FROM DAWN TO DAYLIGHT.
IT was by the light of the blinking tallow candle that they made their
toilets next morning. Louise roused suddenly, not a little startled at
what she supposed were unusual sounds, issuing from all portions of the
house, in the middle of the night.
"Do you suppose any one is sick?" she asked her husband. "There has
been a banging of doors and a good deal of hurrying around for some
minutes."
"Oh no," he said, reassuringly. "It is getting-up time. John is a noisy
fellow, and Dorothy can make considerable noise when she undertakes. I
suspect they are trying to rouse us."
"Getting-up time! why, it must be in the middle of the night."
"That depends on whether one lives in town or in the country. I
shouldn't be greatly surprised if breakfast were waiting for us."
"Then let us hurry," said Louise, making a motion to do so; but her
husband remanded her back to her pillow, while he made vigorous efforts
to conquer the old-fashioned stove, and secure some warmth.
"But we ought not to keep them waiting breakfast," Louise said in
dismay. "That is very disagreeable when everything is ready to serve.
We have been annoyed in that way ourselves. Lewis, why didn't you waken
me before? Haven't you heard the sounds of life for a good while?"
"Yes," said Lewis, "longer than I wanted to hear them. If they don't
want breakfast to wait they shouldn't get it ready at such an unearthly
hour. There is no sense in rousing up the household in the night.
During the busy season it is a sort of necessity, and I always succumb
to it meekly. But at this date it is just the outgrowth of a notion,
and I have waged a sort of silent war on it for some time. I suppose I
have eaten cold breakfasts about half the time this autumn."
"Cold breakfasts! Didn't your mother keep something warm for you?"
"Not by any manner of means did she. My mother would not consider that
she was doing her duty to her son by winking at his indolent habits in
any such fashion; she believes that it is his sacred duty to eat his
breakfast by early candle-light, and if he sins in that direction it is
not for her to smooth the punishment of the transgressor."
Louise laughed over the serio-comic tone in which this was said, albeit
there was a little feeling of dismay in her heart; these things sounded
so new, and strange, and unmotherly!
"Louise dear, I don't want to dictate the least in the world, and I
don't want to pretend to know more than I do; but isn't that dress just
a trifle too stylish for the country—in the morning, you know?"
This hesitating, doubtful sort of question was put to Mrs. Morgan
somewhat later, after a rapid and apparently unpremeditated toilet.
She gave the speaker the benefit of a flash from a pair of roguish eyes
as she said—
"Part of that sentence is very opportune, Lewis. You are evidently
'pretending to know more than you do.' This dress was prepared
especially for a morning toilet in the country, and cost just fivepence
a yard."
"Is it possible!" he answered, surveying her from head to foot with a
comic air of bewilderment. "Then, Louise, what is it that you do to
your dresses?"
"Wear them," she answered demurely. "And I shall surely wear this this
morning; it fits precisely."
Did it? Her husband was in great doubt. He would not have liked to own
it; he did not own it even to himself; but the truth was, he lived in
a sort of terror of his mother's opinions. She was easily shocked,
easily disgusted; the whole subject of dress shocked her, perhaps,
more than any other. She was almost eloquent over the extravagance,
the lavish display, the waste of time as well as money exhibited in
these degenerate days in the decorations of the body. She even sternly
hinted that occasionally Dorothy "prinked" altogether too much for
a girl with brains. What would she think of Mrs. Lewis Morgan? The
dress which troubled him was one of those soft neutral-tinted cottons
so common in these days, so entirely unfashionable in the fashionable
world that Louise had already horrified her mother, and vexed
Estelle, by persisting in her determination to have several of them.
Once purchased, she had exercised her taste in the making, and her
selections of patterns and trimming "fitted the material perfectly," so
Estelle had told her, meaning anything but a compliment thereby.
It was simplicity itself in its finishings; yet the pattern was
graceful in its folds and draperies, and fitted her form to perfection.
The suit was finished at the throat with a rolling collar, inside of
which Louise had basted a very narrow frill of soft yellowish lace.
The close-fitting sleeves were finished in the same way. A very tiny
scarlet knot of narrow ribbon at the throat completed the costume, and
the whole effect was such that her husband, surveying her, believed
he had never seen her better dressed, and was sure his mother would
be shocked. The bewilderment on his face seemed to strike his wife as
ludicrous.
"Why, Lewis," she said gaily, "what would you have me wear?"
"I don't know, I am sure," he answered, joining her laugh. "Only, why
should fivepence goods look like a tea-party dress on you?" Then they
went down to breakfast.
