PRESSURE.
"To be warped, unconsciously, by the magnetic influence of all
around is the destiny, to a certain extent, of even the greatest
souls."--OAKFIELD.
June came, and Saidie Gartney. Not for flowers, or strawberries, merely;
but for father's and mother's consent that, in a few weeks, when flowers
and strawberries should have fully come, there should be a marriage
feast made for her in the simple home, and she should go forth into the
gay world again, the bride of a wealthy New York banker.
Aunt Etherege and Saidie filled the house. With finery, with bustle,
with important presence.
Miss Gartney's engagement had been sudden; her marriage was to be
speedy. Half a dozen seamstresses, and as many sewing machines, were
busy in New York--hands, feet, and wheels--in making up the delicate
draperies for the _trousseau_; and Madame A---- was frantic with the
heap of elaborate dresses that was thrust upon her hands, and must be
ready for the thirtieth.
Mrs. Gartney and Faith had enough to do, to put the house and themselves
in festival trim. Hendie was spoiled with having no lessons, and more
toys and sugar plums than he knew what to do with. Mr. Selmore's comings
and goings made special ebullitions, weekly, where was only a continuous
lesser effervescence before. Mis' Battis had not been able to subside
into an armchair since the last day of May.
Faith found great favor in the eyes of her brother-in-law elect. He
pronounced her a "_naïve, piquante_ little person," and already there
was talk of how pleasant it would be, to have her in Madison Square, and
show her to the world. Faith said nothing to this, but in her heart she
clung to Kinnicutt.
Glory thought Miss Gartney wonderful. Even Mr. Armstrong spoke to Aunt
Faith of the striking beauty of her elder niece.
"I don't know how she _does_ look," Aunt Faith replied, with all her
ancient gruffness. "I see a great show of flounces, and manners, and
hair; but they don't look as if they all grew, natural. I can't make
_her_ out, amongst all that. Now, _Faith's_ just Faith. You see her
prettiness the minute you look at her, as you do a flower's."
"There are not many like Miss Faith," replied Mr. Armstrong. "I never
knew but one other who so wore the fresh, pure beauty of God's giving."
His voice was low and quiet, and his eye looked afar, as he spoke.
Glory went away, and sat down on the doorstone. There was a strange
tumult at her heart. In the midst, a noble joy. About it, a disquietude,
as of one who feels shut out--alone.
"I don't know what ails me. I wonder if I ain't glad! Of course, it's
nothing to me. I ain't in it. But it must be beautiful to be so! And to
have such words said! _She_ don't know what a sight the minister thinks
of her! I know. I knew before. It's beautiful--but I ain't in it. Only,
I think I've got the feeling of it all. And I'm glad it's real,
somewhere. Some way, I seem to have so much _here_, that never grows out
into anything. Maybe I'd be beautiful if it did!"
So talked Glory, interjectionally, with herself.
In the midst of these excited days, there came two letters to Mr.
Gartney.
One was from a gentleman in Michigan, in relation to some land Mr.
Gartney owned there, taken years ago, at a very low valuation, for a
debt. This was likely, from the rapid growth and improvement in the
neighborhood, to become, within a few years, perhaps, a property of some
importance.
The other letter was from his son, James Gartney, in San Francisco. The
young man urged his father to consider whether it might not be a good
idea for him to come out and join him in California.
James Gartney's proposal evidently roused his attention. It was a great
deal to think of, certainly; but it was worth thinking of, too. James
had married in San Francisco, had a pleasant home there, and was
prospering. Many old business friends had gone from Mishaumok, in the
years when the great flood of enterprise set westward across the
continent, and were building up name and influence in the Golden Land.
The idea found a place in his brain, and clung there. Only, there was
Faith! But things might come round so that even this thought need to be
no hindrance to the scheme.
Changes, and plans, and interests, and influences were gathering; all to
bear down upon one young life.
"More news!" said Mr. Gartney, one morning, coming in from his walk to
the village post office, to the pleasant sitting room, or morning room,
as Mrs. Etherege and Saidie called it, where Faith was helping her
sister write a list of the hundreds who were to receive Mr. and Mrs.
Selmore's cards--"At Home, in September, in Madison Square." "Whom do
you think I met in the village, this morning?"
Everybody looked up, and everybody's imagination took a discursive leap
among possibilities, and then everybody, of course, asked "Whom?"
"Old Jacob Rushleigh, himself. He has taken a house at Lakeside, for
the summer. And he has bought the new mills just over the river. That is
to give young Paul something to do, I imagine. Kinnicutt has begun to
grow; and when places or people once take a start, there's no knowing
what they may come to. Here's something for you, Faithie, that I dare
say tells all about it."
And he tossed over her shoulder, upon the table, a letter, bearing her
name, in Margaret Rushleigh's chirography, upon the cover.
Faith's head was bent over the list she was writing; but the vexatious
color, feeling itself shielded in her face, crept round till it made her
ear tips rosy. Saidie put out her forefinger, with a hardly perceptible
motion, at the telltale sign, and nodded at Aunt Etherege behind her
sister's back.
Aunt Etherege looked bland and sagacious.
Upstairs, a little after, these sentences were spoken in Saidie's room.
"Of course it will be," said the younger to the elder lady. "It's been
going on ever since they were children. Faith hasn't a right to say no,
now. And what else brought him up here after houses and mills?"
"I don't see that the houses and mills were necessary to the object.
Rather cumbersome and costly machinery, I should think, to bring to bear
upon such a simple purpose."
"Oh, the business plan is something that has come up accidentally, no
doubt. Running after one thing, people very often stumble upon another.
But it will all play in together, you'll see. Only, I'm afraid I shan't
have the glory of introducing Faithie in New York!"
