Mary Amber was bearing in the great platter of golden-brown turkey when
he first saw her, and had not heard him come down. She was entirely
off her guard, with a sweet, serious intentness upon her work and a
stray wisp of gold hair set afloat across the kitchen-flushed cheek.
She looked so sweet and serviceable and true, with her lips parted in
the pleasure of the final completion of her task, that the soldier
was taken by surprise and thrown entirely off his guard. Was this the
false-hearted creature he had come to fight?
Then Mary Amber felt his eyes upon her as he stood staring from the
open hall door, and, lifting her own clear ones, froze into the
opponent at once. A very polite opponent, it is true, with all the
grace of a young queen, but nevertheless an opponent, cold as a young
icicle.
Miss Marilla with bright eyes and preternaturally pink cheeks spoke
into the vast pause that suddenly surrounded them all, and her voice
sounded strangely unnatural to herself.
“Dick, this is Mary Amber; I suppose you don’t remember her.”
And the young soldier, not yet quite recovered from that first sweet
vision of Mary Amber, went forward with his belligerence to woman
somewhat held in abeyance.
“You--have changed a good deal since then, haven’t you?” he managed to
ask with his native quickness to say the right thing in an emergency.
“A good many years have passed,” she said, coolly putting out a
reluctant hand to please Miss Marilla. “You don’t look at all as you
did. I never should have known you.”
The girl was looking keenly at him, studying his face closely. If a
soldier just home from an ocean trip could get any redder, his face
would have grown so under her scrutiny. Also, now he was face to face
with her, he felt his objection to Girl in general receding before the
fact of his own position. How had that ridiculous old woman expected
him to carry off a situation like this without giving it away? How was
he supposed to converse with a girl he had never seen before, about
things he had never done,--with a girl with whom he was supposed to
have played in his youth? Why had he been such a fool as to get into
this corner just for the sake of one more dinner? Why, to-morrow he
would need another dinner, and all the to-morrows through which he
might have to live. What was one dinner more or less? He felt in his
hip pocket for the comforting assurance of his cap, and gave a furtive
glance toward the hall door. It wouldn’t be far to bolt back to the
road, and what would be the difference? He would never see either of
the two again.
Then the sweet, anxious eyes of his hostess met his with an appealing
smile and he felt himself powerless to move.
The girl’s eyes had swept over his ill-fitting uniform and he seemed to
feel every crease and stain.
“I thought they told us you were an officer, but I don’t see your
bars.” She laughed mockingly, and searched his face again accusingly.
“This is another fellow’s uniform,” he answered lamely. “Mine got
shrunk so I could hardly get into it, and another fellow who was going
home changed with me.”
He lifted his eyes frankly, for it was the truth that he told, and he
looked into her eyes, but saw that she did not believe him. Her dislike
and distrust of the little boy Dick had come to the front. He saw that
she believed that Dick had been boasting to his aunt of honors that
were not his. A wave of anger swept over his face; yet somehow he could
not summon his defiance. Somehow he wanted her to believe him.
They sat down at the beautiful table, and the turkey got in its work
on his poor human sensibilities. The delicate perfume of the hot meat
as it fell in large, flaky slices from Miss Marilla’s sharp knife, the
whiff of the summer savory and sage and sweet marjoram in the stuffing,
the smoothness of the mashed potatoes, the brownness of the candied
sweet potatoes, all cried out to him and held him prisoner. The odor of
the food brought a giddiness to his head, and the faintness of hunger
attacked him. A pallor grew under the tan of his face, and there were
dark shadows under his nice eyes that quite touched Miss Marilla, and
almost softened the hard look of distrust that had been growing around
Mary Amber’s gentle lips.
“This certainly is great!” he murmured. “I don’t deserve to get in on
anything like this, but I’m no end grateful.”
