WHAT TIME TOLD.
Four weeks more passed much as the preceding ones had done, and it was
the middle of September when as a rule city people return to their
homes, and the summer hotels are closed. Mrs. Mason and Mrs. Tracy were
anxious to leave but as neither Helen nor Craig were willing to go, they
felt obliged to remain, one to watch her son and prevent him from
committing himself to what she knew he would regret, and the other to
bring about, if possible, what Mrs. Mason so much dreaded. In the second
week in September Alice went back to her mountain home and the red
schoolhouse which one of her scholars wrote her had been “mopped real
clean and had a new blackboard and a new water pail and dipper.” There
was a letter also from Aunt Mary, telling of a room refurnished with
fresh paper and paint and a single white iron bedstead, with muslin
hangings; a pretty bureau, with a long glass and a silver backed brush
and hand-mirror,—these last the gift of the school children, who had
picked berries on the mountains and sold lilies from the pond to buy
them for their teacher, whose return they were anticipating with so much
pleasure.
Alice cried over this letter so full of love and thoughtfulness and
wondered why she should shrink from a return to the farmhouse and the
homely duties awaiting her there. With the sound of Craig Mason’s voice
saying to her, “I hope you have no bad news,” she knew why the thought
of leaving Ridgefield gave her pain, and scolded herself for it. Craig
could never again form any part of her life and she resolutely set
herself to work to put from her all thought of him and made her
preparations for leaving quickly and quietly, saying to every one that
she had had a delightful summer and should not soon forget it. Quite a
crowd accompanied her to the station, Craig and his mother, Mrs. Tracy
and Helen, Mark and Uncle Zach, and Jeff, who was inconsolable.
“I’ll go to the bad. I know I shall. I feel as if I wanted to pick forty
pockets,” he said to Alice, as he bade her good-bye, and then went into
the meadows behind some alders and cried.
Helen was very sorry to part with Alice. “I have lost my ballast, and,
like Jeff, shall go to destruction sure,” she said, and for days she
seemed so sad and depressed that Craig tried every effort to comfort
her, taking her for a long drive around the chain of ponds and talking
to her of what he thought would interest her most. There had been no
Browning readings after that first attempt. “As no one cares for them
except ourselves, we may as well give them up, but whenever you feel
like it I shall be glad to read for _you_,” he had said to her, and
Helen, while lamenting the non-appreciation of the others, had
acquiesced in his decision, and on two or three different occasions,
after Alice left, she sat on a low ottoman very close to him and
listened patiently for half an hour while he read to her, once from
Sordello, once from poems easier to be understood, and last from
Pauline, whose opening stanza thrilled them both with as much of real
love as either could ever feel for the other. In a voice, full of
feeling, Craig read:
“Pauline, mine own, bend o’er me,—thy sweet eyes,
And loosened hair and breathing lips and arms
Drawing me to thee,—these build up a screen
To shut me in with thee, and from all fear;”
And again:
“Thou art so good,
So calm—”
And again; in a lower voice, which was almost a whisper:
“Thou lovest me;
And thou art to receive not love but faith,
For which thou wilt be mine—” etc.
He did not ask her what she thought was meant by this outburst of
passion. He only looked at her once as she sat beside him, with her
hands working together nervously on her lap, her “sweet eyes” upon him
with a coy expression in them, and her “breathing lips” a little apart
as she drank in the words and felt that something more was meant for her
than a repetition of an imaginary love-sick boy’s declaration of love to
his mistress. She was very quiet all through the reading, and when it
was over left Craig without a word except, “Thanks for the pleasure you
have given me.”
Had he been making love to her, she asked herself many times in her own
room, and would he follow it up with words plainer to be understood than
those spoken to Pauline. And if he did, what answer should she give.
“There is only one I can give him, and he is too good a man for that,
but mamma, position, society lie that way. To take the other road would
be folly,” she thought, and for an hour or more fought a fierce battle
with herself and her inclination.
For two days she avoided both Craig and Mark as much as possible, and
scarcely spoke when she met them. She was missing Alice, and wanted to
go home.
