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The Old Gray Homestead

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She got no farther. Austin interrupted her with a violence of which she
would not have believed him capable.

"_If_! If you're too stubborn to go with me to my sister's _graduation
ball_, and too proud to accept the fact that I'm a _farmer_, with a
farmer's friends and family and work, and that _I'm damned glad of it_,
and won't give them up, or be supported by any woman on the face of the
earth, or let her make a pet lap-dog of me, you can go straight back to
the life you came from, for all me! You seem to prefer it, after all, and
I believe it's all you deserve. If you don't--don't ask my forgiveness
for the things you've said the last two times I've seen you, and say
_you'll go to that party_ with me, and be just as darned pleasant to
every one there as you know how to be--and promise to stop quarrelling,
and keep your promise--I'll never come near you again. You're making my
life utterly miserable. You won't marry me, and yet you are bound to have
me make love to you all the time, when I'm doing my best to keep my hands
off you--and I'd rather be shot _than_ marry you, on the terms you're
putting up to me at present! You've got two days to think it over in, and
if you don't send for me before it's time to start for the ball, and tell
me you're sorry, you won't get another chance to send for me again as
long as you live. I'm either not worth having at all, or I'm worth
treating better than you've seen fit to do lately!"

He left her, without even looking at her again, in a white heat of fury.
But before the hot dawn of another June day had given him an excuse to
get up and try to work off his feelings with the most strenuous labor
that he could find, he had spent a horrible sleepless night which he was
never to forget as long as he lived. His anger gave way first to misery,
and then to a panic of fear. Suppose she took him literally--though he
had meant every word when he said it--suppose he lost her? What would the
rest of his life be worth to him, alone, haunted, not only by his
senseless folly in casting away such a precious treasure, but by his
ingratitude, his presumption, and his own unworthiness? A dozen times he
started towards her house, only to turn back again. She _hadn't_ been
fair. They _couldn't_ be happy that way. If he gave in now, he would have
to do it all the rest of his life, and she would despise him for it. As
the time which he had stipulated went by, and no message came, he
suffered more and more intensely--hoped, savagely, that she was
suffering, too, and decided that she could not be, or that he would have
heard from her; but resolved, more and more decidedly, with every hour
that passed, that he would fight this battle out to the bitter end.

It was even later than usual when he came in on the night of the ball,
and when he entered, every one in the house was hurrying about in the
inevitable confusion which precedes a "great occasion." Edith, the only
one who seemed to be ready, was standing in the middle of the
living-room, fresh and glowing as a yellow rose in her bright dress,
Peter beside her buttoning her gloves. She glanced at her grimy brother
with a feeble interest.

"Mercy, Austin, you'd better hurry! We're going to leave in five
minutes."

"Well, _I'm_ not going to leave in five minutes! I've got to get out of
these clothes and have a bath and it's hardly necessary to tell me all
that--one glance at you is sufficient," said Edith flippantly.

"Well, I can come on later alone, I suppose. Where's mother?"

"Still dressing. Why?"

"Do you happen to know whether--Sylvia's been over here this
afternoon--or sent a telephone message or a note?"

"I'm perfectly sure she hasn't. Why?"

"Nothing," said Austin grimly, and left the room.

Like most people who try to dress in a hurry when they are angry, Austin
found that everything went wrong. There was no hot water left, and he
had to heat some himself for shaving while he took a cold bath; his
mother usually got his clothes ready for him when she knew he was
detained, but this time she had apparently been too rushed herself. He
couldn't find his evening shoes; he couldn't get his studs into his
stiff shirt until he had had a struggle that raised his temperature
several degrees higher than it was already; the big, jolly teamful
departed while he was rummaging through his top drawer for fresh
handkerchiefs; and he was vainly trying to adjust his white tie
satisfactorily, when a knock at the door informed him that he was not
alone in the house after all; he said "come in" crossly, and without
turning, and went on with his futile attempts.

"Has every one else gone? I didn't know I was so late--but I've been all
through the house downstairs calling, and couldn't get any answer. Let me
do that for you--let's take a fresh one--"

He wheeled sharply around, and found Sylvia standing beside
him--Sylvia, dressed in shell-pink, shimmering satin and foamy lace,
with pearls in her dark hair and golden slippers on her feet, her neck
and arms white and bare and gleaming. With a little sound that was half
a sob, and half a cry of joy, she flung her arms around his neck and
drew his face down to hers.

