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The Old Gray Homestead

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After the conversation she had had with him, she was greatly surprised,
when, a little after eight o'clock, the garden gate clicked. She ran down
the steps hurriedly with his name on her lips. But the figure coming
towards her through the dusk was much smaller than Austin's and a voice
answered her, in broken English, "It ain't Mr. Gray, missus. It's me."

"Why, Peter!" she said in amazement; "is anything the matter at
the farm?"

"No, missus; not vat you'd called _vrong_."

"What is it, then? Will you come up and sit down?"

He stood fumbling at his hat for a minute, and then settled himself
awkwardly on the steps at her feet. His yellow hair was sleekly
brushed, his face shone with soap and water, and he had on his best
clothes. It was quiet evident that he had come with the distinct
purpose of making a call.

"Can dose domestics hear vat ve say?" he asked at length, turning his
wide blue eyes upon her, after some minutes of heavy silence.

"Not a word."

"Vell den--you know Mr. Gray and I goin' avay to-morrow."

"Yes, Peter."

"To be gone much as a mont', Mr. Gray say."

"I believe so."

"Mrs. Cary, dear missus,--vill you look after Edit' vile I'm gone?"

"Why, yes, Peter," she said warmly, "I always see a good deal of
Edith--we're great friends, you know."

"Yes, missus, that's vone reason vy I come--Edit' t'ink no vone like
you--ever vas, ever shall be. But den--I'm vorried 'bout Edit'."

"Worried? Why, Peter? She's well and strong."

"Oh, yes, she's vell--ver' vell. But Edit' love to have a good
time--'vun' she say. If I go mit, she come mit me--ven not, mit some
vone else."

"I see--you're jealous, Peter."

"No, no, missus, not jealous, only vorried, ver' vorried. Edit' she's
young, but not baby, like Mr. and Missus Gray t'ink. I don't like Mr. Yon
Veston, missus, nod ad all--and Edit' go out mit him, ev'y chance she
get. An' Mr. Hugh Elliott, cousin to Miss Sally's husband, dey say he
liked Miss Sally vonce--he's back here now, he looks hard at Edit' ev'y
time he see her. He's that kind of man, missus, vat does look ver' hard."

Sylvia could not help being touched. "I'll do my best, Peter, but I can't
promise anything. Edith is the kind of girl, as you say, that likes to
have 'fun' and I have no real authority over her."

As if the object of his visit was entirely accomplished, Peter rose to
leave. "I t'ank you ver' much, missus," he said politely. "It's a ver'
varm evening, not? Goodnight."

For a few minutes after Peter left, Sylvia sat thinking over what he had
said, and her own face grew "vorried" too. Then the garden gate clicked
again, and for the next two hours she was too happy for trouble of any
kind to touch her. Austin's interview with Mr. Carter had proved a great
success, and after that had been thoroughly discussed, they found a great
deal to say about their own plans for September. For the moment, she
quite forgot all that Peter had said.

It came back to her, vividly enough, a few nights later. She had sat up
very late, writing to Austin, and was still lying awake, long after
midnight, when she heard the whirr of a motor near by, and a moment later
a soft voice calling under her window. She threw a negligee about her,
and ran to the front door; as she unlatched it, Edith slipped in, her
finger on her lips.

"Hush! Don't let the servants hear! Oh, Sylvia, I've had such a
lark--will you keep me overnight!"

"I would gladly, but your mother would be worried to death."

"No, she won't. You see, I found, two hours ago, that it would be a long
time before I got back, and I telephoned her saying I was going to spend
the night with you. Don't you understand? She thought I was here then."

"Edith--you didn't lie to your mother!"

"Now, Sylvia, don't begin to scold at this hour, when I'm tired and
sleepy as I can be! It wasn't my fault we burst two tires, was it? But
mother's prejudiced against Hugh, just because Sally, who's a perfect
prude, didn't happen to like him. Lend me one of your delicious
night-dresses, do, and let me cuddle down beside you--the bed's so big,
you'll never know I'm there."

Sylvia mechanically opened a drawer and handed her the garment she
requested.

"Gracious, Sylvia, it's like a cobweb--perhaps if I marry a rich man, I
can have things like this! What an angel you look in yours! Austin will
certainly think he's struck heaven when he sees you like that! I never
could understand what a little thing like you wanted this huge bed for,
but, of course, you knew when you bought it--"

"Edith," interrupted Sylvia sharply, "be quiet! In the morning I want to
talk with you a little."

