_In Which There is Much Said of Marriage and of Giving in Marriage._
EVE'S green-eyed cat sat on a chair and watched the flame-colored fishes.
It was her morning amusement. When her mistress came down she would have
her cream and her nap. In the meantime, the flashing, golden things in
the clear water aroused an ancient instinct. She reached out a quick paw
and patted the water, flinging showers of sparkling drops on her sleek
fur.
Aunt Maude, eating waffles and reading her morning paper, approved her.
"I hope you'll catch them," she said, "especially the turtles and the
tadpoles--the idea of having such things where you eat."
The green-eyed cat licked her wet paw, then she jumped down from the
chair and trotted to the door to meet Eve, who picked her up and hugged
her. "Pats," she demanded, "what have you been doing? Your little pads
are wet."
"She's been fishing," said Aunt Maude, "in your aquarium. She has more
sense than I thought."
Eve, pouring cream into a crystal dish, laughed. "Pats is as wise as the
ages--you can see it in her eyes. She doesn't say anything, she just
looks. Women ought to follow her example. It's the mysterious, the
silent, that draws men. Now Polly prattles and prattles, and nobody
listens, and we all get a little tired of her; don't we, Polly?"
She set the cream carefully by the green cushion, and Pats, classically
posed on her haunches, lapped it luxuriously. The Polly-parrot coaxed and
wheedled and was rewarded with her morning biscuit. The flame-colored
fishes rose to the snowy particles which Eve strewed on the surface of
the water, and then with all of her family fed, Eve turned to the table,
sat down, and pulled away Aunt Maude's paper.
"My dear," the old lady protested.
"I want to talk to you," Eve announced. "Aunt Maude, I'm going to marry
Dicky."
Aunt Maude pushed back her plate of waffles. The red began to rise in her
cheeks. "Oh, of all the fools----"
"'He who calleth his brother a fool----'" Eve murmured pensively. "Aunt
Maude, I'm in love with him."
"You're in love with yourself," tartly, "and with having your own way.
The husband for you is Philip Meade. But he wants you, and so--you don't
want him."
"Dicky wants me, too," Eve said, a little wistfully; "you mustn't forget
that, Aunt Maude."
"I'm not forgetting it." Then sharply, "Shall you go to live at
Crossroads?"
"No. Austin has made him an offer. He's coming back to town."
"What do you expect to live on?"
Silence. Then, uncertainly, "I thought perhaps until he gets on his feet
you'd make us an allowance."
The old lady exploded in a short laugh. She gathered up her paper and her
spectacles case and her bag of fancy work. Then she rose. "Not if you
marry Richard Brooks. You may as well know that now as later, Eve. All
your life you have shaken the plum tree and have gathered the fruit. You
may come to your senses when you find there isn't any tree to shake."
The deep red in the cheeks of the old woman was matched by the red that
stained Eve's fairness. "Keep your money," she said, passionately; "I can
get along without it. You've always made me feel like a pauper, Aunt
Maude."
The old woman's hand went up. There was about her a dignity not to be
ignored. "I think you are saying more than you mean, Eve. I have tried to
be generous."
They were much alike as they faced each other, the same clear cold eyes,
the same set of the head, the only difference Eve's youth and
slenderness and radiant beauty. Perhaps in some far distant past Aunt
Maude had been like Eve. Perhaps in some far distant future Eve's soft
lines would stiffen into a second edition of Aunt Maude.
"I have tried to be generous," Aunt Maude repeated.
"You have been. I shouldn't have said that. But, Aunt Maude, it hasn't
been easy to eat the bread of dependence."
"You are feeling that now," said the old lady shrewdly, "because you are
ready for the great adventure of being poor with your young Richard.
Well, try it. You'll wish more than once that you were back with your
old--plum tree."
Flash of eye met flash of eye. "I shall never ask for another penny," Eve
declared.
"I shall buy your trousseau, of course, and set you up in housekeeping,
but when a woman is married her husband must take care of her." And Aunt
Maude sailed away with her bag and her spectacles and her morning paper,
and Eve was left alone in the black and white breakfast room, where Pats
slept on her green cushion, the Polly-parrot swung in her ring, and the
flame-colored fishes hung motionless in the clear water.
