"Good-bye, Mrs. Gray, I'm going for a ride."
"Good-bye, dearie; sure it ain't too hot?"
"Not a bit; it's rained so hard all this week that I haven't had a bit of
exercise, and I'm getting cross."
"Cross! I'd like to see you once! It still looks kinder thunderous to me
off in the West, so don't go far."
"I won't, I promise; I'll be back by supper-time. There's Austin, just up
from the hayfield--I'll get him to saddle for me." And Sylvia ran quickly
towards the barn.
"You don't mean to say you're going out this torrid day?" he demanded,
lifting his head from the tin bucket in which he had submerged it as she
voiced her request, and eyeing her black linen habit with disfavor.
"It's no hotter on the highroad than in the hayfield."
"Very true; but I have to go, and you don't. Being one of the favored few
of this earth, there's no reason why you shouldn't sit on a shady porch
all day, dressed in cool, pale-green muslin, and sipping iced drinks."
"Did you ever see me in a green muslin? I'll saddle Dolly myself, if you
don't feel like it."
She spoke very quietly, but the immediate consciousness of his stupid
break did not improve Austin's bad temper.
"Oh, I'll saddle for you, but the heat aside, I think you ought to
understand that it isn't best for a woman to ride about on these lonely
roads by herself. It was different a few years ago; but now, with all
these Italian and Portuguese laborers around, it's a different story. I
think you'd better stay at home."
The unwarranted and dictatorial tone of the last sentence spoiled the
speech, which might otherwise, in spite of the surly manner in which it
was uttered, have passed for an expression of solicitude. Sylvia, who was
as headstrong as she was amiable, gathered up her reins quickly.
"By what right do you consider yourself in a position to dictate to me?"
she demanded.
"By none at all; but it's only decent to tell you the risk you're
running; now if you come to grief, I certainly shan't feel sorry."
"From your usual behavior, I shouldn't have supposed you would, anyway.
Good-bye, Austin."
"Good-bye, Mrs. Cary."
"Why don't you call me Sylvia, as all the rest do?"
"It's not fitting."
"More dictation as to propriety! Well, as you please."
He watched her ride up the hill, almost with a feeling of satisfaction at
having antagonized and hurt her, then turned to unharness and water his
horses. He knew very well that his own behavior was the only blot on a
summer, which but for that would have been almost perfect for every other
member of the family, and yet he made no effort to alter it. In fact,
only a few days before, his sullen resentment of the manner in which
their long-prayed-for change of fortune had come had very nearly resulted
disastrously for them all, and the more he brooded over it, the more sore
and bitter he became.
* * * * *
By the first of August, the "Gray Homestead" had regained the proud
distinction, which it had enjoyed in the days of its builder, of being
one of the finest in the county. The house, with its wide and hospitable
piazza, shone with white paint; the disorderly yard had become a smooth
lawn; a flower-garden, riotous with color, stretched out towards the
river, and the "back porch" was concealed with growing vines. Only the
barns, which afforded Sylvia no reasonable excuse for meddling, remained
as before, unsightly and dilapidated. Thomas, the practical farmer, had
lamented this as he and Austin sat smoking their pipes one sultry evening
after supper.
"Perhaps our credit has improved enough now so that we could borrow some
money at the Wallacetown Bank," he said earnestly, "and if you and father
weren't so averse to taking that good offer Weston made you last week for
the south meadow, we'd have almost enough to rebuild, anyway. It's all
very well to have this pride in 'keeping the whole farm just as
grandfather left it to us,' but if we could sell part and take care of
the rest properly, it would be a darned sight better business."
"Why don't you ask your precious Mrs. Cary for the money? She'd probably
give it to you outright, same as she has for the house, and save you all
that bother."
"Look here!" Thomas swung around sharply, laying a heavy hand on his
brother's arm; "when you talk about her, you won't use that tone, if
I know it."
Austin shrugged his shoulders. "Why shouldn't I? What do you know about
her that justifies you in resenting it? Nothing, absolutely nothing!
She's been here four months, and none of us have any idea to this day
where she comes from, or where all this money comes from. Ask her, if
you dare to."
He got no further, for Thomas, always the mildest of lads, struck him on
the mouth so violently that he tottered backwards, and in doing so, fell
straight under the feet of Sylvia, who stood in the doorway watching
them, as if rooted to the spot, her blue eyes full of tears, and her face
as white as when she had first come to them.
