him, and he was presently
tapping at Miss Mitchell’s side door. She opened the door cautiously and
peeped over her glasses at him, and then a bright smile overspread her
face. Who in the whole village did not welcome David whenever he chanced
to come? Miss Mitchell was resting from her labors and reading the village
paper. She had finished the column of gossip and was quite ready for a
visitor.
“Come right in, David,” she said heartily, for she had known him all the
years, “it does a body good to see you though your visits are as few and
far between as angels’ visits. I’m right glad to see you! Sit down.” But
David was too eager about his business.
“I haven’t any time to sit down to-night, Miss Susan,” he said eagerly,
“I’ve come to buy a bonnet. Have you got one? I hope it isn’t too late
because I want it very early in the morning.”
“A bonnet! Bless me! For yourself?” said Miss Mitchell from mere force of
commercial habit. But neither of them saw the joke, so intent upon
business were they. “For my wife, Miss Mitchell. You see she is going with
me over to Albany to-morrow morning and we start quite early. We are going
to see the new railroad train start, you know, and she seems to think she
hasn’t a bonnet that’s suitable.”
“Going to see a steam engine start, are you! Well, take care, David, you
don’t get too near. They do say they’re terrible dangerous things, and fer
my part I can’t see what good they’ll be, fer nobody’ll ever be willin’ to
ride behind ’em, but I’d like to see it start well enough. And that sweet
little wife of yours thinks she ain’t got a good enough bonnet. Land
sakes! What is the matter with her Dunstable straw, and what’s become of
that one trimmed with blue lutestrings, and where’s the shirred silk one
she wore last Sunday? They’re every one fine bonnets and ought to last her
a good many years yet if she cares fer ’em. The mice haven’t got into the
house and et them, hev they?”
“No, Miss Susan, those bonnets are all whole yet I believe, but they don’t
seem to be just the suitable thing. In fact, I don’t think they’re
over-becoming to her, do you? You see they’re mostly blue——”
“That’s so!” said Miss Mitchell. “I think myself she’d look better in
pink. How’d you like white? I’ve got a pretty thing that I made fer Hannah
Heath an’ when it was done Hannah thought it was too plain and wouldn’t
have it. I sent for the flowers to New York and they cost a high price.
Wait! I will show it to you.”
She took a candle and he followed her to the dark front room ghostly with
bonnets in various stages of perfection.
It was a pretty thing. Its foundation was of fine Milan braid, creamy
white and smooth and even. He knew at a glance it belonged to the higher
order of things, and was superior to most of the bonnets produced in the
village.
It was trimmed with plain white taffeta ribbon, soft and silky. That was
all on the outside. Around the face was a soft ruching of tulle, and
clambering among it a vine of delicate green leaves that looked as if they
were just plucked from a wild rose bank. David was delighted. Somehow the
bonnet looked like Marcia. He paid the price at once, declining to look at
anything else. It was enough that he liked it and that Hannah Heath had
not. He had never admired Hannah’s taste. He carried it home in triumph,
letting himself softly into the house, lighted three candles, took the
bonnet out and hung it upon a chair. Then he walked around it surveying it
critically, first from this side, then from that. It pleased him
exceedingly. He half wished Marcia would hear him and come down. He wanted
to see it on her, but concluded that he was growing boyish and had better
get himself under control.
The bonnet approved, he walked back and forth through the kitchen and
dining-room thinking. He compelled himself to go over the events of the
afternoon and analyze most carefully his own innermost feelings. In fact,
after doing that he began further back and tried to find out how he felt
toward Marcia. What was this something that had been growing in him
unaware through the months; that had made his homecoming so sweet, and had
brightened every succeeding day; and had made this meeting with Kate a
mere commonplace? What was this precious thing that nestled in his heart?
Might he, had he a right to call it love? Surely! Now all at once his
pulses thrilled with gladness. He loved her! It was good to love her! She
was the most precious being on earth to him. What was Kate in comparison
with her? Kate who had shown herself cold and cruel and unloving in every
way?
His anger flamed anew as he thought of those cutting sentences he had
overheard, taunting her own sister about the clothes she wore. Boasting
that he still belonged to her! She, a married woman! A woman who had of
her own free will left him at the last moment and gone away with another!
His whole nature recoiled against her. She had sinned against her
womanhood, and might no longer demand from man the homage that a true
woman had a right to claim.
Poor little bruised flower! His heart went out to Marcia. He could not
bear to think of her having to stand and listen to that heartless tirade.
And he had been the cause of all this. He had allowed her to take a
position which threw her open to Kate’s vile taunts.
