"Well, I declare it's so sudden like, I should think your breath would be
took away."
Mrs. Gray smiled at Mrs. Elliott, and went on with her sewing, rocking
back and forth placidly in her favorite chair. If the latter had been a
woman who talked less and observed more, she would have noticed how drawn
and furrowed her old friend's rosy, peaceful face had grown, how much
repression there was about the lips which smiled so bravely. But these
details escaped her.
"'Course it does look that way to an outsider," said Mrs. Gray, slowly,
as if rehearsing a part which had been carefully taught her, "but when
you come to know the facts, it ain't so strange, after all."
"Would you feel to tell them?" asked Mrs. Elliott eagerly.
"Why, sure. Edith an' Peter's been sort of engaged this long time back,
but they was so young we urged 'em to wait. Then Peter's father wrote
sayin' he was so poorly, he wished Peter could fix it so's to come home,
through the cold weather, an' Edith took on terrible at bein' separated
from him, an' Peter declared he wouldn't leave without her; an'
then--well, Sylvia sided with 'em, an' that settled it."
Mrs. Elliott nodded. "You'd never think that little soft-lookin'
creature could be so set an' determined, now, would you?" she asked. "I
never see any one to beat her. An' mum! She shuts her mouth tighter'n a
steel trap!"
"If any family ever had a livin' blessin' showered on 'em right out of
heaven," said Mrs. Gray, "we did, the day Sylvia come here. Funny,
Austin's the only one of us can see's she's got a single fault. He says
she's got lots of 'em, just like any other woman--but I bet he'd cut the
tongue out of any one else who said so. Seems as if I couldn't wait for
the third of September to come so's she'll really be my daughter, though
I haven't got one that seems any dearer to me, even now."
"Speakin' of weddin's," said Mrs. Elliott, "why didn't you have a regular
one for Edith, same as for Sally?"
"Land! I can't spend my whole time workin' up weddin's! Seems like they
was some kind of contagious disease in this family. James was married
only last December, an' even if we wasn't to that, we got all het up over
it just the same. An' now we've hardly got our breath since Sally's, an'
Austin's is starin' us in the face! I couldn't see my way clear to
house-cleanin' this whole great ark in dog-days for nobody, an' Edith
an' Peter's got to leave the very day after Sylvia 'n Austin get married.
Peter was hangin' round outside Edith's door the whole blessed time,
after her fall--"
"Strange she should be so sick, just from a fall, ain't it?"
"Yes, 't is, but the doctor says they're often more serious than you'd
think for. Well, as I was sayin', Sylvia come out of Edith's room an'
found Peter settin' on the top of the stairs for the third time that day,
an' she flared right up, an' says, 'For Heaven's sake, why don't you get
married right off--now--to-day--then you can go in an' out as you like!'
And before we half knew what she was up to she had telephoned the new
minister. Austin said he wished she'd shown more of that haste about
gettin' married herself, an' she answered him right back, if she'd been
lucky enough to get as good a feller as Peter, maybe she might have. It's
real fun to hear 'em tease each other. Sylvia likes the new minister. She
says the best thing about the Methodist Church that she knows of is the
way it shifts its pastors around--nothin' like variety, she says--an' a
new one once in three years keeps things hummin'. She says as long as so
many Methodists don't believe in cards an' dancin' an' such, they deserve
to have a little fun some way, an'--"
"You was talkin' about Edith," interrupted Mrs. Elliott, rather tartly,
"you've got kinder switched off."
"Excuse me, Eliza--so I have. Well, Sylvia got Edith up onto the couch
(the doctor had said she might get up for a little while that day,
anyhow) an' give her one of her prettiest wrappers--"
"What color? White?"
"No, Sylvia thought she was too pale. It was a lovely yellow, like the
dress she wore to the Graduation Ball. We all scurried 'round an' changed
our clothes--Austin's the most stunnin'-lookin' thing in that white
flannel suit of his, Sylvia wants he should wear it to his own weddin',
'stead of a dress-suit--an' I wore my gray--Well, it was all over before
you could say 'Jack Robinson' an' I never sweat a drop gettin' ready for
it, either! I shall miss Edith somethin' terrible this winter, but she'll
have an elegant trip, same as she's always wanted to, an' Peter says he
knows his parents'll be tickled to death to have such a pretty
daughter-in-law!"
"Don't you feel disappointed any," Mrs. Elliott could not help asking,
"to have a feller like Peter in the family?"
