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The Old Gray Homestead

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"The presents are somethin' wonderful," Mrs. Elliott related on another
occasion. "Sally's uncle out in Seattle--widower of her that left Austin
all that money--has sent her a whole dinner-set, white with pink roses on
it--twelve dozen pieces in all, countin' vegetable dishes, bone-plates,
an' a soup-tureen. She's had sixteen pickle-forks, ten bon-bon spoons,
an' eight cut-glass whipped-cream bowls, but I dare say they'll all come
in handy, one way or another, an' it makes you feel good to have so many
generous friends. Austin's insisted on givin' her one of them Holst_een_
cows he fetched over from Holland, an' Fred says it's one of the most
valuable things she's got, though I should feel as if any good bossy,
raised right here in Hamstead, would probably do 'em just as well, an'
that he might have chosen somethin' a little more tasty. Ain't men queer?
Sylvia? Oh, she's given her a whackin' big check--enough so Sally can pay
all her 'personal expenses,' as she calls 'em all her life, an' never
touch the principal at that; an' a big box of knives an' forks an'
spoons--'a chest of flat silver' she calls it, an' a silver tea-set to
match--awful plain pattern they are, but Sally likes 'em. Yes, it's nice
of her, but it ain't any more than I expected. She's got plenty of
money--why shouldn't she spend it?"

Only once did Mrs. Elliott say anything unpleasant, and the village,
knowing her usually sharp tongue, thought she did remarkably well, and
took but little stock in this particular speech.

"I'm glad it's Sally Fred picked out, an' not one of the other girls,"
she declared; "she's twenty-nine years old now--a good, sensible
age--pleasant an' easy-goin', same's her mother is, an' yet real capable.
Ruth always was a silly, incompetent little thing--she has to hire help
most of the time, with nothin' in the world to do but cook for Frank,
look after that little tiny house, take care of them two babies, an' go
into the store off an' on when business is rushin'. Molly's head is full
of nothin' but music, an' Katherine's of books. As to that pretty little
fool, Edith, I'm glad she ain't my daughter, runnin' round all the time
with that Dutch boy, an' her parents both so possessed with the idea that
she ain't out of her cradle yet--she bein' the youngest--that they can't
see it. Peter ain't the only one she keeps company with either--if he
was, it wouldn't be so bad, for I guess he's a good enough boy, though I
can't understand a mortal word he says, an' them foreigners all have a
kinder vacant look, to me. But the other night I was took awful sudden
with one of them horrible attacks of indigestion I'm subject to--we'd had
rhubarb pie for supper, an' 'twas just elegant, but I guess I ate too
much of it, an' the telephone wouldn't work on account of the
thunderstorm we'd had that day--seems like that there'd been a lot of
them this season--so Joe had to hitch up an' go for the doctor. As he
went past the cemetery, he see Edith leanin' over the fence with that
no-count Jack Weston--an' it was past midnight, too!"

In the midst of such general satisfaction, it was perhaps inevitable that
at least one person should not be pleased. And that person, as will be
readily guessed, was Thomas. Sylvia, thinking the blow might fall more
bearably from his brother's hand than from hers, relegated the task of
writing him to Austin; and Austin, with a wicked twinkle in his eye,
wrote him in this wise:

DEAR THOMAS:

When you made that little break that I warned you against this spring,
Sylvia probably offered to be a sister to you. I believe that is usual on
such occasions. You have doubtless noticed that she is exceptionally
truthful for a girl, so--largely to keep her word to you, perhaps--she
decided a little while ago to marry me. Of course, I tried to dissuade
her from this plan, but you know she is also stubborn. There seems to be
nothing for me to do but to fall in with it. I don't know yet when the
execution is going to take place, and though, of course, it would be a
relief in a way if I did, I am not finding the death sentence without its
compensations. Why don't you come home over some Sunday, and see how well
I am bearing up? Sylvia told me to ask you, with her love, or I should
not bother, for I am naturally a little loath, even now, to have so
dangerous a rival, as you proved yourself in your spring vacation, too
much in evidence.

Your affectionate brother

AUSTIN

P.S. Have you taken any more ladies to Moving-Picture Palaces lately?

Needless to say, if Sylvia had seen this epistle, it would not have gone.
But she did not. Austin took good care of that. And Thomas did come
home--without waiting for Sunday. He rushed to the Dean's office, and
told him there had been a death in the family. It is probable that, at
the moment, he felt that this was true. At any rate, the Dean, looking at
the boy's flushed cheeks and heavy eyes, did not doubt it for an instant.

