"Are you two young idiots going out again this evening?" asked Uncle Mat
as the three were eating their dessert, glancing from Sylvia's low-necked
white gown to Austin's immaculate dress-suit.
"No. This is entirely in each other's honor. But I hope you are, for I
want to talk to Austin."
"Good gracious! What have you been doing all day? What do you expect
_me_ to do?"
"You can go to your club and have five nice long rubbers of bridge," said
Sylvia mercilessly, "and when you come back, please cough in the hall."
"I want to write a few lines to my mother, after I've had a little talk
with Mr. Stevens--then I'm entirely at your disposal," said Austin, as
she lighted their cigars and rose to leave them.
"I'm glad some one wants to talk to me," murmured Uncle Mat meekly.
Sylvia hugged him and kissed the top of his head. "You dear jealous old
thing! I've got some telephoning and notes to attend to myself. Come and
knock on my door when you're ready, Austin."
"You have a good deal of courage," remarked Uncle Mat, nodding in
Sylvia's direction as she went down the hall.
"Perhaps you think effrontery would be the better word."
"Not at all, my dear boy--you misunderstand me completely. Sylvia's the
dearest thing in the world to me, and I've been worrying a good deal
about her remarriage, which I knew was bound to come sooner or later. I'm
more than satisfied and pleased at her choice--I'm relieved."
"Thank you. It's good to know you feel that way, even if I don't
deserve it."
"You do deserve it. In speaking of courage, I meant that the poor husband
of a rich wife always has a good deal to contend with; and aside from the
money question, you're supersensitive about what you consider your lack
of advantages and polish--though Heaven knows you don't need to be!" he
added, glancing with satisfaction at the handsome, well-groomed figure
stretched out before him. "I never saw any one pick up the veneer of good
society, so called, as rapidly as you have. It shows that real good
breeding was back of it all the time."
"I guess I'd better go and write my letter," laughed Austin, "before you
flatter me into having an awfully swelled head. But I want to tell you
first--I'm not a pauper any more. I've got twenty thousand dollars of my
own--an old aunt has died and left most of her will in my favor. I've
taken capital, and paid off all our debts--except what we owe to Sylvia.
She can give me that for a wedding present if she wants to. It's queer
how much less sore I am about her money now that I've got a little of my
own! There are one or two things that I want to buy for her, and I want
to pay my own expenses and Peter's on a trip through western New York
farms this summer. The rest I must invest as well as I can, to bring me
in a little regular income. I'm sure, now that the farm and the family
are perfectly free of debt, that I can earn enough to add quite a little
to it every year. If Sylvia lost every cent she had, we could get married
just the same, and though she'd have to live simply and quietly, she
wouldn't suffer. I thought you would help me with investments--or take me
to some other man who would."
"I will, indeed--if you don't spend _all_ your time, as Sylvia fully
intends you shall, making love to her. This changes the outlook
wonderfully--clears the sky for both of you! It's bad for a man to be
wholly dependent on his wife, and scarcely less bad for her. But there's
another matter--"
"Yes, sir?"
"I don't want you to think I'm meddling--or underestimating Sylvia--"
"I won't think that, no matter what you say."
"How long have you and she been in love with each other? Wasn't it pretty
nearly a case of 'first sight'?"
Austin flushed. "It certainly was with me," he said quietly.
"And haven't you--quarrelled from the very beginning, too?"
The boy's flush deepened. "Yes," he said, still more quietly, "we seemed
to misunderstand--and antagonize each other."
"Even to-day?"--Then as Austin did not answer, "Now, tell me
truthfully--whose fault is it?"
"The first time it was mine," said Austin quickly. "She made me clean up
the yard--it needed it, too!--and I was furious! And I was rude--worse
than rude--to her for a long time. But since then--"
"You needn't be afraid to say it was hers," remarked Sylvia's uncle
dryly. "She wants an absolutely free hand, which isn't good for her to
have--she's only twenty-two now, pretty as a picture, and still
absolutely inexperienced about many things. She can't bear the thought of
dictation, and you're both young and self-willed and proud, and very much
in love--which makes the whole thing harder, and not easier, as I suppose
you imagine. Now, some women, even in these days, aren't fit to live with
until--figuratively speaking--they've been beaten over the head with a
club. Sylvia's not that kind. She's not only got to respect her husband's
wishes, she's got to _want_ to--and I believe you can make her want to! I
think you're absolutely just--and unusually decent. If I didn't I
shouldn't dare say all this to you--or let you have her at all, if I
could help it. And besides being fair, you know how to express
yourself--which some poor fellows unfortunately can't do--they're
absolutely tongue-tied. In fact, you're perfectly capable of taking
things into your own hands every way, and making a success of it--and if
you don't before you're married, neither of you can possibly hope to be
happy afterwards."
"There's one thing you're overlooking, Mr. Stevens, which I should have
had to tell you to-night, anyway."
"What is it?"
"I'm not worthy of tying up Sylvia's shoes--much less of marrying her.
