When, two days later, Sylvia and Sally left for New York, none of the
Grays had been told, much less had they suspected, what had happened. A
certain new shyness, which Austin found very attractive, had come over
Sylvia, and she seemed to wish to keep their engagement a secret for a
time, and also to keep to her plan of going away, with the added reason
that she now "wanted a chance to think things over."
"To think whether you really love me?" asked Austin gravely.
"Haven't I convinced you that I don't need to think that over any more?"
she said, with a look and a blush that expressed so much that the
conversation was near to being abruptly ended.
Austin controlled himself, however, and merely said:
"I'm going down to our little cemetery this afternoon to put it in good
order for the spring; I know you've always said you didn't want to go
there, but perhaps you'll feel differently now. All the Grays are buried
there, and no one else, and in spite of all the other things we've
neglected, we've kept that as it should be kept; and it's so peaceful and
pretty--always shady in summer, when it's hot, and sheltered in winter,
when it's cold! I thought you could take a blanket and a book, and sit
and read while I worked. Afterwards we can walk over to your house if you
like--you may want to give me some final directions about the work that's
to be done there while you're gone."
"I'd love to go to the cemetery--or anywhere else, for that matter--with
you," said Sylvia, "and afterwards--to _our_ house. Perhaps you'll want
to give some directions yourself!"
The tiny graveyard lay in the hollow of one of the wooded slopes which
broke the great, undulating meadow which stretched from the Homestead to
the river, a wall made of the stones picked up on the place around it, a
plain granite shaft erected by the first Gray in the centre, and grouped
about the shaft the quaint tablets of the century before, with
old-fashioned names spelled in an old-fashioned manner, and with homely
rhymes and trite sayings underneath; farther off, the newer gravestones,
more ornate and less appealing. The elms were just beginning to bud, and
the cold April wind whistled through them, but the pines were as green
and sheltering as always, and Sylvia spread her blanket under one of
them, and worked away at the sewing she had brought instead of a book,
while Austin burned the grass and dug and pruned, whistling under his
breath all the time. He stopped once to call her attention to a robin,
the first they had seen that spring, and finally, when the sacred little
place was in perfect order, came with a handful of trailing arbutus for
her, and sat down beside her.
"I thought I remembered seeing some of this on the bank," he said; "it's
always grown there--will you take it for your 'bouquet des fiançailles,'
Sylvia? I remember how surprised we all were last year because you liked
the little wild flowers best, and went around searching for them, when
your rooms were full of carnations and hothouse roses. And because you
used to go out to walk, just to see the sunsets. Do you still love
sunsets, too?"
"Yes, more than ever. In the fall while you were gone, I used to go down
to the river nearly every afternoon, and watch the color spread over the
fields. There's something about a sunset in the late autumn that's unlike
those at any other time of year--have you ever noticed? It's not rosy,
but a deep, deep golden yellow--spreading over the dull, bare earth like
the glory from the diadem of a saint--one of those gray Fathers of early
Italy, for instance."
"I know what you mean--but they seem to me more like the glory that comes
into any dull, bare life," said Austin,--"the kind of glory you've been
to me. It worries me to hear you say you want to go away to 'think
things over.' What is there to think over--if you're sure you care?"
"There are lots of details to a thing of this sort."
"A thing of what sort?"
"Oh, Austin, how stupid you are! A--a marriage, of course."
"I thought all that was necessary were two willing victims, a license,
and a parson."
"Well, there's a good deal more to it than that. Besides, your family
would surely guess if I stayed here. I want to keep it just to ourselves
for a little while."
"I see. It's all right, dear. Take all the time you want."
"What would you tell them, anyway?" she went on lightly,--"that I
proposed to you, and that you accepted me? Or, to be more exact, that you
didn't accept me, but said, 'No, no, no!' most decidedly, and went on
repeating it, with variations, until I threw myself into your arms? It
was an awful blow to my pride--considering that heretofore I've certainly
had my fair share of attention, and even a little more than that--to have
to do _all_ the love-making, and I'm certainly not going to go brag about
it--' This time the conversation really did get interrupted, for Austin
would not for one instant submit to such a "garbling of statistics" and
took the quickest means in his power to put an end to it."
He had the wisdom, however, greater, perhaps, than might have been
expected, not to oppose any of her wishes just then, and it was Sylvia
herself who at the last minute felt her heart beginning to fail her, and
called him to the farther end of the station platform, on the pretext of
consulting him about some baggage.
"I don't see how I can say good-bye--in just an ordinary way," she
whispered, "and I'm beginning to miss you dreadfully already. If I can't
stand it, away from you, you must arrange to come down for at least a
day or two."
It was beginning to sprinkle, and, taking her umbrella, he opened it and
handed it to her, leaning forward and kissing her as soon as she was
hidden by it.