"Austin--I'm--I'm sorry--I do--beg your forgiveness from the bottom of my
heart. I promise--and I'll keep my promise--to be reasonable--and
kind--and fair--to stop making you miserable. It's been all my fault that
we've quarrelled, every bit--and we never will again. I've come to tell
you--not just that I'll go to the party with you, gladly, if you're still
willing to take me, but that there's nothing that matters to me in the
whole world--except you--"

The first touch of Sylvia's arms set Austin's brain seething; after the
hungry misery of the past few days, it acted like wine offered to a
starving man, suddenly snatched and drunk. Her words, her tears, her
utter self-abandonment of voice and manner, annihilated in one instant
the restraint in which he had held himself for months. He caught the
delicate little creature to him with all his strength, burying his face
in the white fragrance of her neck. He forgot everything in the world
except that she was in his arms--alone with him--that nothing was to come
between them again as long as they lived. He could feel her heart beating
against his under the soft lace on her breast, her cool cheeks and mouth
growing warm under the kisses that he rained on them until his own lips
stung. At first she returned his embrace with an ardor that equalled his
own; then, as if conscious that she was being carried away by the might
of a power which she could neither measure nor control, she tried to turn
her face away and strove to free herself.

"Don't," she panted; "let me go! You--you-hurt me, Austin."

"I can't help it--I shan't let you go! I'm going to kiss you this time
until I get ready to stop."

For a moment she struggled vainly. Austin's arms tightened about her like
bands of steel. She gave a little sigh, and lifted her face again.

"I can't seem to--kiss back any more," she whispered, "but if this is
what you want--if it will make up to you for these last weeks--it doesn't
matter whether you hurt or not."

Every particle of resistance had left her. Austin had wished for an
unconditional surrender, and he had certainly attained it. There could
never again be any question of which should rule. She had come and laid
her sweet, proud, rebellious spirit at his very feet, begging his
forgiveness that it had not sooner recognized its master. A wonderful
surge of triumph at his victory swept over him--and then, suddenly--he
was sick and cold with shame and contrition. He released her, so abruptly
that she staggered, catching hold of a chair to steady herself, and
raising one small clenched hand to her lips, as if to press away their
smarting. As she did so, he saw a deep red mark on her bare white arm. He
winced, as if he had been struck, at the gesture and what it disclosed,
but it needed neither to show him that she was bruised and hurt from the
violence of his embrace; and dreadful as he instantly realized this to
be, it seemed to matter very little if he could only learn that she was
not hurt beyond all healing by divining the desire and intention which
for one sacrilegious moment had almost mastered him.

A gauzy scarf which she had carried when she entered the room had fallen
to the floor. He stooped and picked it up, and stood looking at it,
running it through his hands, his head bent. It was white and sheer, a
mere gossamer--he must have stepped on it, for in one place it was torn,
in another slightly soiled. Sylvia, watching him, holding her breath,
could see the muscles of his white face growing tenser and tenser around
his set mouth, and still he did not glance at her or speak to her. At
last he unfolded it to its full size, and wrapped it about her, his eyes
giving her the smile which his lips could not.

"Nothing matters to me in the whole world either--except you," he said
brokenly. "I think these last few--dreadful days--have shown us both how
much we need each other, and that the memory of them will keep us closer
together all our lives. If there's any question of forgiveness between
us, it's all on my side now, not yours, and I don't think I can--talk
about it now. But I'll never forget how you came to me to-night, and,
please God, some day I'll be more worthy of--of your love and--and your
_trust_ than I've shown myself now. Until I am--" He stopped, and,
lifting her arm, kissed the bruise which his own roughness had made
there. "What can I do--to make that better?" he managed to say.

"It didn't hurt--much--before--and it's all healed--now," she said,
smiling up at him; "didn't your mother ever 'kiss the place to make it
well' when you were a little boy, and didn't it always work like a charm?
It won't show at all, either, under my glove."

"Your glove?" he asked stupidly; and then, suddenly remembering what he
had entirely forgotten--"Oh--we were going to a ball together. You came
to tell me you would, after all. But surely you won't want to now--"

"Why not? We can take the motor--we won't be so very late--the others
went in the carryall, you know."