"It would be as good a thing as possible. And I can perceive that your
father and mother count upon it, also. In their situation what a great
relief it would be! Of course, Henderson never could do so mad a thing
as take the child up by the roots, again, and transplant her to San
Francisco! And I see plainly he has got that in his own head."
A door across the passage at this moment shut, softly, but securely.
Behind it, in her low chair by her sewing table sat the young sister
whose fate had been so lightly decreed.
Was it all just so, as Saidie had said? Had she no longer a right to say
no? Only themselves know how easily, how almost inevitably, young
judgments and consciences are drawn on in the track beaten down for them
by others. Many and many a life decision has been made, through this
_taking for granted_ that bears with its mute, but magnetic power, upon
the shyness and irresolution that can scarcely face and interpret its
own wish or will.
It was very true, that, as Saidie Gartney had said, "this had been
going on for years." For years, Faith had found great pleasantness in
the companionship and evident preference of Paul Rushleigh. There had
been nobody to compare with him in her young set in Mishaumok. She knew
he liked her. She had been proud of it. The girlish fancy, that may be
forgotten in after years, or may, fostered by circumstance, endure and
grow into a calm and happy wifehood, had been given to him. And what
troubled her now? Was it that always, when the decisive moment
approaches, there is a little revulsion of timid feminine feeling, even
amidst the truest joy? Or was it that a new wine had been given into
Faith's life, which would not be held in the old bottles? Was she
uncertain--inconstant; or had she spiritually outgrown her old
attachment? Or, was she bewildered, now, out of the discernment of what
was still her heart's desire and need?
Paul was kind, and true, and manly. She recognized all this in him as
surely as ever. If he had turned from, and forgotten her, she would have
felt a pang. What was this, then, that she felt, as he came near, and
nearer?
And then, her father! Had he really begun to count on this? Do men know
how their young daughters feel when the first suggestion comes that they
are not regarded as born for perpetual daughterhood in the father's
house? Would she even encumber his plans, if she clung still to her
maidenly life?
By all these subtleties does the destiny of woman close in upon her.
Margaret Rushleigh's letter was full of delight, and eagerness, and
anticipation. She and Paul had been so charmed with Kinnicutt and
Lakeside; and there had happened to be a furnished house to let for the
season close by the Morrises, and they had persuaded papa to take it.
They were tired of the seashore, and Conway was getting crowded to
death. They wanted a real summer in the country. And then this had
turned up about the mills! Perhaps, now, her father would build, and
they should come up every year. Perhaps Paul would stay altogether, and
superintend. Perhaps--anything! It was all a delightful chaos of
possibilities; with this thing certain, that she and Faith would be
together for the next four months in the glorious summer shine and
bloom.
Miss Gartney's wedding was simple. The stateliness and show were all
reserved for Madison Square.
Mr. Armstrong pronounced the solemn words, in the shaded summer parlor,
with the door open into the sweeter and stiller shade without.
Faith stood by her sister's side, in fair, white robes, and Mr. Robert
Selmore was groomsman to his brother. A few especial friends from
Mishaumok and Lakeside were present to witness the ceremony.
And then there was a kissing--a hand-shaking--a well-wishing--a going
out to the simple but elegantly arranged collation--a disappearance of
the bride to put on traveling array--a carriage at the door--smiles,
tears, and good-bys--Mr., and Mrs., and Mr. Robert Selmore were off to
meet the Western train--and all was over.
Mrs. Etherege remained a few days longer at Cross Corners. As Mis'
Battis judiciously remarked, "after a weddin' or a funeral, there ought
to be somebody to stay a while and cheer up the mourners."
This visit, that had been so full of happenings, was to have a strange
occurrence still to mark it, before all fell again into the usual order.
Aunt Etherege was to go on Thursday. On Wednesday, the three ladies sat
together in the cool, open parlor, where Mr. Armstrong, walking over
from the Old House, had joined them. He had the July number of the
_Mishaumok_ in his hand, and a finger between the fresh-cut leaves at a
poem he would read them.
Just as he had finished the last stanza, amidst a hush of the room that
paid tribute to the beauty of the lines and his perfect rendering of
them, wheels came round from the high road into the lane.
"It is Mr. Gartney come back from Sedgely," said Aunt Etherege, looking
from her window, between the blinds. "Whom on earth has he picked up to
bring with him?"
A thin, angular figure of a woman, destitute of crinoline, wearing big
boots, and a bonnet that ignored the fashion, and carrying in her hand a
black enameled leather bag, was alighting as she spoke, at the gate.
"Mother!" said Faith, leaning forward, and glancing out, also, "it looks
like--it is--Nurse Sampson!"
And she put her work hastily from her lap, and rose to go out at the
side door, to meet and welcome her.
To do this, she had to pass by Mr. Armstrong. How came that rigid look,
that deadly paleness, to his face? What spasm of pain made him clutch
the pamphlet he held with fingers that grew white about the nails?
Faith stopped, startled.
"Mr. Armstrong! Are you not well?" said she. At the same instant of her
pausing, Miss Sampson entered from the hall, behind her. Mr. Armstrong's
eye, lifted toward Faith in an attempt to reply, caught a glimpse of the
sharp, pronounced outlines of the nurse's face. Before Faith could
comprehend, or turn, or cry out, the paleness blanched ghastlier over
his features, and the strong man fell back, fainting.
With quick, professional instinct, Miss Sampson sprang forward,
seizing, as she did so, an ice-water pitcher from the table.
"There, take this!" said she to Faith, "and sprinkle him with it, while
I loosen his neckcloth! Gracious goodness!" she exclaimed, in an altered
tone, as she came nearer to him for this purpose, "do it, some of the
rest of you, and let me get out of his way! It was me!"
And she vanished out of the room.