Up and down he paced till the torrent of his anger spent itself, and he
was able to think more calmly. Then he went back in his thoughts to the
time when he had first met Kate and she had bewitched him. He could see
now the heartlessness of her. He had met her first at the house of a
friend where he was visiting, partly on pleasure, partly on business. She
had devoted herself to him during the time of her stay in a most charming
way, though now he recalled that she had also been equally devoted to the
son of the house whom he was visiting. When she went home she had asked
him to come and call, for her home was but seven miles away. He had been
so charmed with her that he had accepted the invitation, and, rashly he
now saw, had engaged himself to her, after having known her in all face to
face but a few days. To be sure he had known of her father for years, and
he took a good deal for granted on account of her fine family. They had
corresponded after their engagement which had lasted for nearly a year,
and in that time David had seen her but twice, for a day or two at a time,
and each time he had thought her grown more lovely. Her letters had been
marvels of modesty, and shy admiration. It was easy for Kate to maintain
her character upon paper, though she had had little trouble in making
people love her under any circumstances. Now as he looked back he could
recall many instances when she had shown a cruel, heartless nature.
Then, all at once, with a throb of joy, it came to him to be thankful to
God for the experience through which he had passed. After all it had not
been taken from him to love with a love enduring, for though Kate had been
snatched from him just at the moment of his possession, Marcia had been
given him. Fool that he was! He had been blind to his own salvation.
Suppose he had been allowed to go on and marry Kate! Suppose he had had
her character revealed to him suddenly as those letters of hers to Harry
Temple had revealed it—as it surely would have been revealed in time, for
such things cannot be hid,—and she had been his _wife!_ He shuddered. How
he would have loathed her! How he loathed her now!
Strangely enough the realization of that fact gave him joy. He sprang up
and waved his hands about in silent delight. He felt as if he must shout
for gladness. Then he gravely knelt beside his chair and uttered an
audible thanksgiving for his escape and the joy he had been given. Nothing
else seemed fitting expression of his feelings.
There was one other question to consider—Marcia’s feelings. She had always
been kind and gentle and loving to him, just as a sister might have been.
She was exceedingly young yet. Did she know, could she understand what it
meant to be loved the way he was sure he could love a woman? And would she
ever be able to love him in that way? She was so silent and shy he hardly
knew whether she cared for him or not. But there was one thought that gave
him unbounded joy and that was that she was his wife. At least no one else
could take her from him. He had felt condemned that he had married her
when his heart was heavy lest she would lose the joy of life, but all that
was changed now. Unless she loved some one else surely such love as his
could compel hers and finally make her as happy as a woman could be made.
A twinge of misgiving crossed his mind as he admitted the possibility that
Marcia might love some one else. True, he knew of no one, and she was so
young it was scarcely likely she had left any one back in her girlhood to
whom her heart had turned when she was out of his sight. Still there were
instances of strong union of hearts of those who had loved from early
childhood. It might be that Marcia’s sometime-sadness was over a companion
of her girlhood.
A great longing took possession of him to rush up and waken her and find
out if she could ever care for him. He scarcely knew himself. This was not
his dignified contained self that he had lived with for twenty-seven
years.
It was very late before he finally went upstairs. He walked softly lest he
disturb Marcia. He paused before her door listening to see if she was
asleep, but there was only the sound of the katydids in the branches
outside her window, and the distant tree-toads singing a fugue in an
orchard not far away. He tiptoed to his room but he did not light his
candle, therefore there was no light in the back room of the Spafford
house that night for any watching eyes to ponder over. He threw himself
upon the bed. He was weary in body yet his soul seemed buoyant as a bird
in the morning air. The moon was casting long bars of silver across the
rag carpet and white counterpane. It was almost full moon. Yes, to-morrow
it would be entirely full. It was full moon the night he had met Marcia
down by the gate, and kissed her. It was the first time he had thought of
that kiss with anything but pain. It used to hurt him that he had made the
mistake and taken her for Kate. It had seemed like an ill-omen of what was
to come. But now, it thrilled him with a great new joy. After all he had
given the kiss to the right one. It was Marcia to whom his soul bowed in
the homage that a man may give to a woman. Did his good angel guide him to
her that night? And how was it he had not seen the sweetness of Marcia
sooner? How had he lived with her nearly a year, and watched her dainty
ways, and loving ministry and not known that his heart was hers? How was
it he had grieved so long over Kate, and now since he had seen her once
more, not a regret was in his heart that she was not his; but a beautiful
revelation of his own love to Marcia had been wrought in him? How came it?
And the importunate little songsters in the night answered him a thousand
times: “Kate-did-it! Kate-she-did it! Yes she did! I say she did. Kate did
it!”
Had angel voices reached him through his dreams, and suddenly given him
the revelation which the little insects had voiced in their ridiculous
colloquy? It was Kate herself who had shown him how he loved Marcia.