"So you refused Weston's offer of three hundred dollars for Frieda?"
"Yes, father. Do you think I was wrong?"
"Well, I don't know. That's a good deal of money, Austin."
"I know, but think what she cost to import, and the record she's making!
I told him he might have two of the brand-new bull calves at
seventy-five apiece."
"What did he say?"
"Jumped at the chance. He's coming _for_ the calves, and _with_ the cash
early to-morrow morning. I said he might have a look at Dorothy, too.
Peter thinks she isn't quite up to our standard, and I'm inclined to
agree with him, though I imagine his opinion is based partly on the fact
that she's a Jersey! If Weston will give three hundred for _her_, right
on the spot, I think we'd better let her go."
"Did you do any other special business in Wallacetown?"
"I took ten dozen more eggs to Hassan's Grocery, and he paid me for the
last two months. Thirty dollars. Pretty good, but we ought to do better
yet, though, of course, we eat a great many ourselves. How's the tax
assessing coming along? I suppose you've been out all day, too."
"Yes. I'm so green at it I find it rather hard work. It's hard luck that
both of the listers should be sick just now, though in New Hampshire the
selectmen always have to do the assessing. But I've had some funny
experiences to-day. I found one woman terribly distressed because her
husband wasn't at home. 'He waited 'round all yesterday afternoon for
you, thinkin' you'd probably be here,' she said, 'but he's gone to White
Water to-day.' 'Well,' I said, 'let's see if we can't get along just as
well without him. Have you a horse?' 'Yes, but he's over age--he can't be
taxed.' 'Any cows?' 'Just two heifers--they're too young.' 'Any money on
deposit?' 'Lord, no!' 'Then there's only the poll-tax?' I suggested.
'Bless you, he's seventy-six years old--there ain't no poll-tax!' she
rejoined. And the long and short of it was that they weren't taxable for
a single thing!"
Austin laughed. "How much longer are you going to be at this, father?" he
asked, as he turned to go away.
"All through April, I'm afraid. I'm sorry it makes things so much harder
for you on the farm, Austin, but it means three dollars a day. I'm so
glad Katherine and Edith could go on the high school trip to
Washington--your mother had her first letter this noon. You'll want to
read it--they're having a wonderful time. I'm trying to figure out
whether we can possibly let Katherine go to Wellesley next year. She's
got her heart just set on it, and Edith seems perfectly willing to stay
at home, so we shan't be put to any extra expense for her."
"I guess when the time comes we can find a way to help Katherine if she
helps herself as much as Thomas and Molly are doing. By the way, has it
occurred to you that there may be some reason for Edith's sudden turn
towards domesticity?"
"Why, no--what do you mean?"
"Peter."
"Peter!" echoed Mr. Gray, aghast; "why the child isn't seventeen yet, and
he can't be more than a couple of years older!"
"I know. But such things do sometimes happen."
"You don't consider Peter a suitable match for one of your sisters?" went
on the horrified father; "why, she's oceans above him."
"Any farther than Sylvia is above Thomas? You seem to be taking that
rather hard."
For Thomas, in spite of Austin's warnings, and his chastening experience
on the night of the expedition to the Moving-Picture Palace, had broken
bounds again and openly declared himself. Sylvia, who already reproached
herself for her ill-temper on that occasion, was very kind and very
sweet, and had the tact and wisdom not to treat the matter as a joke; but
she was as definite and firm in her "no" as she was considerate in the
way she put it. Thomas was as usual quite unable to conceal his feelings,
and his parents were grieving for him almost as much as he was for
himself, although they had never expected any other outcome to his first
love-affair, and were somewhat amazed at his presumption.
"You never thought of this yourself," went on the bewildered parent,
ignoring Austin's last remark, feeling that his children were treating
him most unfairly by indulging in so many affairs of the heart which
could not possibly have a fortunate outcome. "_I_ haven't noticed a
thing, and I'm sure your mother hasn't, or she would have spoken about it
to me. Why, Edith's hardly out of her cradle."
"It would take a pretty flexible cradle to hold Edith nowadays," returned
Austin dryly; "she's running around all over the countryside, and she has
more partners at a dance than all the other girls put together. She isn't
as nice as Molly, or half so interesting as Katherine, but she has a
little way with her that--well, I don't know just _what_ it is, but I see
the attraction myself. I thought I'd tell you so that if you didn't like
it, we could try to scrimp a little harder, and send her off for a year
or so, too--she never could get into college, but she might go to some
school of Domestic Science. No--I didn't notice Peter's state of mind
myself at first."
"Sylvia!" said his father sharply. "She didn't approve, of course."
"On the contrary, very highly. She says that the sooner a girl of Edith's
type is married--to the right sort of a man, of course--the better, and
I'm inclined to think that she's right. Then she pointed out that Peter
had gone doggedly to school all winter, struggling with a foreign
language, and enduring the gibes he gets from being in a class with boys
much younger than himself, with very good grace. She mentioned how
faithful and competent he was in his work, and how interested in it;
asked if I had noticed the excellency of his handwriting, his
accounts--and his manners! And finally she said that a boy who would
promise his mother to go to church once a fortnight at least, and keep
the promise, was doing pretty well."