Mrs. Gray bit her thread. "I don't know what you got against Peter," she
said; "I look to like him the best of my son-in-laws, so far."
But that evening, as she sat with her husband beside the old
reading-lamp which all the electricity that Sylvia had installed had not
caused them to give up, her courage deserted her. Howard, sensing that
something was wrong, looked up from "Hoard's Dairyman," which he was
eagerly devouring, to see that the _Wallacetown Bugle_ had slipped to her
knees, and that she sat staring straight ahead of her, the tears rolling
down her cheeks.
"Why, Mary," he said in amazement--"Mary--"
The old-fashioned New Englander is as unemotional as he is
undemonstrative. For a moment Howard, always slow of speech and action,
was too nonplussed to know what to do, deeply sorry as he felt for his
wife. Then he leaned over and patted her hand--the hand that was scarcely
less rough and scarred than his own--with his big calloused one.
"You must stop grieving over Edith," he said gently, "and blaming
yourself for what's happened. You've been a wonderful mother--there
aren't many like you in the world. Think how well the other seven
children are coming along, instead of how the eighth slipped up.
Think how blessed we've been never to lose a single one of them by
death. Think--"
"I do think, Howard." Mrs. Gray pressed his hand in return, smiling
bravely through her tears. "I'm an old fool to give way like this, an' a
worse one to let you catch me at it. But it ain't wholly Edith I'm
cryin' about. Land, every time I start to curse the devil for Jack
Weston, I get interrupted because I have to stop an' thank the Lord for
Peter. An' all the angels in heaven together singin' Halleluia led by
Gabriel for choir-master, couldn't half express my feelin's for Sylvia! I
guess 'twould always be that way if we'd stop to think. Our blessin's is
so much thicker than our troubles, that the troubles don't show up no
more than a little yellow mustard growin' up in a fine piece of
oats--unless we're bound to look at the mustard instead of the oats. As
it happens, I wasn't thinkin' of Edith at all at that moment, or really
grievin' either. It was just--"
"Yes?" asked Howard.
"This room," said Mrs. Gray, gulping a little, "is about the only one in
the house that ain't changed a mite. The others are improved somethin'
wonderful, but I'm kinder glad we've kept this just as it was. There's
the braided rugs on the floor that I made when you was courtin' me,
Howard, an' we used to set out on the doorstep together. An' the fringed
tidies over the chairs an' sofa that Eliza give me for a weddin'
present--they're faded considerable, but that good red wool never wears
out. There's the crayon portraits we had done when we was on our
honeymoon, an' the ones of James an' Sally when they was babies. Do you
remember how I took it to heart because we couldn't scrape together the
money no way to get one of Austin when he come along? He was the
prettiest baby we ever had, too, except--except Edith, of course. An'
after Austin we didn't even bring up the subject again--we was pretty
well occupied wonderin' how we was goin' to feed an' clothe 'em all, let
alone havin' pictures of 'em. Then there's the wax flowers on the
mantelpiece. I always trembled for fear one of the youngsters would knock
'em off an' break the glass shade to smithereens, but they never did. An'
there's your Grandfather Gray's clock. I was a little disappointed at
first because it had a brass face, 'stead o' bein' white with scenes on
it, like they usually was--an' then it was such a chore, with everything
else there was to do, to keep it shinin' like it ought to. But now I
think I like it better than the other kind, an' it's tickin' away, same
as it has this last hundred years an' more. Do you remember when we began
to wind it up, Saturday nights, 'together?--All this is the same, praise
be, but--"
"Yes?" asked Howard Gray again.
"For years, evenin's," went on Mrs. Gray, "this room was full of kids.
There was generally a baby sleepin'--or refusin', rather loud, to
sleep!--in the cradle over in the corner. The older ones was settin'
around doin' sums on their slates, or playin' checkers an' cat's-cradle.