But as she lay awake long after the young girl had fallen into a deep,
quiet sleep, she felt sadly puzzled to know what she could, with wisdom
and helpfulness, say. It was so usual in the country for young girls to
ride about alone at night with their admirers, so much the accepted
custom, of which no harm seemed to come, that however much she might
personally disapprove of such a course, she could not reasonably find
fault with it. It was probably her own sense of outraged delicacy, she
tried to think, after Edith's careless speech, that made her feel that
the child lacked the innate good-breeding and quiet attractiveness, which
her sisters, all less pretty than she, possessed to such a marked
extent, in spite of their lack of polish. She tried to think that it was
only to-night she had noticed how red and full Edith's pouting lips were
growing, how careless she was about the depth of her V-cut blouses, how
unusually lacking in shyness and restraint for one so young. In the
morning, she said nothing and Edith was secretly much relieved; but she
went and asked Mrs. Gray if she could not spare her youngest daughter for
a visit while Austin was away, "to ward off loneliness." She found the
good lady out in the garden, weeding her petunias, and bent over to help
her as she made her request.

"There, dearie, don't you bother--you'll get your pretty dress all
grass-stain, and it looks to me like another new one! I wouldn't have
thought baby-blue would be so becomin' to you, Sylvia. I always fancied
it for a blonde, mostly, but there! you've got such lovely skin, anything
looks well on you. Do you like petunias? Scarcely anyone has them, an'
cinnamon pinks, an' johnnie-jump-ups any more--it's all sweet-peas, an'
nasturtiums, an' such! But to me there ain't any flower any handsomer
than a big purple petunia."

"I like them too--and it doesn't matter if my dress does get dirty--it'll
wash. Now about Edith--"

"Why, Sylvia, you know how I hate to deny you anything, but I don't see
how I can spare her! Here it is hayin'-time, the busiest time of the
year, an' Austin an' Peter both gone. I haven't a word to say against
them young fellows that Thomas has fetched home from college to help
while our boys are gone, they're well-spoken, obligin' chaps as I ever
see, but the work don't go the same as it do when your own folks is doin'
it, just the same. Besides, Sally's not here to help like she's always
been before, summers, an' it makes a pile of difference, I can tell you.
Molly can play the piano somethin' wonderful, an' Katherine can spout
poetry to beat anything I ever heard, but Edith can get out a whole
week's washin' while either one of 'em is a-wonderin' where she's goin'
to get the hot water to do it with, an' she's a real good cook! I never
see a girl of her years more capable, if I do say so, an' she always
looks as neat an' pretty as a new pin, whatever she's doin', too. Why
don't you come over to us, if you're lonely? We'd all admire to have you!
There, we've got that row cleaned out real good--s'posin' we tackle the
candytuft, now, if you feel like it."

Sylvia would gladly have offered to pay for a competent "hired girl," but
she did not dare to, for fear of displeasing Austin. So she wrote to
Uncle Mat to postpone his prospective visit, to the great disappointment
of them both, and filled her tiny house with young friends instead,
urging Edith to spend as much time helping her "amuse" them as she
could, to the latter's great delight. Unfortunately the girl and one of
the boys whom she had invited were already so much interested in each
other that they had eyes for no one else, and the other fellow was a
quiet, studious chap, who vastly preferred reading aloud to Sylvia to
canoeing with Edith. The girl was somewhat piqued by this lack of
appreciation, and quickly deserted Sylvia's guests for the more lively
charms of Hugh Elliott's red motor and Jack Weston's spruce runabout. Mr.
and Mrs. Gray saw no harm in their pet's escapades, but, on the contrary,
secretly rejoiced that the humble Peter was at least temporarily removed
and other and richer suitors occupying the foreground. They were far from
being worldly people, but two of their daughters having already married
poor men, they, having had more than their own fair share of drudgery,
could not help hoping that this pretty butterfly might be spared the
coarser labors of life.

Sylvia longed to write Austin all about it, but she could not bring
herself to spoil his trip by speaking slightingly, and perhaps unjustly,
of his favorite sister's conduct. As she had rather feared, the short
trip originally planned proved so instructive and delightful that it was
lengthened, first by a few days and then by a fortnight, so that one week
in August was already gone before he returned. He came back in holiday
spirits, bubbling over with enthusiasm about his trip, full of new plans
and arrangements. His enthusiasm was contagious, and he would talk of
nothing and allow her to talk of nothing except themselves.