"Speaking of church," said Mr. Gray uneasily, as if forced to agree with
all Austin said, yet anxious to change the subject, "Mr. Jessup is
calling. He comes pretty frequently."
"Yes--I had noticed _that_ for myself! I don't think Sylvia particularly
likes it."
"Then I imagine she can stop it without much outside help," said his
father, somewhat ruefully. "Well, we must get to work, and not sit here
talking all the rest of the afternoon--not that there's so very much
afternoon left! What are you going to do next, Austin?"
"Change my clothes, and then start burning the rubbish-pile--there's a
good moon, so I can finish it after the milking's done."
"That means you'll be up until midnight--and you were out in the barn at
five!" exclaimed Mr. Gray. "I don't see where you get all your energy."
"From ambition!" laughed Austin, starting away. "This is going to be the
finest farm in the county again, if I have anything to do about it." As
he entered the house, and went through the hall, he could hear voices in
Sylvia's parlor, and though the door was ajar, he went past it, contrary
to his custom. His father was right. If she did not like the minister's
visits, she was quite competent to stop them without outside help. Was it
possible--_could_ it be?--that she _did_ like them? He flung off his
business clothes and got into his overalls with a sort of savage
haste--after all, what difference ought it to make to him whether she
liked them or not? She was going away almost immediately, would
inevitably marry some one before very long, Mr. Jessup at least held a
dignified position and possessed a good education, and if she married
him, she would come back to Hamstead, they could see her once in a
while--Having tried to comfort himself with these cheering reflections,
he started down the stairs, inwardly cursing. Then he heard something
which made him stop short.
"Please go away," Sylvia was saying, in the low, penetrating voice he
knew so well, "and I think it would be better if you didn't come any
more. How dare you speak to me like that! And how can a clergyman so lose
his sense of dignity as to behave like any common fortune-hunter?"
Austin pushed open the door without stopping to knock, and walked in.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Jessup," he said coolly, "my father told me we were
having the pleasure of a call from you. I'm just going out to milk--won't
you come with me, and see the cattle? They're really a fine sight, tied
up ready for the night."
Mr. Jessup picked up his hat, and Austin held the door open for him to
pass out, leaving Sylvia standing, an erect, scornful little black
figure, with very red cheeks, her angry eyes growing rapidly soft as she
looked straight past the minister at Austin.
The results of Mr. Jessup's visit were several. The most immediate one
was that Austin's work was so delayed by the interruption it received
that it was nearly nine o'clock before he was able to start his bonfire.
Thomas joined him, but after an hour declared he was too sleepy to work
another minute, and strolled off to bed. Austin's next visitor was his
father, who merely came to see how things were getting along and to say
good-night. And finally, when he had settled down to a period of
laborious solitude, he was amazed to see Sylvia open and shut the front
door very quietly, and come towards him in the moonlight, carrying a
white bundle so large that she could hardly manage it.
"For Heaven's sake!" he exclaimed, hurrying to help her, "you ought to
have been asleep hours ago! What have you got here?"
"Something to add to your bonfire," she said savagely, and as he took the
great package from her, the white wrapping fell open, showing the
contents to be inky black. "All the crepe I own! I won't wear it another
day! I've been respectful to death--even if I couldn't be to the
dead--and to convention long enough. I've swathed myself in that stuff
for nearly fifteen months! I won't be such a hypocrite as to wear it
another day! And if Thomas--and--and--Mr. Jessup and--and everybody--are
going to pester the life out of me, I might just as well be in New York
as here. I'm glad I'm going away."
"No one else is going to pester you," said Austin quietly, "and they
won't any more. But you'll have a good time in New York--I think it's
fine that you're going." He tossed the bundle into the very midst of the
burning pile, and tried to speak lightly, pretending not to notice the
excitement of her manner and the undried tears on her flushed cheeks. "I
think you're just right about that stuff, too. Will this mean all sorts
of fluffy pink and blue things, like what Flora Little wears? I should
think you would look great in them!"
"No--but it means lots and lots of pure white dresses and plain black
suits and hats, without any crepe. Then in the fall, lavender, and gray,
and so on."
"I see--a gradual improvement. Won't you sit down a few minutes? It's a
wonderful night."
"Thank you. Austin--you and Sally will have to help me shop when I get to
New York--Heaven knows what I can wear to travel down in."
Austin stopped raking, and flung himself down on the grass beside her.
"Sylvia," he said quickly, "I'm awfully sorry, but I can't go."
"Can't go! Why not?" she exclaimed, with so much disappointment in her
voice that he was amazed.