Mary Amber’s questioning eyes recalled him in confusion to his rôle of
nephew in the house, and he was glad of the chance to bend his head
while Miss Marilla softly asked a blessing on the meal. He had been
wont to think he could get away with any situation; but he began to
feel now as if his recent troubles had unnerved him, and he might make
a mess of this one. Somehow that girl seemed as if she could see into
a fellow’s heart. Why couldn’t he show her how he despised the whole
race of false-hearted womankind?
They heaped his plate with good things, poured him amber coffee rich
with cream, gave him cranberry sauce and pickles and olives, and passed
little delicate biscuits, and butter with the fragrance of roses. With
all this before him he suddenly felt as if he could not swallow a
mouthful. He lifted his eyes to the opposite wall, and a neatly framed
sentence in quaint old English lettering met his eye, “Who crowneth
thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies, so that thy youth is
renewed like the eagle’s.”
An intense desire to put his head down on the table and cry came over
him. The warmth of the room, the fragrance of the food, had made him
conscious of an ache in every part of his body. His head was throbbing
too, and he wondered what was the matter with him. After all the
harshness of the world, and the bitterness, to meet a kindness like
this seemed to unnerve him. But gradually the food got in its work,
and the hot coffee stimulated him. He rose to the occasion greatly.
He described France, spoke of the beautiful cathedrals he had seen,
the works of art, the little children, the work of reconstruction that
was going on, spoke of Germany too, when he saw they expected him to
have been there, although this was a shoal on which he almost wrecked
his rôle before he realized. He told of the voyage over and the people
he had met, and he kept most distinctly away from anything personal,
at least as far away as Mary Amber would let him. She with her keen,
questioning eyes was always bringing up some question that was almost
impossible for him to answer directly without treading on dangerous
ground, and it required skill indeed to turn her from it. Mary listened
and marvelled, trying continually to trace in his face the lines of the
fat-faced, arrogant child who used to torment her.
Mary rose to take the plates, and the young soldier insisted on
helping. Miss Marilla, pleased to see them getting on so nicely, sat
smiling in her place, reaching out to brush away a stray crumb on the
table-cloth. Mary, lingering in the kitchen for a moment, to be sure
the fire was not being neglected, lifted the stove-lid, and with the
draught a little flame leaped up around a crumpled, smoldering yellow
paper with the familiar “Western Union Telegraph” heading. Three words
stood out distinctly for a second, “Impossible to accept,” and then
were enveloped by the flame. Mary stood and stared with the stove-lid
in her hand, and then, as the flame curled the paper over, she saw
“Lieutenant Richard--” revealed and immediately licked up by the flame.
It lay, a little crisp, black fabric with its message utterly
illegible, but still Mary stood and stared and wondered. She had seen
the boy on the bicycle ride up and go away. She had also seen the
approaching soldier almost immediately, and the thought of the telegram
had been at once erased. Now it came back forcefully. Dick, then, had
sent a telegram, and it looked as if he had declined the invitation.
Who, then, was this stranger at the table? Some comrade working Miss
Marilla for a dinner, or Dick himself, having changed his mind or
playing a practical joke? In any case Mary felt she ought to disapprove
of him utterly. It was her duty to show him up to Miss Marilla; and yet
how could she do it when she did not know anything herself?
“Hurry, Mary, and bring the pie,” called Miss Marilla. “We’re waiting.”
Mary put the stove-lid down, and went slowly, thoughtfully back to the
dining-room bearing a pie. She studied the face of the young soldier
intently as she passed him his pie, but he seemed so young and pleasant
and happy she hadn’t the heart to say anything just yet. She would bide
her time. Perhaps somehow it was all explainable. So she set to asking
him questions.
“By the way, Dick, what ever became of Barker?” she requested, fixing
her clear eyes on his face.
“Barker?” said Lyman Gage, puzzled and polite, then, remembering his
rôle, “Oh, yes, _Barker_!” He laughed. “Great old Barker, wasn’t he?”