Eve ate no breakfast. She sat with her chin in her hand and tried to
think it out. Aunt Maude had not proved tractable, and Richard's income
would be small. Never having known poverty, she was not appalled by the
prospect of it. Her imagination cast a glamour over the future. She saw
herself making a home for Richard. She saw herself inviting Pip and
Winifred Ames and Tony to small suppers and perfectly served little
dinners. She did not see herself washing dishes or cooking the meals.
Knowing nothing of the day's work, how could she conceive its sordidness?
She roused herself presently to go and write notes to her friends.
Triumphant notes which told of her happiness.
Her note to Pip brought him that night. He came in white-faced. As she
went toward him, he rose to meet her and caught her hands in a hard grip,
looking down at her. "You're mine, Eve. Do you think I am going to let
any one else have you?"
"Don't be silly, Pip."
"Is it silly to say that there will never be for me any other woman? I
shall love you until I die. If that is foolishness, I never want to be
wise."
He was kissing her hands now.
"Don't, Pip, _don't_."
She wrenched herself away from him, and stood as it were at bay. "You'll
get over it."
"Shall I? How little you know me, Eve. I haven't even given you up. If I
were a story-book sort of hero I'd bestow my blessing on you and Brooks
and go and drive an ambulance in France, and break my heart at long
distance. But I shan't. I shall stay right here on the job, and see that
Brooks doesn't get you."
"Pip, I didn't think you were so--small."
The telephone rang. Eve answered it. "It was Winifred to wish me
happiness," she said, as she came in from the hall.
She was blushing faintly. He gave her a keen glance. "What else did she
say?"
"Nothing."
"You're fibbing. Tell me the truth, Eve."
She yielded to his masterfulness.
"Well, she said--'I wanted it to be Pip.'"
"Good old Win, I'll send her a bunch of roses." He wandered restlessly
about the room, then came back to her. "Why, Eve, I planned the
house--our house. It was to have the sea in front of it and a forest
behind it, and your room was to have a wide window and a balcony, and
under the balcony there was to be a rose garden."
"How sure you were of me, Pip."
"I have never been sure. But what I want, I--get. Remember that, dear
girl. When I shut my eyes I can see you at the head of my table, in a
high gold chair--like a throne."
She stared at him in amazement. "Pip, it doesn't sound a bit like you."
"No. What a man thinks is apt to be--different. On the surface I'm a
rather practical sort of fellow. But when I plan my future with you I am
playing king to your queen, and I'm not half bad at it."
And now it was she who was restless. "If I married you, what would I get
out of it but--money?"
"Thank you."
"You know I don't mean it that way. But I like to think that I can help
Richard--in his career."
"You're not made of that kind of stuff. You want your own good time.
Women who help men to achieve must be content to lose their looks and
their figures and to do without pretty clothes, and you wouldn't be
content. You want to live your own life, and be admired and petted and
envied, Eve."
She faced him, blazing. "You and Aunt Maude and Win are all alike. You
think I can't be happy unless I live in the lap of luxury. Well, I can
tell you this, I'd rather have a crust of bread with Richard than live in
a palace with you, Pip."
He stood up. "You don't mean it. But you needn't have put it quite that
way, and some day you'll be sorry, and you'll tell me that you're sorry.
Tell me now, Eve."
He put his hands on her shoulders, holding her with a masterful grip. Her
eyes met his and fell. "Oh, I hate your--sureness."
"Some day you are going to love it. Look at me, Eve."
She forced herself to do so. But she was not at ease. Then almost
wistfully she yielded. "I--am sorry, Pip."
His hands dropped from her shoulders. "Good little girl."
He kissed both of her hands before he went away. "I am glad we are
friends"--that was his way of putting it--"and you mustn't forget that
some day we are going to be more than that," and when he had gone she
found herself still shaken by the sureness of his attitude.
Pip on his way down-town stopped in to order Winifred's roses, and the
next day he went to her apartment and unburdened his heart.
"If it was in the day of duels I'd call him out. Just at this moment I am
in the mood for pistols or poison, I'm not sure which."
"Why not try--patience?"