"Of course, you must go home at once," he said kindly; "wait a minute, my
Ford's at the door. I'll run you down to the station--you can just catch
the one o'clock. I'll tell one of the fellows to express a suit-case to
you this evening."

Travel on the Central Vermont Railroad is safe, but its best friend
cannot maintain that it is swift. To get from Lake Champlain to the
Connecticut River requires several changes, much patient waiting in small
and uninteresting stations for connections, and the consumption of
considerable time. It was a little after seven when Thomas, dinnerless
and supperless, reached Hamstead, and plodding doggedly up the road in a
heavy rain, met Mr. and Mrs. Elliott just starting out in their buggy for
Thursday evening prayer meeting.

"Pull up, Joe," the latter said excitedly, as she spied the boy advancing
towards them. "I do declare, there's Thomas Gray comin' up the road. I
wonder if he's been expelled, or only suspended. I must find out, so's I
can tell the folks about it after meetin', an' go down an' comfort Mary
the first thing in the mornin' after I get them tomato plants set out. I
always thought Thomas was some steadier than Austin, but Burlington's a
gay place, an' he's probably got in with wild companions up there. Do you
suppose it's some cheap little show girl, or gettin' in liquor by express
from over in New York State, or forgin' a check on account of gamblin'
debts? I know how boys spend their time while they're gettin' educated,
you can't tell me. Or maybe he hasn't passed some examination. He never
was extra bright. Failed everything, probably.--Good-evenin', Thomas,
it's nice to see you back, but quite a surprise, it not bein' vacation
time or nothin'. I suppose everything's goin' fine at college, ain't it?"

Thomas had never loved Mrs. Elliott, and lately he had come as near
hating her as he was capable of hating anybody. He longed inexpressibly
to cast a withering scowl in her direction, and pass on without
answering. But his inborn civility was greater than his aversion. He
pulled off his cap and stopped.

"Yes, everything's all right--I guess," he said, rather stupidly. Then a
brilliant inspiration struck him. "I've been doing so well in my studies
that they've given me a few days off to come home. That doesn't often
happen--they made an exception in my case."

It was seldom that the slow-witted Thomas was blessed with one of
these flights of fancy. For a minute he felt almost cheered. Mrs.
Elliott was baffled.

"Do tell," she exclaimed. "It must be a rare thing--I never hear the like
of it before. I'm most surprised you didn't take advantage of such a
chance to go down to Boston an' see Molly. Didn't feel's you could afford
it, I suppose. I guess she's kinder lonely down there. She don't seem to
get acquainted real fast. You'd think, with all the people there _are_ in
Boston, she wouldn't ha' had much trouble, but then Molly's manner ain't
in her favor, an' I suppose folks in the city is real busy--must be awful
hard to keep house, livin' the way they do. I don't think much of city
life. The last time Joe an' I went down on the excursion, we see the
Charles River, an' the Old Ladies' Home, an' the Chamber of Horrors down
on Washington Street, but we was real glad to come home. There was
somethin' the matter with the lock to our suit-case, an' we couldn't get
it undone all the time we was there, but fortunately it was real warm
weather, so we really didn't suffer none. I thought by this time Molly
might have a beau, but then, Molly's real plain. If the looks could ha'
ben divided up more even between her an' Edith, same's the brains between
you an' Austin, 'twould ha' ben a good thing, wouldn't it? But then you
say you're gettin' on well now, an' in time some man may marry her, so's
he can set an' listen to her play when he comes in tired from his chores
at night. I've heard of sech things. An' then there's quite a bunch of
love-affairs in the family already, ain't there?"

"Yes," said Thomas angrily, "there is."

Mrs. Elliott was quick to mark his tone. She nudged her husband.

"Well, well," she said playfully, "Austin's cut you out, ain't he? Mr.
Jessup was in the race for a while, too, an' I thought he was runnin'
pretty good, but you know we read in the Bible it don't always go to the
swift. An' Austin may not get her after all--I hear there's several in
New York as well an' she might change her mind. I never set much stock in
young men marryin' widows myself. Seems like there's plenty of nice girls
as ought to have a chance. An' Sylvia's awful high-toned, an' stubborn as
a mule--I dunno's she an' Austin will be able to stick it out, he's some
set himself. I shouldn't wonder if it all got broke off, an' I'm not
sayin' it mightn't be for the best if it was. But I don't deny Sylvia's
real pretty an' generous, an' I like her spunk. I was tellin' Joe only
yesterday--"

"I'm afraid I'm keeping you from meeting," said Thomas desperately, and
strode off down the road.

