"I, Sarah, take thee, Frederick, to my wedded husband, to have and to
hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for
poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till
death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance. And thereto I give
thee my troth."
The old clock in the corner was ticking very distinctly; the scent of
roses in the crowded room made the air heavy with sweetness; the candles
on the mantelpiece flickered in the breeze from the open window; outside
a whip-poor-will was singing in the lilac bushes.
"With this ring I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow:
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."
An involuntary tear rolled down Mrs. Gray's cheek, to be hastily
concealed and wiped away with her new lace handkerchief; her husband was
looking straight ahead of him, very hard, at nothing; Ruth adjusted the
big white bow on little Elsie's curls; Sylvia felt for Austin's hand
behind the folds of her dress, and found it groping for hers.
Then suddenly the spell was broken. The minister was shaking hands with
the bride and groom, Sally was taking her bouquet from Molly, every one
was laughing and talking at once, crowding up to offer congratulations,
handling, admiring, and discussing the wedding presents, half-falling
over each other with haste and excitement. Delicious smells began to
issue from the kitchen, and the long dining-table was quickly laden down.
Sylvia took her place at one end, behind the coffee-urn, Molly at the
other end, behind the strawberries and ice-cream. Katherine, Edith, and
the boys flew around passing plates, cakes of all kinds, great sugared
doughnuts and fat cookies. Sally was borne into the room triumphant on a
"chair" made of her brothers' arms to cut and distribute the "bride's
cake." Then, when every one had eaten as much as was humanly possible,
the piano was moved out to the great new barn, with its fine concrete
floors swept and scoured as only Peter could do it, and its every stall
festooned with white crepe paper by Sylvia, and the dancing began--for
this time the crowd was too great to permit it in the house, in spite of
the spacious rooms. Molly and Sylvia took turns in playing, and each
found several eager partners waiting for her, every time the "shift"
occurred. Finally, about midnight, the bride went upstairs to change her
dress, and the girls gathered around the banisters to be ready to catch
the bouquet when she came down, laughing and teasing each other while
they waited. Great shouts arose, and much joking began, when Edith--and
not Sylvia as every one had privately hoped--caught the huge bunch of
flowers and ribbon, and ran with it in her arms out on the wide piazza,
all the others behind her, to be ready to pelt Sally and Fred with rice
when they appeared. Thomas was to drive them to the station, and Sylvia's
motor was bedecked with white garlands and bows, slippers and bells, from
one end of it to the other. At last the rush came; and the happy victims,
showered and dishevelled, waving their handkerchiefs and shouting
good-bye, were whisked up the hill, and out of sight.
Sylvia insisted on staying, to begin "straightening out the worst of the
mess" as soon as the last guest had gone, and on remaining overnight,
sleeping in Sally's old room with Molly, to be on hand and go on with the
good work the first thing in the morning. Sadie and James had to leave on
the afternoon train, as James had stretched his leave of absence from
business to the very last degree already; so by evening the house was
painfully tidy again, and so quiet that Mrs. Gray declared it "gave her
the blues just to listen to it."
The next night was to be Austin's last one at home, and he had
promised Sylvia to go and take supper with her, but just before six
o'clock the telephone rang, and she knew that something had happened
to disappoint her.
"Is that you, Sylvia?"
"Yes, dear."
"Mr. Carter--the President of the Wallacetown Bank, you know--has just
called me up. There's going to be a meeting of the bank officers just
after the fourth, as they've decided to enlarge their board of directors,
and add at least one 'rising young farmer' as he put it--And oh, Sylvia,
he asked if I would allow my name to be proposed! Just think--after all
the years when we couldn't get a _cent_ from them at any rate of
interest, to have that come! It's every bit due to you!"
"It isn't either--it's due to the splendid work you've done this
last year."
"Well, we won't stop to discuss that now. He wants me to drive up and see
him about it right away. Do you mind if I take the motor? I can make so
much better time, and get back to you so much more quickly--but I can't
come to supper--you must forgive me if I go."
"I never should forgive you if you didn't--that's wonderful news! Don't
hurry--I'll be glad to see you whatever time you get back."
She hung up the receiver, and sat motionless beside the instrument, too
thrilled for the moment to move. What a man he was proving himself--her
farmer! And yet--how each new responsibility, well fulfilled, was going
to take him more and more from her! She sighed involuntarily, and was
about to rise, when the bell sounded again.
"Hullo," she said courteously, but tonelessly. The bottom of the evening
had dropped out for her. It mattered very little how she spent it now
until Austin arrived.