“Before anything has been accomplished?” her mother said, “Have we spent
the summer in this dull place for nothing? Remember you will soon be
_passée_. People now say you are older than you are, you have been
before the public so long. You cannot expect twenty more offers. If you
get _one_, and it is the right one, I shall be glad. You once told me
you would accept Mr. Mason is he proposed;—can you not bring him to do
so or have you lost your skill?”
This decided Helen. Craig and his mother were going to Boston the next
morning on the early train, his mother to stay and Craig to return, and
when that afternoon Craig suggested a drive she assented readily.
“I shall not be back for a few days,” he said, “and by that time it may
be cold and rainy. We ought to improve this fine weather. I have
scarcely seen you for a week.”
It was a glorious September day, with that stillness in the air and that
haze upon the hills which early autumn brings, and Helen wondered at the
feeling which oppressed her.
“I used to like such days, but this one makes me homesick and shivery,”
she said, as she arranged her hat and buttoned her jacket and gloves.
On the terrace below she heard Mark giving some orders to Jeff and for a
moment she held fast to the dressing bureau to steady herself. She had
not reached the stage of young ladyhood which requires stimulants every
day, but she knew the use of them and going to a bottle labeled brandy
she poured out more than she had ever taken before at one time and drank
it.
“That will steady my nerves;” she thought, but her step was not as
elastic as usual when she went out to where Craig was waiting for her,
with Mark standing beside him.
She did not look at the latter as she took her seat in the buggy. She
had made up her mind and there was no going back. She had often boasted
that she could make a man propose to her if she wished him to do so. In
this instance she did wish it and every art of which she was mistress
was brought to bear upon the unsuspecting Craig, who would have been
less than a man had he been insensible to her charms. Either the rapid
motion or the excitement, or the brandy gave an additional brilliancy to
her complexion, and her eyes had never been more beautiful than they
were when she told Craig how much she had enjoyed the summer, thanks to
him and his kindness, and said this was probably their last drive
together, as she and her mother might be gone before he returned, but
she should never forget Ridgefield,—never. Perhaps it was the wind which
blew a little chilly down the hill they were descending, and perhaps it
was real grief which brought a tear to her eyes as she lifted them to
Craig’s face and then dropped them quickly, as if ashamed of her
emotion. Craig had fully made up his mind to ask her to be his wife, but
was going to wait till he had decided upon words suited to so delicate a
subject. Perhaps it would be better to write when he was in Boston, he
thought. Yes, on the whole it would be better, as he could arrange and
re-arrange what he wanted to say, so as not to shock her in any way. But
all his pre-arranged plans were set aside by Helen’s methods, and before
he knew what he was doing he had asked her to be his wife and she had
accepted him, with a protest that she was not worthy of him,—that if he
knew her as she knew herself he would not wish for her, but if he were
prepared to take her with all her faults, she was his, and would try to
make him a good wife.
He did not know that she had any faults, except that she might be
something of a flirt, and this she could not help. He was willing to
take her as she was and felt himself very happy, while she tried to
believe herself as happy as a girl ought to be when engaged to a man
like Craig Mason. She had been wooed by many suitors, but never in this
quiet, tame fashion, and she laughed to herself as she thought of the
contrast. Some had knelt at her feet with passionate words of love, and
two hot-headed, brainless ones had threatened suicide if she refused
them, and then had been married within six months. All this was very
exciting and exhilarating to one of her temperament, and very different
from Craig’s style. He had not even touched her hand,—possibly because
at the moment her final yes was spoken a baby-cart came suddenly through
a gate and both his hands were occupied in managing Dido, whose one
fault was fear of a baby-cart, and who started to run furiously. When
she had become quiet and they were ascending a hill he said abruptly,
but laughingly, “If rumor is correct, I am not the first who has
proposed to you?”
There was a world of mirth in Helen’s eyes, as she replied, “You are the
twenty-first!”
Craig gasped, as if the honor were a questionable one. Helen saw it and
hastened to add, “I could not help it if a lot of senseless men and boys
chose to think they were in love with me. I never cared for one of
them,—never!”