The barn--the beautiful new barn that Sylvia had made possible and that
had filled his heart with such joy and pride--was still lighted. He
walked straight to it, and met Peter coming out of the door. Peter
stared his surprise.

"Where's my brother?" asked Thomas roughly.

"Mr. Gray ben still in the barn vorking. It's too bad he haf so much to
do--he don't get much time mit de missus--den she tink he don't vant to
come. I'm glad you're back, Mr. Thomas. I vas yust gon in to get ve herd
book for him. I took it in to show Edit' someting I vant to explain to
her, and left it in ve house. Most dum."

"You needn't bring it back. I want to see him alone."

Peter nodded, his bewilderment growing, and disappeared. Thomas flung
himself down the long stable, without once glancing at the row of
beautiful cows, his footsteps echoing on the concrete, to the office at
the farther end. The door was open, and Austin sat at the roll-top desk,
which was littered with account books, transfer sheets, and pedigree
cards, typewriting vigorously. He sprang up in surprise.

"Why, Thomas!" he exclaimed cordially. "Where did you drop from? I'm
awfully glad to see you!"

"You damned mean deceitful skunk!" cried the boy, slamming the door
behind him, and ignoring his brother's outstretched hand. "I'd like to
smash every bone in your body until there wasn't a piece as big as a
toothpick left of you! You made me think you didn't care a rap about
her--you said I wasn't worthy of her--that I was an ignorant farmer and
she was a great lady. That's true enough--but I'm just as good as you
are, every bit! I know you've done all sorts of rotten things I never
have! But just the same this is the first time I ever thought that
you--or any Gray--wasn't _square_! And then you write me a letter about
her like that--as if she'd flung herself at your head--_Sylvia_!"

Austin's conscience smote him. He had never seen Thomas's side before;
and neither he nor any other member of the family had guessed how much
their incessant teasing had hurt, or how hard the younger brother had
been hit. In the extremely unsentimental way common in New England, these
two were very fond of each other, and he realized that Thomas's
affection, which was very precious to him, would be gone forever if he
did not set him right at once.

"Look here," he said, forcing Thomas into the swivel chair, and seating
himself on the desk, ignoring the papers that fell fluttering to the
floor, "you listen to me. You've got everything crooked, and it's my
fault, and I'm darned sorry. I never told you I cared for Sylvia, not
because I wanted to deceive you, but because I cared so everlasting
_much_, from the first moment I set eyes on her, that I couldn't talk
about it. No one else guessed either--you weren't the only one. The
funny part of it is, that _she_ didn't! She thought, because I steered
pretty clear of her, out of a sense of duty, that I didn't like her
especially. Imagine--not liking Sylvia! Ever hear of any one who didn't
like roses, Thomas? But I never dreamed that she'd have me--or even of
asking her to! As to throwing herself at my head--well, she put it that
way herself once, and I shut her up pretty quick--you'll find out how to
do it yourself some day, with some other girl, though, of course, it
doesn't look that way to you now--but I can't give you that treatment! I
guess I'll have to tell you--though I never expected to tell a living
soul--just how it did happen. It's--it's the sort of thing that is too
sacred to share with any one, even any one that I think as much of as I
do of you--but I've got to make you believe that, five minutes
beforehand, I had no idea it was going to occur." And as briefly and
honestly as he could, he told Thomas how Sylvia had come to him while he
was making his bonfire, and what had taken place afterwards. Then, with
still greater feeling in his voice, he went on: "There's something else I
haven't told any one else either, and that is, that I can't for a single
instant get away from the thought that, even now, I'm not going to get
her. I know I haven't any right to her and I don't feel sure that I can
make her happy--that she can respect me as much as a girl ought to respect
the man she's going to marry. I certainly don't think I'm any worthier of
her than you--or as worthy--never did for a minute. I _have_ done lots of
rotten things, and you've always been as straight as a string--and you'd
better thank the Lord you have! When you get engaged you won't have to go
through what I have! But you see the difference is, as far as Sylvia and
you and I are concerned"--he hesitated, his throat growing rough, his
ready eloquence checked--"Sylvia likes you ever so much; she thinks
you're a fine boy, and that by and by you'll want to marry a fine girl;
but I'm a man already, and young as she is, Sylvia's a woman--and God
knows why--she loves me!"