Almost the first thought that the young wife had, as she surveyed the
strange scene, was embodied in a wonderment as to what Estelle would
say could she look in on them now.
That great, clean kitchen; the kettle steaming on the cook-stove,
and the black "spider" still sizzling about the ham gravy that was
left in it; the large-leaved table, spread; old-fashioned, blue
earthenware dishes arranged on it, without regard to grace, certainly,
whatever might be said of convenience. In the middle of the table sat
the inevitable tallow candle, and another one blinked on the high
mantlepiece, bringing out the shadows in a strange, weird way.
Seated at the foot of the table was John, in his shirt-sleeves, the
mild winter morning having proved too trying for his coat. His father
was still engaged in putting the finishing touches to his toilet by
brushing his few spears of gray hair before the little glass in the
further end of the room. Dorothy leaned against the window and waited,
looking both distressed and cross.
"Come! Come! Come!" said the mother of this home, directly the
stair-door had closed after the arrival of her new daughter. "Do let
us get down to breakfast; it will be noon before we get the dishes
out-of-the-way. Now, father, have we got to wait for you? I thought you
were ready an hour ago. Come, Lewis; you must be hungry by this time."
The rich blood mounted to Lewis's cheeks. This was a trying greeting
for his wife; he felt exactly as though he wanted to say that he
thought so; but she brushed past him at that moment, laying a cool
little hand for an instant on his. Was it a warning touch? Then she
went over to the young man in the shirt-sleeves.
"Nobody introduces us," she said, in a tone of quiet brightness. "I
suppose they think that brother and sister do not need introduction. I
am Louise, and I am sure you must be John; let's shake hands on it."
And the small, white hand was outstretched and waiting. What was to be
done?
John, who was prepared to hate her, so well prepared that he already
half did so—John (who never shook hands with anybody, least of all a
woman; never came in contact with one if he could possibly help it)
felt the flush in his face deepen until he knew he was the colour of
a peony, but nevertheless slowly held forth his hard red hand, and
touched the small white one, which instantly seized it in a cordial
grasp. Then they sat down to breakfast.
Louise waited with bowed head, and was thrilled with a startled sense
of unlikeness to home as she waited in vain. No voice expressed
its thankfulness for many mercies; instead, the clatter of dishes
immediately commenced. "Not one in the family save myself is a
Christian." She remembered well that Lewis had told her so; but was
he of so little moment in his father's house that the simple word of
blessing would not have been received among them from his lips? It had
not occurred to her that, because her husband was the only Christian in
the household, therefore he sat at a prayer-less table.
Other experiences connected with that first meal in her new home were,
to say the least, novel. Curiously enough, her imaginings concerning
them all connected themselves with Estelle. What would Estelle think of
a young lady who came collarless to the breakfast table; nay, more than
that, who sat down to eat, in her father's and mother's presence, with
uncombed hair, gathered into a frowzly knot in the back of her neck?
What would Estelle have thought of Mrs. Morgan's fashion of dipping her
own spoon into the bowl of sugar and then back again into her coffee?
How would she have liked to help herself with her own knife to butter,
having seen the others of the family do the same with theirs? How would
she manage in the absence of napkins and would the steel forks spoil
her breakfast? And how would she like fried ham, and potatoes boiled in
the skin, for breakfast anyway?
The new-comer remembered that she had but three weeks ago assured
Estelle that farmhouses were delightful places in which to spend
summers. Was she so sure of that, even with this little inch of
experience? To learn to appreciate the force of contrasts, one would
only need a picture of the two breakfast tables which presented
themselves to the mind of this young wife.
Aside from all these minor contrasts, there were others which troubled
her more. She had resolved to be very social and informal with each
member of this family; but the formidable question arose, what was she
to be social about? Conversation there was none, unless Farmer Morgan's
directions to John concerning details of farm work, and his answers
to Lewis's questions as to what had transpired on the farm during his
absence, could be called conversation.
Mrs. Morgan, it is true, contributed by assuring Dorothy that if
she did not clean out the back kitchen this day she would do it
herself, and that the shelves in the cellar needed washing off this
very morning. Whatever it was that had occurred to put Dorothy in
ill-humour, or whether it was ill-humour or only habitual sullenness,
Louise did not know; certainly her brows were black. Would it be
possible to converse with her? As the question put itself to her mind,
it called up the merry by-play of talk with which Estelle was wont to
enliven the home breakfast table, so sparkling and attractive in its
flow that her father had accused her of setting a special snare for
him, that he might miss his car.