"Thomas, how _could_ you?" she cried. "Can't you understand Austin
at all, and make allowances? And, oh, Austin, how could _you_? Both
of you? please forgive me for overhearing--I couldn't help it!" And
she was gone.
Thomas was on his feet and after her in a second, but she was too quick
for him; her sitting-room door was locked before he reached it, and
repeated knocking and calling brought no answer. Mr. and Mrs. Gray, who
slept in the chamber opening from the dining-room, and back of Sylvia's,
reported the next morning that something must be troubling the "blessed
girl," for they had heard soft sobbing far into the night; but, after
all, that had happened before, and was to be expected from one "whose
heart was buried in the grave." Their sons made no comment, but both were
immeasurably relieved when, after an entire day spent in her room, during
which each, in his own way, had suffered intensely, she reappeared at
supper as if nothing had happened. It was a glorious night, and she
suggested, as she left the table, that Thomas might take her for a short
paddle, a canoe being among the many things which had been gradually
arriving for her all summer. Molly and Edith went with them, and Austin
smoked alone with his bitter reflections.
* * * * *
The thunder was rumbling in good earnest when Howard Gray and Thomas came
clattering up with their last load of hay for the night, and the three
men pitched it hastily into place together, and hurried into the house.
Mrs. Gray was bustling about slamming windows, and the girls were
bringing in the red-cushioned hammocks and piazza, chairs, but the first
great drops began to fall before they had finished, and the wind, seldom
roused in the quiet valley, was blowing violently; Edith, stopping too
long for a last pillow and a precious book, was drenched to the skin in
an instant; the house was pitch dark before there was time to grope for
lights, but was almost immediately illumined by a brilliant flash of
lightning, followed by a loud report.
"My, but this storm is near! Usually, I don't mind 'em a bit, but, I
declare, this is a regular rip-snorter! Edith, bring me--"
But Mrs. Gray was interrupted by the elements, and for fifteen minutes
no one made any further effort to talk; the rain fell in sheets, the
wind gathered greater and greater force, the lightning became constant
and blinding, while each clap of thunder seemed nearer and more
terrific than the one before it, when finally a deafening roar brought
them all suddenly together, shouting frantically, "That certainly has
struck here!"
It was true; before they could even reach it, the great north barn was in
flames. There was no way of summoning outside help, even if any one could
have reached them in such a storm, and the wind was blowing the fire
straight in the direction of the house; in less than an hour, most of
the old and rotten outbuildings had burnt like tinder, and the rest had
collapsed under the fury of the sweeping gale; but by eight o'clock the
stricken Grays, almost too exhausted and overcome to speak, were
beginning to realize that though all their hay and most of their stock
were destroyed, a change of wind, combined with their own mighty efforts,
had saved the beloved old house; its window-panes were shattered, and its
blinds were torn off, and its fresh paint smoked and defaced with
wind-blown sand; but it was essentially unharmed. The hurricane changed
to a steady downpour, the lightning grew dimmer and more distant, and
vanished altogether; and Mrs. Gray, with a firm expression of
countenance, in spite of the tears rolling down her cheeks, set about to
finish the preparations for supper which the storm had so rudely
interrupted three hours earlier.
"Eat an' keep up your strength, an' that'll help to keep up your
courage," she said, patting her husband on the shoulder as she passed
him. "Here, Katherine, take them biscuits out of the oven; an' Molly, go
an' call the boys in; there ain't a mite of use in their stayin' out
there any longer."
Austin was the last to appear; he opened the kitchen door, and stood for
a moment leaning against the frame, a huge, gaunt figure, blackened with
dirt and smoke, and so wet that the water dropped in little pools all
about him. He glanced up and down the room, and gave a sharp exclamation.
"What's the matter, Austin?" asked his mother, stopping in the act of
pouring out a steaming cup of tea. "Come an' get some supper; you'll feel
better directly. It ain't so bad but what it might be a sight worse."
"_Come and get some supper_!" he cried, striding towards her, and once
more looking wildly around. "The thunderstorm has been over nearly two
hours, plenty of time for her to get home--she never minds rain--or to
telephone if she had taken shelter anywhere; and can any one tell
me--has any one even thought--I didn't, till five minutes ago--_where
is Sylvia_?"