"Land, Sylvia, you sound as if there'd ben a death in the family! Do perk
up a little! Yes, this is Mrs. Elliott--Maybe if some of the folks on
this line that's taken their receivers down so's they'll know who I'm
talkin' to an' what I'm sayin' will hang up you can hear me a little more
plain." (This timely remark resulted in several little clicks.) "There,
that's better. I see Austin tearin' past like mad in your otter, and I
says to Joe, 'That means Sylvia's all alone again, same as usual; I'm
goin' to call her up an' visit with her a spell!' Hot, ain't it? Yes, I
always suffer considerable with the heat. I sez this mornin' to Joe,
'Joe, it's goin' to be a hot day,' and he sez, 'Yes, Eliza, I'm afraid it
is,' an' I sez, 'Well, we've got to stand it,' an' he--"
"I hope you have," interrupted Sylvia politely.
"Yes, as well as could be expected--you know I ain't over an' above
strong this season. My old trouble. But then, I don't complain any--only
as I said to Joe, it is awful tryin'. Have you heard how the new
minister's wife is doin'? She ain't ben to evenin' meetin' at all regular
sence she got here, an' she made an angel cake, just for her own family,
last Wednesday. She puts her washin' out, too. I got it straight from
Mrs. Jones, next door to her. I went there the other evenin' to get a
nightgown pattern she thought was real tasty. I don't know as I shall
like it, though. It's supposed to have a yoke made out of crochet or
tattin' at the top, an' I ain't got anything of the kind on hand just
now, an' no time to make any. Besides, I've never thought these
new-fangled garments was just the thing for a respectable woman--there
ain't enough to 'em. When I was young they was made of good thick cotton,
long-sleeved an' high-necked, trimmed with Hamburg edgin' an' buttoned
down the front. Speakin' of nightgowns, how are you gettin' on with your
trousseau? Have you decided what you're goin' to wear for a weddin'
dress? I was readin' in the paper the other day about some widow that got
married down in Boston, an' she wore a pink chif_fon_ dress. I was real
shocked. If she'd ben a divorced person, I should have expected some such
thing, but there warn't anything of the kind in this case--she was a
decent young woman, an' real pretty, judgin' from her picture. But I
should have thought she'd have wore gray or lavender, wouldn't you? There
oughtn't to be anything gay about a second weddin'! Well, as I was sayin'
to Joe about the minister's wife--What's that? You think they're both
real nice, an' you're glad he's got _some_ sort of a wife? Now, Sylvia, I
always did think you was a little mite hard on Mr. Jessup. I says to Joe,
'Joe, Sylvia's a nice girl, but she's a flirt, sure as you're settin'
there,' an' Joe says--"
"Have you heard from Fred and Sally yet?"
"Yes, they've sent us three picture post-cards. Real pretty. There ain't
much space for news on 'em, though--they just show a bridge, an' a
park, an' a railroad station. Still, of course, we was glad to get 'em,
an' they seem to be havin' a fine time. I heard to-day that Ruth's baby
was sick again. Delicate, ain't it? I shouldn't be a mite surprised if
Ruth couldn't raise her. 'Blue around the eyes,' I says to Joe the first
time I ever clapped eyes on her. An' then Ruth ain't got no
get-up-and-get to her. Shiftless, same's Howard is, though she's just as
well-meanin'. I hear she's thinkin' of keepin' a hired girl all summer.
Frank's business don't warrant it. He has a real hard time gettin'
along. He's too easy-goin' with his customers. Gives long credit when
they're hard up, an' all that. Of course it's nice to be charitable if
you can afford it, but--"
"Frank isn't going to pay the hired girl."
"There you go again, Sylvia! You kinder remind me of the widow's cruse,
never failin'. 'Tain't many families gets hold of anything like you.
Well, I must be sayin' good-night--there seems to be several people
tryin' to butt in an' use this line, though probably they don't want it
for anything important at all. I've got no patience with folks that uses
the telephone as a means of gossip, an' interfere with those that really
needs it. Besides, though I'd be glad to talk with you a little longer,
I'm plum tuckered out with the heat, as I said before. I ben makin'
currant jelly, too. It come out fine--a little too hard, if anything.
But, as I says to Joe, 'Druv as I am, I'm a-goin' to call up that poor
lonely girl, an' help her pass the evenin'.' Come over an' bring your
sewin' an' set with me some day soon, won't you, Sylvia? You know I'm
always real pleased to see you. Good-night."