Austin glanced at Thomas. The anger was dying out of the boy's face, and
unashamed tears were standing in his eyes.

"A lot," added Austin huskily. Then, after a long pause: "Won't you have
a whiskey-and-soda with me--I've got some in the cupboard here for
emergencies, while we talk over some of this business I was deep in when
you came in? There are any number of things I've been anxious to get your
opinion on--you've got lots of practical ability and good judgment in
places where I'm weak, and I miss you no end when you're where I can't
get at you--I certainly shall be glad when you're through your course,
and home for good! And after we get this mess straightened out"--he bent
over to pick up the scattered sheets--"we'd better go in together and
find Sylvia, hadn't we?"




CHAPTER XVI


Strangely enough, Sylvia and Austin were perhaps less happy at this time
than any of the other dwellers at the Homestead. After the first day, the
week in New York had been a period of great happiness to both of them,
and Austin had proved such an immediate success, both among Sylvia's
friends and Uncle Mat's business associates, that both were immensely
gratified. But after the return to the country, matters seemed to go less
and less well. During the year in which they had "loved and longed in
secret," each had exalted the other to the position of a martyr and a
saint. The intimacy of their engagement was rapidly revealing the fact
that, after all, they were merely ordinary human beings, and the
discovery was something of a shock to both. Austin had thought over Uncle
Mat's advice, and found it good; he was gentle and considerate, and
showed himself perfectly willing to submit to Sylvia's wishes in most
important decisions, but he refused to be dictated to in little things.
She was so accustomed, by this time, to having her slightest whim not
only respected, but admired, by all the adoring Gray family, and most of
her world at large besides, that she was apt to behave like a spoiled
child when Austin thwarted her. She nearly always had to admit,
afterwards, that he had been right, and this did not make it any easier
for her. His "incessant obstinacy," as she called it, was rapidly
"getting on her nerves," while it seemed to him that they could never
meet that she did not have some fresh grievance, or disagree with him
radically about something. She wanted him at her side all the time; he
had a thousand other interests. She saw no reason why, after they were
married, they should live in the country all the year, and every year; he
saw no reason why they should do anything else. And so it went with every
subject that arose.

If Sylvia had been less idle, she would have had no time to think about
"nerves." But the manservant and his wife whom she had installed in the
little brick house were well-trained and competent to the last degree,
and the ménage ran like clock-work without any help from her. She was
debarred from riding or driving alone, and the girls at the farm had no
time to go with her, and it was still an almost unheard-of thing in that
locality for a woman to run a motor. She could not fill an hour a day
working in her little garden, and she had no special taste for sewing.
The only thing for her to do seemed to be to sit around and wait for
Austin to appear, and Austin was not only very busy, but extremely
absorbed in his work. It was impossible for him to come to see her every
night, and when he did come, he was so thoroughly and wholesomely tired
and sleepy, that his visits were short. On Sundays he had more leisure;
but Mr. and Mrs. Gray seemed to take it for granted that Sylvia would
still go to church with them in the morning, and spend the rest of the
day at their house. She could not bring herself to the point of
disappointing them, though she rebelled inwardly; but she complained to
Austin, as they were walking back to her house together after a day spent
in this manner, that she never saw him alone at all.

"It's not only the family," she said, "but Peter, and Fred, and Mr. and
Mrs. Elliott are around all the time, and to-day there were Ruth and
Frank and those two fussy babies needing something done for them every
single minute besides! It was perfect bedlam. I want you to myself once
in a while."

"You can have me to yourself, for good and all, whenever you want me,"
replied Austin.

This was so undeniable a statement that Sylvia changed the subject
abruptly.

"There is no earthly need of your working so hard, and you know it."

"But Sylvia, I like to work; and I'm awfully anxious to make a success of
things, now that we've got such a wonderful start at last."

"Are you more interested in this stupid old farm than you are in me?"

"Why, Sylvia, it isn't a 'stupid old farm' to me! It's the place my
great-grandfather built, and that all the Grays have lived in and loved
for four generations! I thought you liked it, too."

"I do, but I'm jealous of it."

"You ought not to be. You know that there's nothing in the world so dear
to me as you are."

"Then let me pay for another hired man, so that you'll have more time for
yourself--and for me."

"Indeed, I will not. You'll never pay for another thing on this farm if I
can help it. No one could be more grateful than I am for all you've done,
but the time is over for that."