He drew a long breath, and looked away from her. "All right," he said at
last. "Go downstairs and get your cloak, if you left it there. I'll be
with you in a minute."

She obeyed, without a word, but waited so long that she grew alarmed, and
finally, unable to endure her anxiety any longer, she went back upstairs.
Austin's door was open into the hall, but it was dark in his room, and,
genuinely frightened, she groped her way towards the electric switch. In
doing so she stumbled against the bed, and her hand fell on Austin's
shoulder. He was kneeling there, his whole body shaking, his head buried
in his arms. Instantly she was on her knees beside him.

"My darling boy, what is it? Austin, _don't_! You'll break my heart."

"The marvel is--if I haven't--just now. I told your uncle that I was
afraid I would some time--that I knew I hadn't any right to you. But I
didn't think--that even I was bad enough--to fail you--like _this_--"

"You _haven't_ failed me--you _have_ a right to me--I never loved you
so much in all my life--" she hurried on, almost incoherently, searching
for words of comfort. "Dearest--will it make you feel any better--if I
say I'll marry you--right away?"

"What do you mean? When?"

"To-night, if you like. Oh, Austin, I love you so that it doesn't matter
a bit--whether I'm afraid or not. The only thing that really counts--is
to have you happy! And since I've realized that--I find that I'm not
afraid of anything in the whole world--and that I want to belong to you
as much--and as soon--as you can possibly want to have me!"

* * * * *

It was many months before Hamstead stopped talking about the "Graduation
Ball of that year." It surpassed, to an almost extraordinary degree, any
that had ever been held there. But the event upon which the village best
loved to dwell was the entrance of Sylvia Cary, the loveliest vision it
had ever beheld, on Austin Gray's arm, when all the other guests were
already there, and everyone had despaired of their coming. Following the
unwritten law in country places, which decrees that all persons engaged,
married, or "keeping company," must have their "first dance" together,
she gave that to Austin. Then Thomas and James, Frank and Fred, Peter,
and even Mr. Gray and Mr. Elliott, all claimed their turn, and by that
time Austin was waiting impatiently again. But country parties are long,
and before the night was over, all the men and boys, who had been
watching her in church, and bowing when they met her in the road, and
seizing every possible chance to speak to her when they went to the
Homestead on errands--or excuses for errands--had demanded and been given
a dance. She was lighter than thistledown--indeed, there were moments
when she seemed scarcely a woman at all, but a mere essence of fragile
beauty and sweetness and graciousness. It had been generally conceded
beforehand that the honors of the ball would all go to Edith, but even
Edith herself admitted that she took a second place, and that she was
glad to take it.

Dawn was turning the quiet valley and distant mountains into a riotous
rosy glory, when, as they drove slowly up to her house, Austin gently
raised the gossamer scarf which had blown over Sylvia's face, half-hiding
it from him. She looked up with a smile to answer his.

"Are you very tired, dear?"

"Not at all--just too happy to talk much, that's all."

"Sylvia--"

"Yes, darling--"

"You know I have planned to start West with Peter three days after
Sally's wedding--"

"Yes--"

"Would you rather I didn't go?"

"No; I'm glad you're going--I mean, I'm glad you have decided to keep to
your plan."

"What makes you think I have?"

"Because, being you, you couldn't do otherwise."

"But when I come back--"

Her fingers tightened in his.

"I want two months all alone with you in this little house," he
whispered. "Send the servants away--it won't be very hard to do the
work--for just us two--I'll help. That's--that's--_marriage_--a big
wedding and a public honeymoon--and--all that go with them--are just a
cheap imitation--of the real thing. Then, later on, if you like, this
first winter, we'll go away together--to Spain or Italy or the South of
France--or wherever you wish--but first--we'll begin together here. Will
you marry me--the first of September, Sylvia?"

Austin drove home in the broad daylight of four o'clock on a June
morning. Then, after the motor was put away, he took his working clothes
over his arm, went to the river, and plunged in. When he came back, with
damp hair, cool skin, and a heart singing with peace and joy, he found
Peter, whistling, starting towards the barn with his milk-pail over his
arm. It was the beginning of a new day.




CHAPTER XVII


"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.

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