She made the last never very emphatic, and thus reassured the shadow
lifted from Craig’s face, and during the remainder of the drive he
talked of their future which should be as bright and happy as it was in
his power to make it. They would have a home of their own in Boston, for
he believed in the saying that no house was large enough for two
families,—a sentiment in which Helen fully concurred when she thought of
his stately mother, who, she felt sure, was not anxious to have her for
a daughter-in-law. They would go to Europe, if she liked, when they were
married, and it would please him to have the marriage take place as soon
as possible, say, at Christmas time.
“No, oh, no! Not so soon as that!” Helen exclaimed. “You do not care for
society, and I do. Let me have one more winter of it before I settle
down into the domestic wife I mean to be.”
She was very earnest, and Craig consented to wait until spring.
“And, please,” she said, “don’t let us talk of the engagement at once. I
mean, not to-night, and you going away to-morrow. Wait till you return.”
“But suppose you are not here? You said you might not be,” Craig
suggested, and Helen replied, “We shall be here. I can persuade mamma to
stay, if she still thinks of going. I shall tell her, of course, and
shall write to Alice to-night. She will be interested, and, oh, Mr.
Mason—”
“Craig, please,” he interrupted her.
“Well, then, Craig. I think it such a pretty name,” Helen continued. “If
we go to Europe,—and I should like that so much,—would you mind having
Alice go with us? I am always better when she is with me. Did you ever
notice what clear, honest eyes she has,—eyes which keep you from being
bad when they are on you. She is so helpful, too, and sees what to do
and does it. I should be happier if Alice were with us.”
It was a novel thing for a newly-engaged young lady to be asking her
_fiancé_ to take another young lady with them on their bridal trip
because it would make her happier. But Helen was in earnest. She was
always at her best with Alice, and much as she might love Craig Mason,
if she did love him, she knew there was very little that was congenial
between them, and there had already come over her something like
homesickness as she thought of months abroad, with only him for company
and no one to whom to show herself as she really was,—to let herself
out, as she expressed it. Craig was in a mood to promise anything. He
could be very happy alone with Helen, but Alice would not be in his way.
She was restful and helpful and sunny, and, as Jeff had once said of her
to him, “Cool and good to look at, with her blue eyes and lily
complexion.” He was quite willing she should be the third in his party,
for he had an impression that she was a kind of ballast for Helen. That
she should go with them was settled by the time they reached the hotel,
and Helen’s “Thank you, Craig,” was very genuine as she arose for him to
lift her from the buggy.
Just for an instant he held her in his arms before he put her down. Her
face was very near his and he might have kissed her if Jeff, who seemed
to be omnipresent, had not rolled up in time to prevent it. Releasing
her he said, “You are now mine. God bless you and make me worthy of
you.”
Helen did not answer, but went at once to her room and, throwing herself
upon the bed, burst into a paroxysm of tears. Glad, happy tears she
tried to think they were, for had she not secured what she came to
Ridgefield to secure in case she found it worth the trouble. And he was
worth it, she told herself, over and over again. He was a man of whom
any woman might be proud and fond.
“I shall disappoint him every day,” she said. “He is far better suited
to Alice.”
The mention of her cousin reminded her of the letter she was going to
write, and, after a hurried supper, during which she said but little to
her mother, she commenced it. On the first line in immense letters were
the words: “WE ARE ENGAGED; the prize is mine!” Then she went on to
describe the drive and the means she took to bring Craig to the point.
“You know I am an experienced hand in love-making, and its different
phases,” she wrote, “while he is a mere baby;—actually stammered and
blushed when he asked the important question, the _twenty-first_ put to
me. I told him that, and I could see it staggered him a little, but he
soon recovered and I do believe he is happy, while I respect him because
he didn’t get down on his knees; he couldn’t very well in that narrow
buggy, with Dido running away from a baby-cart. That was what happened,
and maybe is the reason that he was so cold in his wooing. Didn’t even
touch my hand, and it was lying where it would have been very convenient
for him to take if he wanted to. He really acted as if I were a choice
piece of pottery, not to be meddled with. On the whole it was a very
matter-of-fact affair, something like this: _He_, after two or three
coughs, and getting very red in the face, ‘Will you be my wife? Behave,
Dido, what ails you?’ _She_, very much surprised, so much so in fact
that without stopping to think, she replied, ‘Yes, if you wish it. I
think it was the baby-cart that frightened Dido.’