I've been straight as a string since she came to the farm, but before
that--any one in Hamstead would tell you. It was town talk. I can't,
knowing that, act as I would if I--didn't have that to remember. It's all
very well to say that a man--_gets through_ with all that,
absolutely--I've heard them say it dozens of times! But how can he be
sure he is through--that the old sins won't crop up again? I love Sylvia
more than--than I can possibly talk about, and I'm _afraid_--afraid that
I won't be worthy of her, and that if she gave in absolutely--that I'd
abuse my position."
Uncle Mat glanced up quietly from his cigar. There were tears in the
boy's eyes, his voice trembled. The older man, for a moment, felt
powerless to speak before the penitent sincerity of Austin's confession,
the humility of his bared soul.
"As long as you feel that way," he said at last, a trifle huskily, "I
don't believe there's very much danger--for either of you. And remember
this--lots of good people make mistakes, but if they're made of the right
stuff, they don't make the same mistake but once. And sometimes they gain
more than they lose from a slip-up. You certainly are made of the right
stuff. Perhaps you will go through some experience like what you're
dreading, though I can't foresee what form it will take. Meanwhile
remember that Sylvia's been through an awful ordeal, and be very gentle
with her, though you take the reins in your hands, as you should do. I'm
thankful that she has such a bright prospect for happiness ahead of her
now--but don't forget that you have a right to be happy, too. Don't be
too grateful and too humble. She's done you some favors in the past, but
she isn't doing you one now--she never would have accepted you if she
hadn't been head over heels in love with you. Now write your letter, and
then go to her. But to-morrow I want you all the morning--we must look
into the acquaintances I spoke about, and the investments you spoke
about. Meanwhile, the best of luck--you deserve it!"
Austin smoked thoughtfully for some minutes after Uncle Mat left him, and
finally, roused from his brown study by the striking of a clock, went
hurriedly to the desk and began his letter. Before he had finished,
Sylvia's patience had quite given out, and she came and stood behind him,
with her arm over his shoulder as he wrote. He acknowledged the caress
with a nod and a smile, but went on writing, and did not speak until the
letter was sealed and stamped.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting, dear. Now, then, what is it?"
"I've been thinking things over."
"So I supposed. Well, what have you thought, honey?"
"First, that I want you to have these. I've been going through my jewelry
lately, and have had Uncle Mat sell everything except a few little
trinkets I had before I--was married, and the pearls he gave me then. In
my sorting process, I came across these things that were my father's. I
never offered them to--to--any one before. But I want you to wear them,
if you will."
She handed him a little worn leather box as she spoke, and on opening it
he found, besides a few pins and studs of no great value, a handsome,
old-fashioned watch and a signet ring.
"Thank you very much, dear. I'll wear them with great pride and pleasure,
and this will be an exchange of gifts, for I've got something for you,
too--that's what my shopping was this morning."
He took her left hand in his, slipped off her wedding ring, and slid
another on her finger--a circle of beautiful diamonds sunk in a platinum
band delicately chased.
"_Austin!_ How exquisite! I never had--such a lovely ring! How did you
happen to choose--just this?"
"Largely because I thought you could use it for both an engagement ring
now, and a wedding ring when we get married--which was what I wanted."
And without another word, he took the discarded gold circle and threw it
into the fire. "And partly," he went on quite calmly--as if nothing
unusual had happened, and as if it was an everyday occurrence to burn up
ladies' property without consulting them--"because I thought it was
beautiful, and--suitable, like the little star."
"And you expect me to wear it, publicly, now?"
"I shall put it a little stronger than that--I shall insist upon your
doing so."
She looked up in surprise, her cheeks flushing at his tone, but he went
on quietly:
"I've just written my mother, and asked her to tell the rest of the
family, that we are engaged. They have as much right to know as your
uncle. You can do as you please about telling other people, of course.
But you can't wear another man's ring any longer. And it seems to me, as
we shall no longer be living in the same house, and as I shall be coming
constantly to see you after you come back to Hamstead, that it would be
much more dignified if I could do so openly, in the rôle of your
prospective husband. While as far as your friends here are
concerned--after what you told me this morning--I think you must agree
with me that it is much fairer to let them know at once how things stand
with you, and introduce me to them."
"I don't want to use up these few precious days giving parties. I want
you to myself."
"I know, dear--that's what I'd prefer, in one way, too. But I have got to
take some time for business, and later on your friends will feel that you
were ashamed of me--and be justified in feeling so--when they learn that
we are to be married, and that you were not willing to have me meet them
when I was here."
Sylvia did not answer, but sat with her eyes downcast, biting her lips,
and pulling the new ring back and forth on her finger.
"That is, of course, unless you _are_ ashamed--are you perfectly sure of
your own mind? If not, my letter isn't posted yet, and it is very easy to
tell your uncle that you have found you were mistaken in your feelings."
"What would you do if I should?" she asked defiantly.
"Do? Why, nothing. Tell him the same thing, of course, pack my suit-case,
and start back to Hamstead as soon as I had met the men I came to see on
business."