He glanced at her quickly. "You think she'll tire?"
"I think--it can never happen. For Richard's sake I--hope not."
"Why for his sake?"
Winifred smiled. "I'd like to see him marry little Anne."
"The school-teacher?"
"Yes. Oh, I am broken-hearted to think he's spoiling Nancy's dreams for
him. There was something so idyllic in them. And now he'll marry Eve."
"You say that as if it were a tragedy."
"It is, for him and for her. Eve was never made to be poor."
"Don't tell her that. She took my head off. Said she'd rather have a
crust of bread with Richard----"
"Oh, oh!"
"Than a palace with me."
"Poor Pip. It wasn't nice of her."
"I shall make her eat her words."
Winifred shook her head. "Don't be hard on her, Pip. We women are so
helpless in our loves. Richard might make her happy if he cared enough,
but he doesn't. Perhaps Eve will be broadened and deepened by it all. I
don't know. No one knows."
"I know this. That you and Tony seem to get a lot out of things, Win."
"Of marriage? We do. Yet we've had all of the little antagonisms and
differences. But underneath it we know--that we're made for each other.
And that helps. It has helped us to push the wrong things out of our
lives and to hold on to the right ones."
Philip's young face was set. "I wanted to have my chance with Eve. We are
young and pretty light-weight on the surface, but life together might
make us a bit more like you and Tony. And now Richard is spoiling
things."
Back at Crossroads, Nancy was trying to convince her son that he was not
spoiling things for her. "I have always been such a dreamer, dear boy.
It was silly for me to think that I could stand between you and your big
future. I have written to Sulie Tyson, and she'll stay with me, and you
can run down for week-ends--and I'll always have David."
"Mother, let me go to Eve and tell her----"
"Tell her what?"
"That I shall stay--with you."
She was white with the whiteness which had never left her since he had
told her that he was going to marry Eve.
"Hickory-Dickory, if I kept you here in the end you would hate me."
"_Mother!_"
"Not consciously. But I should be a barrier--and you'd find yourself
wishing for--freedom. If I let you go--you'll come back now and then--and
be--glad."
He gathered her up in his arms and declared fiercely that he would not
leave her, but she stayed firm. And so the thing was settled, and as soon
as he could settle his affairs at Crossroads he was to go to Austin.
Anne, writing to Uncle Rod about it, said:
"St. Michael is to marry the Lily-of-the-Field. You see, after all, he
likes that kind of thing, though I had fancied that he did not. She is
not as fine and simple as he is, and somehow I can't help feeling sorry.
"But that isn't the worst of it, Uncle Bobs. He is going back to New
York. And now what becomes of _his_ sunsets? I don't believe he ever had
any. And oh, his poor little mother. She is fooling him and making him
think that it is just as it should be and that she was foolish to expect
anything else. But to me it is unspeakable that he should leave her. But
he'll have Eve Chesley. Think of changing Nancy Brooks for Eve!"
It was at Beulah's wedding that Anne and Richard saw each other for the
last time before his departure.
Beulah was married in the big front room at Bower's. She was married at
six o'clock because it was easy for the farmer folk to come at that time,
and because the evening could be given up afterward to the reception and
a big supper and Beulah and Eric could take the ten o'clock train for New
York.
She had no bridesmaids except Peggy, who was quite puffed up with the
importance of her office. Anne had instructed her, and at the last moment
held a rehearsal on the side porch.
"Now, play I am the bride, Peggy."
"You look like a bride," Peggy said. "Aren't you ever going to be a
bride, Miss Anne?"
"I am not sure, Peggy. Perhaps no one will ever ask me."
"I'd ask you if I were a man," Peggy reassured her. "Now, go on and show
me, Anne."
"You must take Beulah's bouquet when she hands it to you, and after she
is married you must give it back to her, and----"
"And then I must kiss her."
"You must let Eric kiss her first."
"Why?"
"Because he will be her husband."
"But I've been her sister for ever and ever."
"Oh, but a husband, Peggy. Husbands are _very_ important."
"Why are they?"
"Well, they give you a new name and a new house, and you have new clothes
to marry them in, and you go away with them on a honeymoon."
"What's a honeymoon?"