"I never meant to say good-bye 'in an ordinary way,'" he said cheerfully,
"whatever your intentions were! And, of course, I'll manage to come to
town for a day or two, if you find you really want me. Fred would be glad
to help me out for that long, I'm sure. On the other hand, if it's a
relief to be rid of me for a while, and New York looks pretty good to
you, don't hurry back--you've been away for a whole year, remember. I'll
understand."
In spite of his cheerful words and matter-of-course manner, Austin stood
watching the train go out with a heavy heart. He was very sincere in
feeling that his presumption had been great, and that he had taken
advantage of feelings which mere youth and loneliness might have awakened
in Sylvia, and from which she would recover as soon as she was with her
own friends again. And yet he loved her so dearly that it was hard--even
though he acknowledged that it was best--to let her go back to the world
by whose standards he felt he fell short in every way.
"If I lose her," he said to himself, "I must remember that--of course I
ought to. King Cophetua and the beggar maid makes a very pretty
story--but it doesn't sound so well the other way around. And then she's
given me such a tremendous amount already--if I never get any more, I
must be thankful for that."
Sally spent a rapturous week in New York, and came home with her modest
trousseau all bought and glowing accounts of the good times she had had.
"The very first thing Sylvia did, the morning after we got there," she
said, "was to buy a new limousine and hire a man to run it. My, you ought
to see it! It's lined with pearl gray, and Sylvia keeps a gold vase with
orchids--fresh ones every day--in it! She helped me choose all my things,
and I never could have got half so much for my money, or had half such
pretty things if she hadn't; and she began right off to get the most
_elegant_ clothes for herself, too! I knew Sylvia was pretty, but I never
knew _how_ pretty until I saw her in a low-necked white dress! We went to
the theatre almost every evening, and saw all the sights, besides--it
didn't take long to get around in that automobile, I can tell you!
Perfect rafts of people kept coming to see her all the time, telling her
how glad they were to see her back, and teasing her to do things with
them. I bet she'll get married again in no time--there were _dozens_ of
men, all awfully rich and attractive and apparently just _crazy_ about
her! We went out twice to lunch, and once to dinner, at the grandest
houses I ever even imagined, and every one was lovely to me, too, but of
course it was only Sylvia they really cared about. I was about wild, I
got so excited, but it didn't make any more impression on Sylvia than
water rolling off a duck's back--she didn't seem the least bit different
from when she was here, helping mother wash the supper dishes, and
teaching Austin French. She took it all as a matter of course. I guess we
didn't any of us realize how important she was."
"I did," said Austin.
"You!" exclaimed his sister, with withering scorn. "You've never been
even civil to her, much less respectful or attentive! If you could see
the way other men treat her--"
"I don't want to," said Austin, with more truth than his sister guessed.
A young, lovely, and agreeable widow, with a great deal of money, and no
"impediments" in the way of either parents or children, is apt to find
life made extremely pleasant for her by her friends; and every one felt,
moreover, that "Sylvia had behaved so very well." For two months after
her husband's death, she had lived in the greatest seclusion, too ill,
too disillusioned and horror-stricken, too shattered in body and soul--as
they all knew only too well--to see even her dearest friends. Then she
had gone to the country, remaining there quietly for a year, regaining
her health and spirits, and had now returned to her uncle's home,
lightening her mourning, going out a little, taking up her old interests
again one by one--a fitting and dignified prelude for a new establishment
of her own. She could not help being pleased and gratified at the warmth
of her reception; and she found, as Austin had predicted, that "New York
looked pretty good to her." It is doubtful whether the taste for luxury,
once acquired, is ever wholly lost, even though it may be temporarily
cast aside; and Sylvia was too young and too human, as well as too
healthy and happy again, not to enjoy herself very much, indeed.
For nearly a month she found each day so full and so delightful as it
came, that she had no time to be lonely, and no thought of going away;
but gradually she came to a realization of the fact that the days were
_too_ full; that there were no opportunities for resting and reading and
"thinking things over"; that the quiet little dinners and luncheons of
four and six, given in her honor, were gradually but surely becoming
larger, more formal and more elaborate; that her circle of callers was no
longer confined to her most intimate friends; that her telephone rang in
and out of season; that the city was growing hot and dusty and tawdry,
and that she herself was getting tired and nervous again. And when she
waked one morning at eleven o'clock, after being up most of the night
before, her head aching, her whole being weary and confused, it needed
neither the insistent and disagreeable memory of a little incident of the
previous evening, nor the letter from Austin that her maid brought in on
her breakfast-tray, to make her realize that the tinsel of her gayety was
getting tarnished.
* * * * *
DEAREST (the letter ran):
It is midnight, and--as you know--I am always up at five, but I must send
you just a few words before I go to bed, for these last two days have
been so full that it has seemed to be impossible to find a moment in
which to write you. "Business is rushing" at the Gray Homestead these
days, and everything going finely. The chickens and ducklings are all
coming along well--about four hundred of them--and we've had three
beautiful new heifer calves this week. Peter is beside himself with joy,
for they're all Holsteins. I went to Wallacetown yesterday afternoon, and
made another $200 payment on our note at the bank--at this rate we'll
have that halfway behind us soon.