He turned in troubled appeal to Miss Marilla.
“Barker certainly was the cutest little guinea-pig I ever saw,” beamed
Miss Marilla, “although at the time I really wasn’t as fond of it as
you were. You would have it around in the kitchen so much.”
There was covert apology in Miss Marilla’s voice for the youthful
character of the young man he was supposed to be.
“I should judge I must have been a good deal of a nuisance in those
days,” hazarded the soldier, feeling that he was treading on dangerous
ground.
“Oh, no!” sighed Miss Marilla, trying to be truthful and at the same
time polite. “Children will be children, you know.”
“All children are not alike.” It was as near to snapping as sweet Mary
Amber ever came. She had memories which time had not dimmed.
“Was it as bad as that?” laughed the young man. “I’m sorry!”
Mary had to laugh. His frankness certainly was disarming. But there was
that telegram! And Mary grew serious again. She did not intend to have
her gentle old friend deceived.
Mary insisted on clearing off the table and washing the dishes, and
the soldier insisted on helping her; so Miss Marilla, much disturbed
that domestic duties should interfere with the evening, put everything
away, and made the task as brief as possible, looking anxiously at Mary
Amber every trip back from the refrigerator and pantry to see how she
was getting on with the strange soldier, and how the strange soldier
was getting on with her. At first she was a little troubled lest he
shouldn’t be the kind of man she would want to introduce to Mary Amber;
but after she had heard him talk and express such thoroughly wholesome
views on politics and national subjects she almost forgot he was not
the real Dick, and her doting heart could not help wanting Mary Amber
to like him. He was, in fact, the personification of the Dick she had
dreamed out for her own, as different in fact from the real Dick as
could have been imagined, and a great deal better. His frank eyes, his
pleasant manner, his cultured voice, all pleased her; and she couldn’t
help feeling that he was Dick come back as she would have liked him to
be all the time.
“I’d like to have a little music, just a little before Mary has to go
home,” Miss Marilla said wistfully as Mary Amber hung up the dish-towel
with an air that said plainly without words that she felt her duty
toward the stranger was over and she was going to depart at once.
“Sure!” said the stranger. “You sing, don’t you, Miss Mary?”
There was nothing for it, and Mary resigned herself to another half
hour. They went into the parlor; and Mary sat down at the old square
piano, and touched its asthmatic keys that sounded the least bit
tin-panny even under such skilled fingers as hers.
“What shall I play?” questioned Mary. “‘The long, long trail’?” There
was a bit of sarcasm in her tone. Mary was a real musician, and hated
rag-time.
“No! _Never!_” said the soldier quickly. “I mean--not that, _please_;”
and a look of such bitter pain swept over his face that Mary glanced up
surprised, and forgot to be disagreeable for several minutes while she
pondered his expression.
“Excuse me,” he said. “But I loathe it. Give us something else; sing
something _real_. I’m sure you can.” There was a hidden compliment in
his tone, and Mary was surprised. The soldier had almost forgotten that
he did not belong there. He was acting as he might have acted in his
own social sphere.
Mary struck a few chords tenderly on the piano, and then broke into the
delicious melody of “The Spirit Flower;” and Lyman Gage forgot that he
was playing a part in a strange home with a strange girl, forgot that
he hadn’t a cent in the world, and his girl was gone, and sat watching
her face as she sang. For Mary had a voice like a thrush in the summer
evening, that liquid appeal that always reminds one of a silver spoon
dropped into a glass of water; and Mary had a face like the spirit
flower itself. As she sang she could not help living, breathing, being
the words she spoke.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing, about Mary to remind him of
the girl he had lost; and there was something in her sweet, serious
demeanor as she sang to call to his better nature; a wholesome, serious
sweetness that was in itself a kind of antiseptic against bitterness
and sweeping denunciation. Lyman Gage as he listened was lifted out
of himself and set in a new world where men and women thought of
something besides money and position and social prestige. He seemed to
be standing off apart from himself and seeing himself from a new angle,
an angle in which he was not the only one that mattered in this world,
and in which he got a hint that his plans might be only hindrances to a
larger life for himself and every one else. Not that he exactly thought
these things in so many words. It was more as if while Mary sang a wind
blew freshly from a place where such thoughts were crowding, and made
him seem smaller in his own conceit than he had thought he was.
