Cecily Foster came down the sloping, fir-fringed road from the village
at a leisurely pace. Usually she walked with a long, determined
stride, but to-day the drowsy, mellowing influence of the Autumn
afternoon was strong upon her and filled her with placid content.
Without being actively conscious of it, she was satisfied with the
existing circumstances of her life. It was half over now. The half of
it yet to be lived stretched before her, tranquil, pleasant and
uneventful, like the afternoon, filled with unhurried duties and
calmly interesting days, Cecily liked the prospect.
When she came to her own lane she paused, folding her hands on the top
of the whitewashed gate, while she basked for a moment in the warmth
that seemed cupped in the little grassy hollow hedged about with young
fir-trees.
Before her lay sere, brooding fields sloping down to a sandy shore,
where long foamy ripples were lapping with a murmur that threaded the
hushed air like a faint minor melody.
On the crest of the little hill to her right was her home--hers and
Lucy Ellen's. The house was an old-fashioned, weather-gray one, low in
the eaves, with gables and porches overgrown with vines that had
turned to wine-reds and rich bronzes in the October frosts. On three
sides it was closed in by tall old spruces, their outer sides bared
and grim from long wrestling with the Atlantic winds, but their inner
green and feathery. On the fourth side a trim white paling shut in the
flower garden before the front door. Cecily could see the beds of
purple and scarlet asters, making rich whorls of color under the
parlor and sitting-room windows. Lucy Ellen's bed was gayer and larger
than Cecily's. Lucy Ellen had always had better luck with flowers.
She could see old Boxer asleep on the front porch step and Lucy
Ellen's white cat stretched out on the parlor window-sill. There was
no other sign of life about the place. Cecily drew a long, leisurely
breath of satisfaction.
"After tea I'll dig up those dahlia roots," she said aloud. "They'd
ought to be up. My, how blue and soft that sea is! I never saw such a
lovely day. I've been gone longer than I expected. I wonder if Lucy
Ellen's been lonesome?"
When Cecily looked back from the misty ocean to the house, she was
surprised to see a man coming with a jaunty step down the lane under
the gnarled spruces. She looked at him perplexedly. He must be a
stranger, for she was sure no man in Oriental walked like that.
"Some agent has been pestering Lucy Ellen, I suppose," she muttered
vexedly.
The stranger came on with an airy briskness utterly foreign to
Orientalites. Cecily opened the gate and went through. They met under
the amber-tinted sugar maple in the heart of the hollow. As he passed,
the man lifted his hat and bowed with an ingratiating smile.
He was about forty-five, well, although somewhat loudly dressed, and
with an air of self-satisfied prosperity pervading his whole
personality. He had a heavy gold watch chain and a large seal ring on
the hand that lifted his hat. He was bald, with a high, Shaksperian
forehead and a halo of sandy curls. His face was ruddy and weak, but
good-natured: his eyes were large and blue, and he had a little
straw-colored moustache, with a juvenile twist and curl in it.
Cecily did not recognize him, yet there was something vaguely familiar
about him. She walked rapidly up to the house. In the sitting-room she
found Lucy Ellen peering out between the muslin window curtains. When
the latter turned there was an air of repressed excitement about her.
"Who was that man, Lucy Ellen?" Cecily asked.
To Cecily's amazement, Lucy Ellen blushed--a warm, Spring-like flood
of color that rolled over her delicate little face like a miracle of
rejuvenescence.
"Didn't you know him? That was Cromwell Biron," she simpered. Although
Lucy Ellen was forty and, in most respects, sensible, she could not
help simpering upon occasion.
"Cromwell Biron," repeated Cecily, in an emotionless voice. She took
off her bonnet mechanically, brushed the dust from its ribbons and
bows and went to put it carefully away in its white box in the spare
bedroom. She felt as if she had had a severe shock, and she dared not
ask anything more just then. Lucy Ellen's blush had frightened her. It
seemed to open up dizzying possibilities of change.
"But she promised--she promised," said Cecily fiercely, under her
breath.
While Cecily was changing her dress, Lucy Ellen was getting the tea
ready in the little kitchen. Now and then she broke out into singing,
but always checked herself guiltily. Cecily heard her and set her firm
mouth a little firmer.
"If a man had jilted me twenty years ago, I wouldn't be so
overwhelmingly glad to see him when he came back--especially if he had
got fat and bald-headed," she added, her face involuntarily twitching
into a smile. Cecily, in spite of her serious expression and intense
way of looking at life, had an irrepressible sense of humor.
Tea that evening was not the pleasant meal it usually was. The two
women were wont to talk animatedly to each other, and Cecily had many
things to tell Lucy Ellen. She did not tell them. Neither did Lucy
Ellen ask any questions, her ill-concealed excitement hanging around
her like a festal garment.