"The honey is for the sweetness, and the moon is for the madness, Peggy,
dear."
"Do people always go away on trains for their honeymoons?"
"Not always. I shouldn't like a train. I should like to get into a boat
with silver sails, and sail straight down a singing river into the heart
of the sunset."
"Well, of course, you couldn't," said the plump and practical Peggy, "but
it sounds nice to say it. Does our river sing, Miss Anne?"
"Yes."
"What does it say?"
Anne stretched out her arms with a little yearning gesture. "It
says--'_Come and see the world, see the world, see the world!_'"
"It never says that to me."
"Perhaps you haven't ears to hear, Peggy."
It was a very charming wedding. Richard was there and Nancy, and David
and Brinsley. The country folk came from far and wide, and there was a
brave showing of Old Gentlemen from Bower's who brought generous gifts
for Peter's pretty daughter.
Richard, standing back of his mother during the ceremony, could see over
her head to where Anne waited not far from Peggy to prompt her in her
bridesmaid's duties. She was in white. Her dark hair was swept up in the
fashion which she had borrowed from Eve. She seemed very small and slight
against the background of Bower's buxom kinsfolk.
As he caught her eye he smiled at her, but she did not smile back. She
felt that she could not. How could he smile with that little mother
drooping before his very eyes? How _could_ he?
She found herself later, when the refreshments were served, brooding over
Nancy. The little lady tasted nothing, but was not permitted to refuse
the cup of tea which Anne brought to her.
"I had it made especially for you," she said; "you looked so tired."
"I am tired. You see we are having rather strenuous days."
"I know."
"It isn't easy to let--him--go."
"It isn't easy for anybody to let him go."
The eyes of the two women went to where Richard in the midst of a
protesting group was trying to explain his reasons for deserting
Crossroads.
He couldn't explain. They had a feeling that he was turning his back on
them. "It's hard lines to have a good doctor and then lose him," was the
general sentiment. He was made to feel that it would have been better not
to have come than to end by deserting.
He was aware that he had forfeited something precious, and he voiced his
thought when he joined his mother and Anne.
"I'll never have a practice quite like this. Neighborhood ties are
something they know little about in cities."
His mother smiled up at him bravely. "There'll be other things."
"Perhaps;" he patted her hand. Then he fired a question at Anne. "Do you
think I ought to go?"
"How can I tell?" Her eyes met his candidly. "I felt when you came that I
couldn't understand how a man could bury himself here. And now I am
wondering how you can leave. It seems as if you belong."
"I know what you mean."
She went on: "And I can't quite think of this dear lady alone."
Nancy stopped her. "Don't speak of that, my dear. I don't want you to
speak of it. It is right that Richard should go."
Anne was telling herself passionately that it was not right, when Beulah
sent for her, and presently the little bride came down in her going-away
gown, to be joined by Eric in the stiff clothes which seemed to rob him
of the picturesqueness which belonged to him in less formal moments.
But Richard had no eyes for the bride and groom; he saw only Anne at the
head of the stairway where he had first talked to her. How long ago it
seemed, and how sweet she had been, and how shy.
The train was on the bridge, and a laughing crowd hurried out into the
night to meet it. Peggy in the lead threw roses with a prodigal hand.
"Kiss me, Beulah," she begged at the last.
Beulah bent down to her, then was lifted in Eric's strong arms to the
platform. Then the train drew out and she was gone!
Alone on the stairway, Anne and Richard had a moment before the crowd
swept back upon them.
"Dr. Brooks, take your mother with you."
"She won't go."
"Then stay with her."
He caught at the edge of her flowing sleeve, and held it as if he would
anchor her to him. "Do you want me to stay?"
Her eyes came up to him. She saw in them something which lifted her
above and beyond her doubts of him. She had an ineffable sense of having
found something which she could never lose.
Then as he drew back he was stammering, "Forgive me. I have been wanting
to wish you happiness. Geoffrey told me----"
And now Peggy bore down upon them and all the heedless happy crowd, and
Richard said, "Good-night," and was gone.
Yet when she was left alone, Anne felt desperately that she should have
shouted after him, "I am not going to marry Geoffrey Fox. I am not going
to be married at all."