“That’s about as it was, and we were engaged, and went at once to
talking of the future,—or he did. Wished to be married by Christmas. But
I said no. I must have one more winter in dear old New York before
settling down as a model wife in stupid Boston. Of course I didn’t talk
that way about Boston. But he is to wait until spring, when we are going
to Europe, and you are going with us! I settled that at once. I could
not stand a year’s travel alone with any man, with no right to look at
another or let him look at me, and nobody to talk things over with. I
began to feel lonesome until I thought of you, who always do me good.
You know I am tricky and false and all that is mean that way. You found
out more of it here than you knew before, and your great, pure, white
soul rebelled against it, but I know you like me and I like you better
than anybody in the world, except, of course, mother and Craig. He wants
me to call him that, and——well, I’ll not enumerate my likes and
dislikes. I want you to go with us, and Craig wants you, and you are
going. So make your arrangements to give up that schoolhouse in the
spring and see the old world, and help me through the British Museum,
where I have never spent more than two hours, but shall have to spend
days with Craig, who thinks me rather intellectual. I have arranged how
to manage. I shall have a headache and be tired, and wait while you and
Craig examine every coin and piece of old yellow parchment, and all the
broken-nosed and broken-legged statuary. Ugh! I shudder to think of it,
and the many more tiresome places, in which Craig will revel. We shall
stand by Mrs. Browning’s grave in Florence and stare at the house where
she lived, and sail past the Browning palace on the Grand Canal in
Venice, and I shall be expected to go into raptures over Sordello and
that other queer name, Paracelsus, about which I know nothing and care
less.
“Poor Craig! He is getting awfully cheated. There is nothing real about
me, except my face. I am fairly good looking and I mean to make him a
good wife. He is easily gulled; shy men always are, or he would see
through me. Mr. Hilton does, I am sure. I wish Craig had as much fun and
fire in him. But comparisons are odious, and sometimes injurious to
one’s peace of mind. It is something to be Mrs. Craig Mason of Boston,
with a fine establishment on Commonwealth Avenue, and one can’t have the
world. Did I tell you Craig was going to Boston with his mother
to-morrow to be gone some days, and I am wicked enough to feel relieved.
I know exactly what to say to a man to whom I am not engaged, but what
to say to one to whom I _am_ engaged is a different thing. The
excitement is over and only a dull surface of things left. I shall have
time to think and get myself well in hand before he comes back. He is to
bring several engagement rings for me to choose from, and will look at a
house on the Avenue which is for sale and which he thinks will suit me.
“And _you_ are to live with us! I have settled that in my own mind. I
cannot live alone with a man and that man my husband, and know I am
roped in,—done for,—finished; no more need of any little harmless tricks
and deceptions, which are my very life. I believe I am growing wicked,
so I’ll stop. Burn this letter as soon as you read it. It sounds
heartless, and as if I didn’t care for Craig, when I do; but, oh, Alice,
I wish I could turn myself inside out in the lap of some good woman and
tell her all I feel. But I can’t. Mother would be horrified and so would
you, and each for a different reason. I know you pray, and so do I, in a
stupid, mechanical way, but I can’t to-night, nor ever again, perhaps,
but you, who never did a mean act in your life, can pray for me.
Your wicked
“Cousin Helen.”
Once Helen thought to tear this letter up, then decided to send it; and
bade Celine take it down to the table in the lower hall where letters
designed for the early mail were left. For a long time that night she
tossed upon her pillow, unable to sleep, and, as a consequence, did not
waken until after Craig and his mother had left for the 8 o’clock train.