Cecily's heart was on fire with alarm and jealousy. She smiled a
little cruelly as she buttered and ate her toast.
"And so that was Cromwell Biron," she said with studied carelessness.
"I thought there was something familiar about him. When did he come
home?"
"He got to Oriental yesterday," fluttered back Lucy Ellen. "He's going
to be home for two months. We--we had such an interesting talk this
afternoon. He--he's as full of jokes as ever. I wished you'd been
here."
This was a fib. Cecily knew it.
"I don't, then," she said contemptuously. "You know I never had much
use for Cromwell Biron. I think he had a face of his own to come down
here to see you uninvited, after the way he treated you."
Lucy Ellen blushed scorchingly and was miserably silent.
"He's changed terrible in his looks," went on Cecily relentlessly.
"How bald he's got--and fat! To think of the spruce Cromwell Biron got
to be bald and fat! To be sure, he still has the same sheepish
expression. Will you pass me the currant jell, Lucy Ellen?"
"I don't think he's so very fat," she said resentfully, when Cecily
had left the table. "And I don't care if he is."
Twenty years before this, Biron had jilted Lucy Ellen Foster. She was
the prettiest girl in Oriental then, but the new school teacher over
at the Crossways was prettier, with a dash of piquancy, which Lucy
Ellen lacked, into the bargain. Cromwell and the school teacher had
run away and been married, and Lucy Ellen was left to pick up the
tattered shreds of her poor romance as best she could.
She never had another lover. She told herself that she would always be
faithful to the one love of her life. This sounded romantic, and she
found a certain comfort in it.
She had been brought up by her uncle and aunt. When they died she and
her cousin, Cecily Foster, found themselves, except for each other,
alone in the world.
Cecily loved Lucy Ellen as a sister. But she believed that Lucy Ellen
would yet marry, and her heart sank at the prospect of being left
without a soul to love and care for.
It was Lucy Ellen that had first proposed their mutual promise, but
Cecily had grasped at it eagerly. The two women, verging on decisive
old maidenhood, solemnly promised each other that they would never
marry, and would always live together. From that time Cecily's mind
had been at ease. In her eyes a promise was a sacred thing.
The next evening at prayer-meeting Cromwell Biron received quite an
ovation from old friends and neighbors. Cromwell had been a favorite
in his boyhood. He had now the additional glamour of novelty and
reputed wealth.
He was beaming and expansive. He went into the choir to help sing.
Lucy Ellen sat beside him, and they sang from the same book. Two red
spots burned on her thin cheeks, and she had a cluster of lavender
chrysanthemums pinned on her jacket. She looked almost girlish, and
Cromwell Biron gazed at her with sidelong admiration, while Cecily
watched them both fiercely from her pew. She knew that Cromwell Biron
had come home, wooing his old love.
"But he sha'n't get her," Cecily whispered into her hymnbook. Somehow
it was a comfort to articulate the words, "She promised."
On the church steps Cromwell offered his arm to Lucy Ellen with a
flourish. She took it shyly, and they started down the road in the
crisp Autumn moonlight. For the first time in ten years Cecily walked
home from prayer-meeting alone. She went up-stairs and flung herself
on her bed, reckless for once, of her second best hat and gown.
Lucy Ellen did not venture to ask Cromwell in. She was too much in awe
of Cecily for that. But she loitered with him at the gate until the
grandfather's clock in the hall struck eleven. Then Cromwell went
away, whistling gaily, with Lucy Ellen's chrysanthemum in his
buttonhole, and Lucy Ellen went in and cried half the night. But
Cecily did not cry. She lay savagely awake until morning.
"Cromwell Biron is courting you again," she said bluntly to Lucy Ellen
at the breakfast table.
Lucy Ellen blushed nervously.
"Oh, nonsense, Cecily," she protested with a simper.
"It isn't nonsense," said Cecily calmly. "He is. There is no fool like
an old fool, and Cromwell Biron never had much sense. The presumption
of him!"
Lucy Ellen's hands trembled as she put her teacup down.
"He's not so very old," she said faintly, "and everybody but you likes
him--and he's well-to-do. I don't see that there's any presumption."
"Maybe not--if you look at it so. You're very forgiving, Lucy Ellen.
You've forgotten how he treated you once."
"No--o--o, I haven't," faltered Lucy Ellen.
"Anyway," said Cecily coldly, "you shouldn't encourage his attentions,
Lucy Ellen; you know you couldn't marry him even if he asked you. You
promised."
All the fitful color went out of Lucy Ellen's face. Under Cecily's
pitiless eyes she wilted and drooped.
"I know," she said deprecatingly, "I haven't forgotten. You are
talking nonsense, Cecily. I like to see Cromwell, and he likes to see
me because I'm almost the only one of his old set that is left. He
feels lonesome in Oriental now."