"Oh, Austin, how can you talk so! I don't believe you really want me,
after all!"
"Don't you?" he asked in an absolutely expressionless voice, and pushing
back his chair he walked over to the window, turning his back on her
completely.
She was beside him in an instant, promising to do whatever he wished and
begging his forgiveness. But it was so long before he answered her, or
even looked at her, that she knew that for the second time that day she
had wounded him almost beyond endurance.
"If you ever say that to me again, no power on earth will make me marry
you," he said, in a voice that was not in the least threatening, but so
decisive that there could be no doubt that he meant what he said; "and
we've got to think up some way of getting along together without
quarrelling all the time unless you have your own way about everything,
whether it's fair that you should or not. Now, tell me what you wanted
to talk to me about, and we'll try to do better--those troublesome
details you mentioned before you left the farm? Perhaps I can straighten
out some of them for you, if you'll only let me."
"The first one is--money."
"I thought so. It's a rather large obstacle, I admit. But things are not
going to be so hard to adjust in that quarter as I feared. I'll tell you
now about the little legacy I mentioned this morning." And he repeated
his conversation with Uncle Mat. "You can do what you please with your
own money, of course--take care of your own personal expenses, and run
the house, and give all the presents you like to the girls--but you can't
ever give me another cent, unless you want to call the family
indebtedness to you your wedding present to me."
"You can't get everything you want on the income of ten thousand
dollars--which is about all the capital you'll have left when you've paid
all these first expenses you mention."
"I can have everything I _need_--with that and what I'll earn. What's
your next 'detail'?"
"I suppose I'll have to give in about the money--but will you mind, very
much, if we have--a long engagement?"
"I certainly shall. As I told you before, I think too much has been
sacrificed to convention already."
"It isn't that."
"What, then?"
"I don't know how to tell you, and still have you believe I love
you dearly."
"You mean, that for some reason, you're not ready to marry me yet?" And
as she nodded without speaking, her eyes filling with tears, he asked
very gently, "Why not, Sylvia?"
"I'm afraid."
"Afraid--_of me?_"
"No--that is, not of you personally--but of marriage itself. I can't bear
yet--the thought of facing--passion."
The hand that had been stroking her hair dropped suddenly, and she felt
him draw away from her, with something almost like a groan, and put her
arms around his neck, clinging to him with all her strength.
"_Don't_--I love you--and love you--and _love you_--oh, can't I make you
see? Are you very angry with me, Austin?"
"No, darling, I'm not angry at all. How could I be? But I'm just
beginning to realize--though I thought I knew before--what a perfect hell
you've been through--and wondering if I can ever make it up to you."
"Then this doesn't seem to you dreadful--to have me ask for this?"
"Not half so dreadful as it would to have you look at me as you did on
Christmas night."
He began stroking her hair again, speaking reassuringly, his voice full
of sympathy.
"Don't cry, dearest--it's all right. There's nothing to worry over. It's
right that you should have your way about this--it's _my_ way, too, as
long as you feel like this. I hope you won't _too_ long--for--I love you,
and want you, and--and need you so much--and--I've waited a year for you
already. But I promise never to force--or even urge--you in any way, if
you'll promise me that when you _are_ ready--you'll tell me."
"I will," she sobbed, with her head hidden on his shoulder.
"Then that's settled, and needn't even be brought up again. Don't cry so,
honey. Is there anything else?"
"Just one thing more; and in a way, it's the hardest to say of any."
"Well, tell me, anyway; perhaps I may be able to help."
"My baby," she said, speaking with great difficulty, "the poor little
thing that only lived two weeks. It's buried in the same lot with--its
father--at Greenwood. I never can go near that place again. I've paid
some one to take care of it, and Uncle Mat has promised me to see that
it's done. I think some day you and I--will have a son--more than one, I
hope--and he will _live_! But if this--this baby--could be taken away
from where he is now, and buried in that little cemetery, you know--I
could go sometimes, quite happily, and stay with him, and put flowers on
his little grave; and later on there could be a stone which said, merely,
'Harold, infant son of Sylvia--Gray.'"
Apparently Austin forgot what he had said that morning, for long before
she had finished he took her in his arms; but the kisses with which he
covered her face and hair were like those he would have given to a little
child, and there was no need of an answer this time. For a long while she
lay there, clinging to him and crying, until she was utterly spent with
emotion, as she had been on the night when they had stayed in the wood;
and at last, just as she had done then, she dropped suddenly and quietly
to sleep. Through the tears which still blinded his own eyes, Austin
half-smiled, remembering how he had longed to kiss her as he carried her
home, rejoicing that his conscience no longer needed to stand like an
iron barrier between his lips and hers. He waited until he was sure that
she was sleeping so soundly that there would be little danger of waking
her, then lifted her, took her down the hall to her room, and laid her
on the big, four-posted bed.
"That's the second time you've been to sleep in my arms, darling," he
whispered, bending over to kiss her before he left her; "the third time
will be on our wedding might--God grant that isn't very far away!"