“And now sing ‘Laddie,’” pleaded Miss Marilla.
A wave of annoyance swept over Mary Amber’s face. It was plain she
did not wish to sing that song. Nevertheless, she sang it, forgetting
herself and throwing all the pathos and tenderness into her voice
that belonged to the beautiful words. Then she turned from the piano
decidedly, and rose. “I must go home at once,” was written in every
line of her attitude. Miss Marilla rose nervously, and looked from one
of her guests to the other.
“Dick, I wonder if you haven’t learned to sing.”
Her eyes were so pathetic that they stirred the young man to her
service. Besides, there was something so contemptuous in the attitude
of that human spirit flower standing on the wing as it were in that
done-with-him-forever attitude that spurred him into a faint desire to
show her what he could do.
“Why, sure!” he answered lazily, and with a stride transferred himself
to the piano-stool and struck a deep, strong chord or two. Suddenly
there poured forth a wondrous barytone such as was seldom heard in
Purling Brook, and indeed is not common anywhere. He had a feeling that
he was paying for his wonderful dinner, and must do his best. The first
song that had come to his mind was a big, blustery French patriotic
song; and the very spirit of the march was in its cadence. Out of the
corner of his eye he could see Mary Amber still poised, but waiting in
her astonishment. He felt that he had already scored a point. When he
came to the grand climax, she cried out with pleasure and clapped her
hands. Miss Marilla had sunk into the mahogany rocker, but was sitting
on the edge, alert to prolong this gala evening; and two bright spots
of colorful delight shone on her faded cheeks.
He did not wait for them to ask him for another; he dashed into a minor
key, and began to sing a wild, sweet, sobbing song of love and loss
till Mary, entranced, softly slipped into a chair, and sat breathless
with clasped hands and shining eyes. It was such an artistic, perfect
thing, that song, that she forgot everything else while it was going on.
When the last sob died away, and the little parlor was silent with deep
feeling, he whirled about on the piano-stool, and rose briskly.
“Now I’ve done my part, am I to be allowed to see the lady home?”
He looked at Miss Marilla instead of Mary for permission, and she
smiled, half frightened.
“It isn’t necessary at all,” spoke Mary crisply, rising and going for a
wrap. “It’s only a step.”
“Oh, I think so, surely!” answered Miss Marilla as if a great point of
etiquette had been decided. She gave him a look of perfect trust.
“It’s only across the garden and through the hedge, you know,” she said
in a low tone; “but I think she would appreciate it.”
“Certainly,” he said, and turned with perfect courtesy as Mary looked
in at the door and called, “Good night.”
He did not make a fuss about attending her. He simply was there close
beside her as she sped through the dark without a word to him.
“It’s been very pleasant to meet you,” he said as she turned with
a motion of dismissal at her own steps, “again,” he added lamely.
“I--I’ve enjoyed the evening more than you can understand. I enjoyed
your singing.”
“Oh! _My_ singing!” flung back Mary. “Why, I was like a sparrow beside
a nightingale. It wasn’t quite fair of you to let me sing first without
knowing you had a voice. It’s strange. You know you never used to sing.”
It seemed to him her glance went deep as she looked at him through the
shadows of the garden. He thought about it as he crept back through
the hedge, shivering now, for the night was keen and his uniform was
thin. Well, what did it matter what she thought? He would soon be far
away from her and never likely to see her again. Yet he was glad he had
scored a point, one point against Girl in the concrete.
Now he must go in and bid his hostess good-by, and then away to--where?