"Yes; why shouldn't he? Oh, Emily, it must be joy, or does it frighten
you to know you're so beautiful?"
She was letting her fingers touch, almost with awe, the curve of the
other's check.
Emily laughed, but the crimson on the cheek deepened.
"And your voice?" demanded Alexina. "I want to hear you sing. Did you
get the place in the choir you wrote me about?"
"Miss Harriet got it for me; it was she who suggested it--that is, she
got Mr. Blair to get it for me. It's at your church, you know."
"Uncle Austen? No. Did he, really?"
But the surprise in Alexina's voice was unfair to her uncle. To help
people to the helping of themselves was part of his creed. He looked
upon it as a furthering of the general social economy, as indeed he
had pointed out more than once to those he was thus assisting.
But Alexina had many things to ask. She pushed Emily into a chair.
"Is it pleasant--the choir?" she began.
"Pleasant? Well," Emily looked away and coloured, "I like the money;
I've never been able to have any clothes before. There was a scene at
home about it--my singing, I mean, in any but my own church, and for
money. It was grandfather, of course; it's always been grandfather. He
says it's spiritual prostitution, whatever he means by that, taking
money for praising the Lord in an alien faith." She laughed in an
off-hand way. "No, I'll be honest, I'd have to be sooner or later with
you, anyhow, I hate it--not the work and rehearsals so much, but the
being patronized. When some of those women stop me, with the air of
doing the gracious thing, to tell me they have enjoyed my singing, oh,
I could--" Again she laughed, but her cheeks were blazing. Then she
leaned over and fingered some of the girlish fineries strewing the
bed. "I hate it at home, too, when it comes to being honest about
things--six of us, with grandfather and Aunt Carrie making eight, in
that little house!"
Later, Alexina chanced to refer to Major Rathbone. She spoke
enthusiastically, for she either liked people or she did not like
them. "Hadn't you heard about him?" asked Emily in surprise. "He met
Miss Harriet two years ago, and he's been coming ever since. It's
funny, too, that he should. He's _the_ Major Rathbone, you know--"
But Alexina looked unenlightened.
"Why," said Emily, "the Major Rathbone who was the Confederate
guerrilla--the one who captured and burned a train-load of stuff your
grandfather and Mr. Austen had contracted to deliver for the
government. I've heard people tell about it a dozen different ways
since he's been coming to see Miss Harriet. Anyway, however it was,
the government at the time put a price on his head and your
grandfather and Mr. Austen doubled it. And now they say he's in love
with Miss Harriet!"
In love! With Aunt Harriet! Alexina grew hot. Aunt Harriet! She felt
strange and queer. But Emily was saying more. "Mr. Blair and Major
Rathbone aren't friends even yet; I was here to supper with Miss
Harriet one evening last winter, and Mr. Blair was furious over an
editorial by Major Rathbone in the paper that day about some political
appointments from Washington. Mr. Blair had had something to do with
them, had been consulted about them from Washington, it seems. Major
Rathbone's a Catholic, too."
It rushed upon Alexina that she had spoken to the Major of a family
discussion over his editorials.
Emily stayed until dusk. As Alexina went down to the door with her,
they met Uncle Austen just coming in. He stopped, shook hands, and
asked how matters were in the choir.
As Emily ran down the steps he addressed himself to his niece. "A
praiseworthy young girl to have gone so practically to work." Then as
Emily at the gate looked back, nodding archly, he repeated it. "A
praiseworthy young girl, praiseworthy and sensible," his gaze
following her, "as well as handsome."
He went in, but Alexina lingered on the broad stone steps. It was
October and the twilight was purple and hazy. Chrysanthemums bloomed
against the background of the shrubbery; the maples along the street
were drifting leaves upon the sidewalk; the sycamores stood with their
shed foliage like a cast garment about their feet, raising giant white
limbs naked to heaven.
There were lights in the wide brick cottage. Strangers lived there
now. A swinging sign above the gate set forth that a Doctor Ransome
dwelt therein.
The eddying fall of leaves is depressing. Autumn anyhow is a
melancholy time. Alexina, going in, closed the door.