"Good-night." Sylvia leaned back, laughing.
Mrs. Elliott, who infuriated Thomas, and exasperated Austin, was a
never-failing source of enjoyment to her. She went back to the porch to
wait for Austin, still chuckling.
After the conversation she had had with him, she was greatly surprised,
when, a little after eight o'clock, the garden gate clicked. She ran down
the steps hurriedly with his name on her lips. But the figure coming
towards her through the dusk was much smaller than Austin's and a voice
answered her, in broken English, "It ain't Mr. Gray, missus. It's me."
"Why, Peter!" she said in amazement; "is anything the matter at
the farm?"
"No, missus; not vat you'd called _vrong_."
"What is it, then? Will you come up and sit down?"
He stood fumbling at his hat for a minute, and then settled himself
awkwardly on the steps at her feet. His yellow hair was sleekly
brushed, his face shone with soap and water, and he had on his best
clothes. It was quiet evident that he had come with the distinct
purpose of making a call.
"Can dose domestics hear vat ve say?" he asked at length, turning his
wide blue eyes upon her, after some minutes of heavy silence.
"Not a word."
"Vell den--you know Mr. Gray and I goin' avay to-morrow."
"Yes, Peter."
"To be gone much as a mont', Mr. Gray say."
"I believe so."
"Mrs. Cary, dear missus,--vill you look after Edit' vile I'm gone?"
"Why, yes, Peter," she said warmly, "I always see a good deal of
Edith--we're great friends, you know."
"Yes, missus, that's vone reason vy I come--Edit' t'ink no vone like
you--ever vas, ever shall be. But den--I'm vorried 'bout Edit'."
"Worried? Why, Peter? She's well and strong."
"Oh, yes, she's vell--ver' vell. But Edit' love to have a good
time--'vun' she say. If I go mit, she come mit me--ven not, mit some
vone else."
"I see--you're jealous, Peter."
"No, no, missus, not jealous, only vorried, ver' vorried. Edit' she's
young, but not baby, like Mr. and Missus Gray t'ink. I don't like Mr. Yon
Veston, missus, nod ad all--and Edit' go out mit him, ev'y chance she
get. An' Mr. Hugh Elliott, cousin to Miss Sally's husband, dey say he
liked Miss Sally vonce--he's back here now, he looks hard at Edit' ev'y
time he see her. He's that kind of man, missus, vat does look ver' hard."
Sylvia could not help being touched. "I'll do my best, Peter, but I can't
promise anything. Edith is the kind of girl, as you say, that likes to
have 'fun' and I have no real authority over her."
As if the object of his visit was entirely accomplished, Peter rose to
leave. "I t'ank you ver' much, missus," he said politely. "It's a ver'
varm evening, not? Goodnight."
For a few minutes after Peter left, Sylvia sat thinking over what he had
said, and her own face grew "vorried" too. Then the garden gate clicked
again, and for the next two hours she was too happy for trouble of any
kind to touch her. Austin's interview with Mr. Carter had proved a great
success, and after that had been thoroughly discussed, they found a great
deal to say about their own plans for September. For the moment, she
quite forgot all that Peter had said.
It came back to her, vividly enough, a few nights later. She had sat up
very late, writing to Austin, and was still lying awake, long after
midnight, when she heard the whirr of a motor near by, and a moment later
a soft voice calling under her window. She threw a negligee about her,
and ran to the front door; as she unlatched it, Edith slipped in, her
finger on her lips.
"Hush! Don't let the servants hear! Oh, Sylvia, I've had such a
lark--will you keep me overnight!"
"I would gladly, but your mother would be worried to death."
"No, she won't. You see, I found, two hours ago, that it would be a long
time before I got back, and I telephoned her saying I was going to spend
the night with you. Don't you understand? She thought I was here then."
"Edith--you didn't lie to your mother!"
"Now, Sylvia, don't begin to scold at this hour, when I'm tired and
sleepy as I can be! It wasn't my fault we burst two tires, was it? But
mother's prejudiced against Hugh, just because Sally, who's a perfect
prude, didn't happen to like him. Lend me one of your delicious
night-dresses, do, and let me cuddle down beside you--the bed's so big,
you'll never know I'm there."
Sylvia mechanically opened a drawer and handed her the garment she
requested.
"Gracious, Sylvia, it's like a cobweb--perhaps if I marry a rich man, I
can have things like this! What an angel you look in yours! Austin will
certainly think he's struck heaven when he sees you like that! I never
could understand what a little thing like you wanted this huge bed for,
but, of course, you knew when you bought it--"
"Edith," interrupted Sylvia sharply, "be quiet! In the morning I want to
talk with you a little."