To-day I've been over at your house every minute that I could spare and
succeeded in getting the last workman out--for good--at eight o'clock
this evening. (I bribed him to stay overtime. There are a few little odd
jobs left, but I can work those in myself in odd moments.) There is no
reason now why you shouldn't begin to send furniture any time you like. I
never would have believed that it would be possible to get three such
good bedrooms--not to mention a bathroom and closets--out of the attic,
or that tearing out partitions and unblocking fireplaces would work such
wonders downstairs. It's all just as you planned it that first day we
tramped over in the snow to see it--do you remember?--and it's all
lovely, especially your bedroom on the right of the front door, and the
big living-room on the left. The papers you chose are exactly right for
the walls, and the white paint looks so fresh and clean, and I'm sure the
piazza is deep enough to suit even you. I've ploughed and planted your
flower- and vegetable-gardens, as well as those at the Homestead, and
this warm, early spring is helping along the vegetation finely, so I
think things will soon be coming up. We've decided to try both wheat and
alfalfa as experiments this year, and I can hardly wait to see whether
they'll turn out all right.
Katherine graduates from high school the eighteenth of June, and as
Sally's teaching ends the same day, and Fred's patience has finally given
out with a bang, she has fixed the twenty-fifth for her wedding. Won't
she be busy, with just one week to get ready to be a bride, after she
stops being a schoolmarm? But, of course, we'll all turn to and help her,
and Molly will be home from the Conservatory ten days before that--you
know how efficient she is. By the way, has she written you the good news
about her scholarship? We may have a famous musician in the family yet,
if some mere man doesn't step in and intervene. Speaking of lovers, Peter
is teaching Edith Dutch! And when mother remonstrated with her, she
flared up and asked if it was any different from having you teach me
French! (I sometimes believe "the baby" is "onto us," though all the
others are still entirely unsuspicious, and keep right on telling me I
never half appreciated you!) So they spend a good deal of time at the
living-room table, with their heads rather close together, but I haven't
yet heard Edith conversing fluently in that useful and musical foreign
language which she is supposed to be acquiring.
I haven't had a letter from you in nearly a week, but I'm sure, if you
weren't well and happy, Mr. Stevens would let us know. I'm glad you're
having such a good time--you certainly deserve it after being cooped up
so long. Sorry you think it isn't suitable for you to dance yet, for, of
course, you would enjoy that a lot, but you can pretty soon, can't you?
Good-night, darling. God bless you always!
AUSTIN
* * * * *
There was something in the quiet, restrained tone of the letter, with its
details of homely, everyday news, and the tidings of his care and
interest in her little house, that touched Sylvia far more than many
pages of passionate outpouring of loneliness and longing could have done.
She knew that the loneliness and longing were there, even though he would
not say so, and she turned from the great bunch of American Beauties
which had also come in with her breakfast-tray, with something akin
almost to disgust as she thought of Austin's tiny bunch of arbutus--his
"bouquet des fiançailles," as he had called it--the only thing, besides
the little star, that he had ever given her. She called her maid, and
announced that in the future she would never be at home to a certain
caller; then she reached for the telephone beside her bed and cancelled
all her engagements for the next few days, on the plea of not feeling
well, which was perfectly true; and then she called up Western Union, and
dispatched a long telegram, after which she indulged in a comforting and
salutary outburst of tears.
"It will serve me quite right if he won't come," she sobbed. "I wouldn't
if I were he, not one step--and he's just as stubborn as I am. I never
was half good enough for him, and now I've neglected him, and frittered
away my time, and even flirted with other men--when I'd scratch out the
eyes of any other woman if she dared to look at him. It's to be hoped
that he doesn't find out what a frivolous, empty-headed, silly, vain
little fool I am--though it probably would be better for him in the end
if he did."
Sylvia passed a very unhappy day, as she richly deserved to do. For the
woman who gives a man a new ideal to live for, and then, carelessly,
herself falls short of the standard she has set for him, often does as
great and incalculable harm as the woman who has no standards at all.
Uncle Mat received a distinct shock when he reached his apartment that
night, to find that his niece, dressed in a severely plain black gown,
was dining at home alone with him. Before he finished his soup he
received another shock.
"Austin Gray is coming to New York," she said, coolly, buttering a
cracker; "I have just had a telegram saying he will take a night train,
and get in early in the morning--eight o'clock, I believe. I think I'll
go and meet him at the station. Are you willing he should come here, and
sleep on the living-room sofa, as you suggested once before, or shall I
take him to a hotel?"
"Bring him here by all means," returned her bewildered relative; "I like
that boy immensely. What streak of good luck is setting him loose? I
thought he was tied hand and foot by bucolic occupations."
"Apparently he has found some means of escape," said Sylvia; "would you
care to read aloud to me this evening?"