"Father's a selectman now, you know, and away all day just at this time
on town business. There's too much farmwork for Thomas and Peter to
manage alone. I didn't foresee this, of course, when I accepted your
uncle's invitation. I can't tell you how much it means to me to give it
up, but you must see that I've got to."
"Yes, I see," she said gravely, and sat silently for some minutes,
fingering the frill on her sleeve. Then she went on: "Uncle Mat wants me
to stay a month or six weeks with him, and I think I ought to, after.
deserting him for so long. When I come back, my own little house will be
ready for me, and it will be warm enough for me to move in there, so I
think these last few days will be 'good-bye.' Your family has let me stay
a year--the happiest year of all my life--and I know your mother loves
me--almost as much as I love her--and hates to have me go. But all
families are better off by themselves, and in one way I think I've stayed
too long already."
"You mean Thomas?"
She nodded, her eyes full of tears. "I ought to have gone before it
happened," she said penitently; "any woman with a grain of sense can
usually see that--that sort of thing coming, and ward it off beforehand.
But I didn't think he was quite so serious, or expect it quite so soon."
"The young donkey! To annoy you so!"
"_Annoy_ me! Surely you don't think _Thomas_ was thinking of the money?"
"Good Lord, no, it never entered his head! Neither did it enter his head
what an unpardonable piece of presumption it was on his part to ask you
to marry him. A great, ignorant, overgrown, farmer boy!"
"You are mistaken," said Sylvia quietly; "I do not love Thomas, but if I
did, the answer would have had to be 'no' just the same. The presumption
would be all on my part, if I allowed any clean, wholesome, honest boy,
in a moment of passion, to throw away his life on a woman like me. Thomas
must marry a girl, as fresh as he is himself--not a woman with a past
like mine behind her."
For nearly a year Austin had exercised a good deal of self-control for a
man little trained in that valuable quality. At Sylvia's speech it gave
way suddenly, and without warning. Entirely forgetting his resolution
never to touch her, he leaned forward, seizing her arm, and speaking
vehemently.
"I wish you would get rid of your false, gloomy thoughts about yourself
as easily as you have got rid of your false, gloomy clothing," he said,
passionately. "The mother and husband who made your life what it was are
both where they can never hurt you again. Your character they never did
touch, except in the most superficial way. When you told me your story,
that night in the woods, you tried to make me think that you did
voluntarily--what you did. You lied to me. I thought so then. I know it
now. You were flattered and bullied, cajoled and coerced--a girl scarcely
older than my sister Edith, whom we consider a child, whose father is
distressed to even think of her as marriageable. It is time to stop
feeling repentance for sins you never committed, and to look at yourself
sanely and happily--if you must be introspective at all. No braver,
lovelier, purer woman ever lived, or one more obviously intended to be a
wife and mother. The sooner you become both, the better."
There was a moment of tense silence. Sylvia made no effort to draw away
from him; at last she asked, in a voice which was almost pleading in
its quality:
"Is that what you think of me?"
Austin dropped his hand. "Good God, Sylvia!" he said hoarsely; "don't you
know by this time what I think of you?"
"Then you mean--that you want me to marry you?"
"No, no, no!" he cried. "Why are you so bound to misunderstand and
misjudge me? I beg you not to ride by yourself, and you tell me I am
'dictating.' I go for months without hearing from you for fear of
annoying you, and you accuse me of 'indifference.' I bring you a gift as
a vassal might have done to his liege lady--and you shrink away from me
in terror. I try to show you what manner of woman you really are, and you
believe that I am displaying the same presumption which I have just
condemned in my own brother. Are you so warped and embittered by one
experience--a horrible one, but, thank Heaven, quickly and safely over
with!--that you cannot believe me when I tell you that the best part of a
decent man's love is not passion, but reverence? His greatest desire, not
possession, but protection? His ultimate aim, not gratification, but
sacrifice?"
He bent over her. She was sitting quite motionless, her head bowed, her
face hidden in her hands; she was trembling from head to foot. He put his
arm around her.
"Don't!" he said, his voice breaking; "don't, Sylvia. I've been rough and
violent--lost my grip on myself--but it's all over now--I give you my
word of honor that it is. Please lift your head up, and tell me that you
forgive me!" He waited until it seemed as if his very reason would leave
him if she did not answer him; then at last she dropped her hands, and
raised her head. The moon shone full on her upturned face, and the look
that Austin saw there was not one of forgiveness, but of something so
much greater that he caught his breath before she moved or spoke to him.
"Are you blind?" she whispered. "Can't you see how I have felt--since
Christmas night, even if you couldn't long before that? Don't you know
why I just couldn't go away? But I thought you didn't care for me--that
you couldn't possibly have kept away from me so long if you did--that you
thought I wasn't good enough--Oh, my dear, my dear--" She laid both hands
on his shoulders.
The next instant she was in his arms, his lips against hers, all the
sorrow and bitterness of their lives lost forever in the glory of their
first kiss.