But as she lay awake long after the young girl had fallen into a deep,
quiet sleep, she felt sadly puzzled to know what she could, with wisdom
and helpfulness, say. It was so usual in the country for young girls to
ride about alone at night with their admirers, so much the accepted
custom, of which no harm seemed to come, that however much she might
personally disapprove of such a course, she could not reasonably find
fault with it. It was probably her own sense of outraged delicacy, she
tried to think, after Edith's careless speech, that made her feel that
the child lacked the innate good-breeding and quiet attractiveness, which
her sisters, all less pretty than she, possessed to such a marked
extent, in spite of their lack of polish. She tried to think that it was
only to-night she had noticed how red and full Edith's pouting lips were
growing, how careless she was about the depth of her V-cut blouses, how
unusually lacking in shyness and restraint for one so young. In the
morning, she said nothing and Edith was secretly much relieved; but she
went and asked Mrs. Gray if she could not spare her youngest daughter for
a visit while Austin was away, "to ward off loneliness." She found the
good lady out in the garden, weeding her petunias, and bent over to help
her as she made her request.
"There, dearie, don't you bother--you'll get your pretty dress all
grass-stain, and it looks to me like another new one! I wouldn't have
thought baby-blue would be so becomin' to you, Sylvia. I always fancied
it for a blonde, mostly, but there! you've got such lovely skin, anything
looks well on you. Do you like petunias? Scarcely anyone has them, an'
cinnamon pinks, an' johnnie-jump-ups any more--it's all sweet-peas, an'
nasturtiums, an' such! But to me there ain't any flower any handsomer
than a big purple petunia."
"I like them too--and it doesn't matter if my dress does get dirty--it'll
wash. Now about Edith--"
"Why, Sylvia, you know how I hate to deny you anything, but I don't see
how I can spare her! Here it is hayin'-time, the busiest time of the
year, an' Austin an' Peter both gone. I haven't a word to say against
them young fellows that Thomas has fetched home from college to help
while our boys are gone, they're well-spoken, obligin' chaps as I ever
see, but the work don't go the same as it do when your own folks is doin'
it, just the same. Besides, Sally's not here to help like she's always
been before, summers, an' it makes a pile of difference, I can tell you.
Molly can play the piano somethin' wonderful, an' Katherine can spout
poetry to beat anything I ever heard, but Edith can get out a whole
week's washin' while either one of 'em is a-wonderin' where she's goin'
to get the hot water to do it with, an' she's a real good cook! I never
see a girl of her years more capable, if I do say so, an' she always
looks as neat an' pretty as a new pin, whatever she's doin', too. Why
don't you come over to us, if you're lonely? We'd all admire to have you!
There, we've got that row cleaned out real good--s'posin' we tackle the
candytuft, now, if you feel like it."
Sylvia would gladly have offered to pay for a competent "hired girl," but
she did not dare to, for fear of displeasing Austin. So she wrote to
Uncle Mat to postpone his prospective visit, to the great disappointment
of them both, and filled her tiny house with young friends instead,
urging Edith to spend as much time helping her "amuse" them as she
could, to the latter's great delight. Unfortunately the girl and one of
the boys whom she had invited were already so much interested in each
other that they had eyes for no one else, and the other fellow was a
quiet, studious chap, who vastly preferred reading aloud to Sylvia to
canoeing with Edith. The girl was somewhat piqued by this lack of
appreciation, and quickly deserted Sylvia's guests for the more lively
charms of Hugh Elliott's red motor and Jack Weston's spruce runabout. Mr.
and Mrs. Gray saw no harm in their pet's escapades, but, on the contrary,
secretly rejoiced that the humble Peter was at least temporarily removed
and other and richer suitors occupying the foreground. They were far from
being worldly people, but two of their daughters having already married
poor men, they, having had more than their own fair share of drudgery,
could not help hoping that this pretty butterfly might be spared the
coarser labors of life.
Sylvia longed to write Austin all about it, but she could not bring
herself to spoil his trip by speaking slightingly, and perhaps unjustly,
of his favorite sister's conduct. As she had rather feared, the short
trip originally planned proved so instructive and delightful that it was
lengthened, first by a few days and then by a fortnight, so that one week
in August was already gone before he returned. He came back in holiday
spirits, bubbling over with enthusiasm about his trip, full of new plans
and arrangements. His enthusiasm was contagious, and he would talk of
nothing and allow her to talk of nothing except themselves.