"Won't you come in?" she asked, as, they reached her garden, and she
noticed that he stopped at the gate.

"Not to-night--we've had a good walk together, and you know I have to get
up pretty early in the morning. Good-night, dear," and he raised her
fingers to his lips.

She snatched them away, lifting her lovely face. "Oh, Austin!" she cried,
"how can you be so calm and cold? I think sometimes you're made of stone!
If you must go, don't say good-night like that--act as if you were made
of flesh and blood!"

"I'm acting in the only sane way for both of us. If you don't like it, I
had better not come at all."

And he went home without giving her even the caress he had originally
intended, and slept soundly and well all night; but Sylvia tossed about
for hours, and finally, at dawn, cried herself to sleep.

The first serious disagreement, however, came just before Katherine's
graduation. Austin, who loved to dance, was looking forward to his
clever sister's "ball" with a great deal of pride and pleasure, and was
genuinely amazed when Sylvia objected violently to his going, saying
that as she could not dance, and as all the rest of the family would be
there, Katherine did not need him, and that he had much better stay at
home with her.

"But, Sylvia," protested Austin, "I _want_ to go. I'm awfully proud of
Katherine, and I wouldn't miss it for anything. Why don't you come, too?
I don't see any reason why you shouldn't."

"Of course you don't. You weren't brought up among people who know what's
proper in such matters."

"I know it, Sylvia. But if that's going to trouble you, you should have
thought of it sooner. My knowledge of etiquette is very slight, I admit,
but my common-sense tells me that announcing one's engagement should be
equivalent to stopping all former observances of mourning."

"I didn't want to announce it. It was you that insisted upon that, too."

"Well, you know why," said Austin with some meaning.

"All right, then," burst out Sylvia angrily, "go to your old ball. You
seem to think you are an authority on everything. I'm sure I don't want
to go, anyway, and dance with a lot of awkward farmers who smell of the
cow-stable. I shouldn't think you would care about it either, now that
you've had a chance to see things properly done."

"I care a good deal about my sister, Sylvia, and about my friends here,
too. There are no better people on the face of the earth--I've heard you
say so, yourself! It's only a chance that I'm a little less awkward than
some of the others."

The result of this conversation was that Austin did not go near Sylvia
for several days. He was deeply hurt, but that was not all. He began to
wonder, even more than he ever had before, whether his comparative
poverty, his lack of education, his farmer family and traditions and
friends, were not very real barriers between himself and a girl like
Sylvia. What was more, he questioned whether a strong, passionate,
determined man, who felt that he knew his own best course and proposed to
take it, could ever make such a delicate, self-willed little creature
happy, even if there were no other obstacles in their path than those of
warring disposition.

Something of his old sullenness of manner returned, and his mother,
after worrying in silence over him for a time finally asked him what the
trouble was. At first he denied that there was anything, next stubbornly
refused to tell her what it was, and at last, like a hurt schoolboy,
blurted out his grievance. To his amazement and grief, Mrs. Gray took
Sylvia's part. This was the last straw. He jerked himself away from her,
and went out, slamming the front door after him. It was evening, and he
was tired and hot and dirty. The rest of the family had almost finished
supper when he reached the table, an unexpected delay having arisen in
the barn, and he had eaten the unappetizing scraps that remained
hurriedly, without taking time to shave and bathe and change his clothes.
He had never gone to Sylvia in this manner before; but he strode down the
path to her house with a bitter satisfaction in his heart that she was to
see him when he was looking and feeling his worst, and that she would
have to take him as he was, or not at all. He found her in her garden
cutting roses, a picture of dainty elegance in her delicate white
fabrics. She greeted him somewhat coolly, as if to punish him for his
lack of deference to her on his last visit, and his subsequent neglect,
and glanced at his costume with a disapproval which she was at no pains
to conceal. Then with a sarcasm and lack of tact which she had never
shown before, she gave voice to her general dissatisfaction.

"_Really, Austin_, don't come near me, please; you're altogether too
_barny_. Don't you think you're carrying your devotion to the nobility of
labor a little too far, and your devotion to me--if you still have
any--not quite far enough? You're slipping straight back to your old
slovenly, disagreeable ways--without the excuse that you formerly had
that they were practically the only ways open to you. If you're too proud
to accept my money and the freedom that it can give you, and so stubborn
that you make a scene and then won't come near me for days because I
refuse to go to a cheap little public dance with you--"

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