Lucy Ellen lifted her fawn-colored little head more erectly at the
last of her protest. She had saved her self-respect.
In the month that followed Cromwell Biron pressed his suit
persistently, unintimidated by Cecily's antagonism. October drifted
into November and the chill, drear days came. To Cecily the whole
outer world seemed the dismal reflex of her pain-bitten heart. Yet she
constantly laughed at herself, too, and her laughter was real if
bitter.
One evening she came home late from a neighbor's. Cromwell Biron
passed her in the hollow under the bare boughs of the maple that were
outlined against the silvery moonlit sky.
When Cecily went into the house, Lucy Ellen opened the parlor door.
She was very pale, but her eyes burned in her face and her hands were
clasped before her.
"I wish you'd come in here for a few minutes, Cecily," she said
feverishly.
Cecily followed silently into the room.
"Cecily," she said faintly, "Cromwell was here to-night. He asked me
to marry him. I told him to come to-morrow night for his answer."
She paused and looked imploringly at Cecily. Cecily did not speak. She
stood tall and unrelenting by the table. The rigidity of her face and
figure smote Lucy Ellen like a blow. She threw out her bleached little
hands and spoke with a sudden passion utterly foreign to her.
"Cecily, I want to marry him. I--I--love him. I always have. I never
thought of this when I promised. Oh, Cecily, you'll let me off my
promise, won't you?"
"No," said Cecily. It was all she said. Lucy Ellen's hands fell to her
sides, and the light went out of her face.
"You won't?" she said hopelessly.
Cecily went out. At the door she turned.
"When John Edwards asked me to marry him six years ago, I said no for
your sake. To my mind a promise is a promise. But you were always weak
and romantic, Lucy Ellen."
Lucy Ellen made no response. She stood limply on the hearth-rug like a
faded blossom bitten by frost.
After Cromwell Biron had gone away the next evening, with all his
brisk jauntiness shorn from him for the time, Lucy Ellen went up to
Cecily's room. She stood for a moment in the narrow doorway, with the
lamplight striking upward with a gruesome effect on her wan face.
"I've sent him away," she said lifelessly. "I've kept my promise,
Cecily."
There was silence for a moment. Cecily did not know what to say.
Suddenly Lucy Ellen burst out bitterly.
"I wish I was dead!"
Then she turned swiftly and ran across the hall to her own room.
Cecily gave a little moan of pain. This was her reward for all the
love she had lavished on Lucy Ellen.
"Anyway, it is all over," she said, looking dourly into the moonlit
boughs of the firs; "Lucy Ellen'll get over it. When Cromwell is gone
she'll forget all about him. I'm not going to fret. She promised, and
she wanted the promise first."
During the next fortnight tragedy held grim sway in the little
weather-gray house among the firs--a tragedy tempered with grim comedy
for Cecily, who, amid all her agony, could not help being amused at
Lucy Ellen's romantic way of sorrowing.
Lucy Ellen did her mornings' work listlessly and drooped through the
afternoons. Cecily would have felt it as a relief if Lucy Ellen had
upbraided her, but after her outburst on the night she sent Cromwell
away, Lucy Ellen never uttered a word of reproach or complaint.
One evening Cecily made a neighborly call in the village. Cromwell
Biron happened to be there and gallantly insisted upon seeing her
home.
She understood from Cromwell's unaltered manner that Lucy Ellen had
not told him why she had refused him. She felt a sudden admiration for
her cousin.
When they reached the house Cromwell halted suddenly in the banner of
light that streamed from the sitting-room window. They saw Lucy Ellen
sitting alone before the fire, her arms folded on the table, and her
head bowed on them. Her white cat sat unnoticed at the table beside
her. Cecily gave a gasp of surrender.
"You'd better come in," she said, harshly. "Lucy Ellen looks
lonesome."
Cromwell muttered sheepishly, "I'm afraid I wouldn't be company for
her. Lucy Ellen doesn't like me much--"
"Oh, doesn't she!" said Cecily, bitterly. "She likes you better than
she likes me for all I've--but it's no matter. It's been all my
fault--she'll explain. Tell her I said she could. Come in, I say."
She caught the still reluctant Cromwell by the arm and fairly dragged
him over the geranium beds and through the front door. She opened the
sitting-room door and pushed him in. Lucy Ellen rose in amazement.
Over Cromwell's bald head loomed Cecily's dark face, tragic and
determined.
"Here's your beau, Lucy Ellen," she said, "and I give you back your
promise."
She shut the door upon the sudden illumination of Lucy Ellen's face
and went up-stairs with the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"It's my turn to wish I was dead," she muttered. Then she laughed
hysterically.
"That goose of a Cromwell! How queer he did look standing there,
frightened to death of Lucy Ellen. Poor little Lucy Ellen! Well, I
hope he'll be good to her."