"My, but it's good to be back! I don't see how I ever stayed away so
long."
"You didn't seem to have much difficulty--every time you wrote it was to
say you'd be gone a little longer. I suppose some of those New York
farmers have pretty daughters?"
"You'd better be careful, or I'll box your ears! What mischief have _you_
been up to? I've heard rumors about some bookish chap, who read Keats's
sonnets, and sighed at the moon. You see I'm informed. I'll take care how
I leave you again."
"You had better. I won't promise to wait for you so patiently next time."
"Don't talk to me about patient waiting! Sylvia, is it really, honestly
true I've only got three more weeks of it?"
"It's really, honestly true. Good-night, darling, you _must_ go home."
"And _you've_ only got three weeks more of being able to say that! I
suppose I must obey--but remember, _you'll_ have to promise to obey
pretty soon."
"I'll be glad to. Austin--"
"Yes, dear--Sylvia, I think your cheeks are softer than ever--
"I don't think Edith looks very well, do you?"
"Why, I thought she never was so pretty! But now you speak of it she
_does_ seem a little fagged--not fresh, the way you always are! Too much
gadding, I'm afraid."
"I'm afraid so. Couldn't you--?"
"My dear girl, leave all that to Peter--I've got _my_ hands full, keeping
_you_ in order. Sylvia, there's one thing this trip has convinced me
we've got to have, right away, and that's more motors. We've got the
land, we've got the buildings, and we've got the stock, but we simply
must stop wasting time and grain on so many horses--it's terribly out of
date, to say nothing else against it. We need a touring-car for the
family, and a runabout for you and me,--do sell that great ark of yours,
and get something you can learn to run yourself, and that won't use half
the gasoline,--and a tractor to plough with, and a truck to take the
cream to the creamery."
"Well, I suppose you'll let me give these various things for Christmas
presents, won't you? You're so awfully afraid that I'll contribute the
least little bit to the success of the farm that I hardly dare ask. But I
could bestow the tractor on Thomas, the truck on your father, and the
touring-car on the girls, and certainly we'll need the runabout for
all-day trips on Sundays--after the first of September."
"All right. I'll concede the motors as your share. Now, what will you
give me for a reward for being so docile?"
She watched him down the path with a heart overflowing with happiness.
Twice he turned back to wave his hand to her, then disappeared, whistling
into the darkness. She knelt beside her bed for a long time that night,
and finally fell into a deep, quiet sleep, her hand clasping the little
star that hung about her throat.
Three hours later she was abruptly awakened, and sat up, confused and
startled, to find Austin leaning over her, shaking her gently, and
calling her name in a low, troubled voice.
"What is it? What has happened?" she murmured drowsily, reaching
instinctively for the dressing-gown which lay at the foot of the bed.
Austin had already begun to wrap it around her.
"Forgive me, sweetheart, for disturbing you--and for coming in like
this. I tried the telephone, and called you over and over again
outside your window--you must have been awfully sound asleep. I was at
my wits' end, and couldn't think of anything to do but this--are you
very angry with me?"
"No, no--why did you need me?"
"Oh, Sylvia, it's Edith! She's terribly sick, and she keeps begging for
you so that I just _had_ to come and get you! She was all right at
supper-time--it's so sudden and violent that--"
Sylvia had slipped out of bed as if hardly conscious that he was beside
her. "Go out on the porch and wait for me," she commanded breathlessly;
"you've got the motor, haven't you? I won't be but a minute."
She was, indeed, scarcely longer than that. They were almost instantly
speeding down the road together, while she asked, "Have you sent for
the doctor?"
"Yes, but there isn't any there yet. Dr. Wells was off on a confinement
case, and we've had to telephone to Wallacetown--she was perfectly
determined not to have one, anyway. Oh, Sylvia, what can it be? And why
should she want you so?"
"I don't know yet, dear."
"Do you suppose she's going to die?"
"No, I'm afraid--I mean I don't think she is. Why didn't I take better
care of her? Austin, can't you drive any faster?"
As they reached the house, she broke away from him, and ran swiftly up
the stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Gray were both standing, white and helpless with
terror, beside their daughter's bed. She was lying quite still when
Sylvia entered, but suddenly a violent spasm of pain shook her like a
leaf, and she flung her hands above her head, groaning between her
clenched teeth. Sylvia bent over her and took her in her arms.
"My dear little sister," she said.