They quarrelled considerable, an' they was pretty shabby, an' I never had
a chance to set down an' read the _Bugle_ quiet-like, after supper,
because the mendin'-basket was always waitin' for me, piled right up to
the brim. Saturday nights, what a job it was all winter to get enough
water het to fill the hat-tub over an' over again, an' fetch in front of
the air-tight. Often I was tempted to wash two or three of 'em in the
same water, but, as you know, I never done it. Thank goodness, we'd never
heard of such a thing as takin' a bath every day then! I don't deny it's
a comfort, with all the elegant plumbin' we've got now, not to feel
you've got to wait for a certain day to come 'round to take a good soak
when you're hot or dirty, but it would have been an awful strain on my
conscience an' my back both in them days. I used to think sometimes, 'Oh,
how glad I shall be when this pack of unruly youngsters is grown up an'
out of the way, an' Howard an' I can have a little peace.' An' now that
time's come, an' I set here feelin' lonely, an' thinkin' the old room
_ain't_ the same, in spite of the fact, as I said before, that it ain't
changed a mite, because we haven't got the whole eight tumblin' 'round
under our heels. I know they're doin' well--they're doin' most _too_
well. I'm scared the time's comin' when they'll look down on us, Howard,
me especially. Not that they'll mean to--but they're all gettin' so--so
different. You had a good education, an' talk right, but I can't even do
that. I found an old grammar the other day, an' set down an' tried to
learn somethin' out of it, but it warn't no use--I couldn't make head or
tail of it. An' then they're all away--an' they're goin' to keep on bein'
away. James is South, an' Thomas is at college, an' Molly's studyin'
music in Boston, an' before we know it Katherine'll be at college too,
an' Edith an' Austin in Europe. That leaves just Ruth an' Sally near us,
an' they're both married. I don't begrudge it to 'em one bit. I'm glad
an' thankful they're all havin' a better chance than we did. If I could
just feel that some day they'd all come back to the Homestead, an' to
us--an' come because they _wanted_ to--"
Howard put his arm around his wife, and drew her down beside him on the
old horsehair sofa. One of the precious red wool tidies slipped to the
floor, and lay there unnoticed. Slowly, while Mrs. Gray had been talking,
the full depth of her trouble became clear to him, and the words to
comfort her rose to his lips.
"They will, Mary," he said; "they will; you wait and see. How could you
think for one moment that our children could look down on their mother?
It's mighty seldom, let me tell you, that any boy or girl does that, and
only with pretty good reason then--never when they've been blessed with
one like you. I haven't been able to do what I wanted for ours, but at
least I gave them the best thing they possibly could have--a good
mother--and with that I don't think the hardships have hurt them much!
Have you forgotten--you mustn't think I'm sacrilegious, dear--that the
greatest mother we know anything about was just a poor carpenter's
wife--and how much her Great Son loved her? Her name was Mary, too--I'm
glad we gave Molly that name--she's a good girl--somehow it seems to me
it always carries a halo of sacredness with it, even now!--Then,
besides--Thomas and Austin are both going to be farmers, and live right
here on the old place. Austin's so smart, he may do other things besides,
but this will always be his home and Sylvia's. Peter and Edith'll be
here, too, and Sally and Ruth aren't more than a stone's-throw off, as
you might say. That makes four out of the eight--more than most parents
get. The others will come back, fast enough, to visit, with us and them
here! And think of the grandchildren coming along! Why, in the next
generation, there'll be more kids piling in and out of this living-room
than you could lug water and mend socks for if you never turned your hand
to another thing! And, thank God, you won't have to do that now--you can
just sit back and take solid comfort with them. You had to work so hard
when our own children were babies, Mary, that you never could do that.
But with Ruth's and Austin's and Sally's--"
He paused, smiling, as he looked into the future. Then he kissed her,
almost as shyly as he had first done more than thirty years before.
"Besides," he said, "I'm disappointed if you're lonely here with me, just
for a little while, because I'm enjoying it a whole lot. Haven't you ever
noticed that when two people that love each other first get married,
there's a kind of _glow_ to their happiness, like the glow of a sunrise?
It's mighty beautiful and splendid. Then the burden and heat of the day,
as the Bible says, comes along. It doesn't mean that they don't care for
each other any more. But they're so tired and so pressed and so worried
that they don't say much about their feelings, and sometimes they even
avoid talking to each other, or quarrel. But when the hard hours are
over, and the sun's gone down--not so bright as it was in the morning,
maybe, but softer, and spreading its color over the whole sky--the stars
come out--and they know the best part of the day's ahead of them still.
They can take time then to sit down, and take each other's hands, and
thank God for all his blessings, but most of all for the life of a man
and a woman together. Austin and Sylvia think they're going to have the
best part now, in the little brick cottage. But they're not. They'll be
having it thirty years from now, just as you and I are, in the Old Gray
Homestead."
Mary Gray wiped her eyes. "Why, Howard," she said, "you used to say you
wanted to be a poet, but I never knew till now that you _was_ one! I'd
rather you'd ha' said all that to me than--than to have been married to
Shakespeare!" she ended with a happy sob, and put her white head down on
his shoulder.