If Estelle were at this table what would she talk about? It was
entirely a new and strange experience to Louise to be at a loss what to
talk about. Books! What had Dorothy read? She did not look as though
she had read anything, or wanted to. Sewing! Well, the new sister was
skilled with her needle. Suppose she said, "I know how to make my own
dresses, and I can cut and fit my common ones; can you?" How abrupt
it would sound, and what strange table talk for the pleasure of the
assembled family! She caught herself on the verge of a laugh over
the absurdity of the thing, and was as far as ever from a topic for
conversation.
Meantime Lewis had finished his questionings and turned to her.
"Louise, did you ever see any one milk? I suppose not. If it were not
so cold you would like to go out and see Dorothy with her pet cow; she
is a creature—quite a study."
Did he mean Dorothy, or the pet cow? It was clear to his wife that
he was himself embarrassed by something incongruous in the breakfast
scene; but she caught at his suggestion of a subject even while his
mother's metallic voice was saying—
"Cold! If you call this a cold morning, Lewis, you must have been
getting very tender since you were in the city. It is almost as mild as
spring."
"Can you milk?" Louise was saying, meantime, eagerly to Dorothy. The
eagerness was not assumed; she was jubilant, not so much over the idea
of seeing the process of milking as over the fact that she had finally
discovered a direct question to address to Dorothy, which must be
answered in some form.
But, behold! Dorothy, flushing to her temples, looked down at her plate
and answered, "Yes, ma'am," and directly choked herself with a swallow
of coffee, and the avenue for conversation suddenly closed.
What was she to do? How it was to call such distorted attempts at
talk by the pleasant word conversation! What "familiar interchange
of sentiment" could she hope to get up with Dorothy about milking
cows? What did people say about cows, anyway? She wished she had some
knowledge, even the slightest, of the domestic habits of these animals;
but she was honestly afraid to venture in any direction, lest she
should display an ignorance that would either be considered affected or
sink her lower in the family estimation. Suppose she tried some other
subject with Dorothy, would she be likely to choke again?
Mrs. Morgan tried to help. "Dorothy milked two cows when she was not
yet twelve years old!"
Whether it was the words, or the tone, or the intention, Louise could
not tell; but she immediately had a feeling that not to milk two cows
before one was twelve years old argued a serious and irreparable
blunder in one's bringing up. She was meek and quiet-toned in her
reply:—
"I never had the opportunity of even seeing the country when I was a
little girl, only as we went to the sea-side, and that is not exactly
like the country, you know. All mamma's and papa's relatives happened
to live in town."
"It must be a great trial to a woman to have to bring up her children
in a city. Ten chances to one if they don't get spoiled."
Mrs. Morgan did not say it crossly, nor with any intention of
personality, but again Louise felt it to be almost a certainty that she
was thought not to belong to that fortunate "one chance" which was not
spoiled.
Mother Morgan startled her out of her wandering by addressing her
directly—
"I hope you will be able to make out a breakfast. I suppose our style
of living is not what you have been used to."
What could Louise say? It certainly was not, and she certainly could
not affirm that she liked it better.
Her husband turned a certain troubled look on her. "Can't you eat a
little?" he asked in an undertone.
Did she imagine it, or was he more anxious that his mother should not
be annoyed than he was that her appetite should not suffer? Altogether,
the young bride was heartily glad when that uncomfortable meal was
concluded and she was back in that upper room. She went alone, her
husband having excused himself from his father long enough to go with
her to the foot of the stairs and explain that father wanted him a
moment.
Do you think she fell into a passion of weeping directly the door
of her own room shut her in, and wished that she had never left the
elegancies of her city home or the sheltering love of her mother? Then
you have mistaken her character. She walked to the window a moment and
looked out on the stubby, partly frozen meadows that stretched away
in the distance, she even brushed a tender tear, born of love for the
old home and the dear faces there; but it was chased away by a smile
as she bowed to her husband, who looked back to get a glimpse of her;
and she knew then, as she had known before, that it was not hard to
"forsake all others and cleave to him." Moreover, she remembered that
marriage vows had brought her more than a wife's responsibilities. She
was by them made a daughter and a sister to those whom she had not
known before. They were not idle words to her, these two relationships.
She remembered them each one: Father Morgan, with his old, worn face,
and his heart among the fields and barns; Mother Morgan, with her cold
eyes, and cold hand, and cold voice; Dorothy and John, and the fair,
yellow-haired Nellie, whom a special touch of motherliness had left
still sleeping that morning; and remembering them each, this young wife
turned from the window, and, kneeling, presented them each by name and
desire to her "elder Brother."