"My, but it's good to be back! I don't see how I ever stayed away so
long."

"You didn't seem to have much difficulty--every time you wrote it was to
say you'd be gone a little longer. I suppose some of those New York
farmers have pretty daughters?"

"You'd better be careful, or I'll box your ears! What mischief have _you_
been up to? I've heard rumors about some bookish chap, who read Keats's
sonnets, and sighed at the moon. You see I'm informed. I'll take care how
I leave you again."

"You had better. I won't promise to wait for you so patiently next time."

"Don't talk to me about patient waiting! Sylvia, is it really, honestly
true I've only got three more weeks of it?"

"It's really, honestly true. Good-night, darling, you _must_ go home."

"And _you've_ only got three weeks more of being able to say that! I
suppose I must obey--but remember, _you'll_ have to promise to obey
pretty soon."

"I'll be glad to. Austin--"

"Yes, dear--Sylvia, I think your cheeks are softer than ever--

"I don't think Edith looks very well, do you?"

"Why, I thought she never was so pretty! But now you speak of it she
_does_ seem a little fagged--not fresh, the way you always are! Too much
gadding, I'm afraid."

"I'm afraid so. Couldn't you--?"

"My dear girl, leave all that to Peter--I've got _my_ hands full, keeping
_you_ in order. Sylvia, there's one thing this trip has convinced me
we've got to have, right away, and that's more motors. We've got the
land, we've got the buildings, and we've got the stock, but we simply
must stop wasting time and grain on so many horses--it's terribly out of
date, to say nothing else against it. We need a touring-car for the
family, and a runabout for you and me,--do sell that great ark of yours,
and get something you can learn to run yourself, and that won't use half
the gasoline,--and a tractor to plough with, and a truck to take the
cream to the creamery."

"Well, I suppose you'll let me give these various things for Christmas
presents, won't you? You're so awfully afraid that I'll contribute the
least little bit to the success of the farm that I hardly dare ask. But I
could bestow the tractor on Thomas, the truck on your father, and the
touring-car on the girls, and certainly we'll need the runabout for
all-day trips on Sundays--after the first of September."

"All right. I'll concede the motors as your share. Now, what will you
give me for a reward for being so docile?"

She watched him down the path with a heart overflowing with happiness.
Twice he turned back to wave his hand to her, then disappeared, whistling
into the darkness. She knelt beside her bed for a long time that night,
and finally fell into a deep, quiet sleep, her hand clasping the little
star that hung about her throat.

Three hours later she was abruptly awakened, and sat up, confused and
startled, to find Austin leaning over her, shaking her gently, and
calling her name in a low, troubled voice.

"What is it? What has happened?" she murmured drowsily, reaching
instinctively for the dressing-gown which lay at the foot of the bed.
Austin had already begun to wrap it around her.

"Forgive me, sweetheart, for disturbing you--and for coming in like
this. I tried the telephone, and called you over and over again
outside your window--you must have been awfully sound asleep. I was at
my wits' end, and couldn't think of anything to do but this--are you
very angry with me?"

"No, no--why did you need me?"

"Oh, Sylvia, it's Edith! She's terribly sick, and she keeps begging for
you so that I just _had_ to come and get you! She was all right at
supper-time--it's so sudden and violent that--"

Sylvia had slipped out of bed as if hardly conscious that he was beside
her. "Go out on the porch and wait for me," she commanded breathlessly;
"you've got the motor, haven't you? I won't be but a minute."

She was, indeed, scarcely longer than that. They were almost instantly
speeding down the road together, while she asked, "Have you sent for
the doctor?"

"Yes, but there isn't any there yet. Dr. Wells was off on a confinement
case, and we've had to telephone to Wallacetown--she was perfectly
determined not to have one, anyway. Oh, Sylvia, what can it be? And why
should she want you so?"

"I don't know yet, dear."

"Do you suppose she's going to die?"

"No, I'm afraid--I mean I don't think she is. Why didn't I take better
care of her? Austin, can't you drive any faster?"

As they reached the house, she broke away from him, and ran swiftly up
the stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Gray were both standing, white and helpless with
terror, beside their daughter's bed. She was lying quite still when
Sylvia entered, but suddenly a violent spasm of pain shook her like a
leaf, and she flung her hands above her head, groaning between her
clenched teeth. Sylvia bent over her and took her in her arms.

"My dear little sister," she said.




CHAPTER XVIII


When the long, hideous night was over, and Edith lay, very white and
still, her wide, frightened eyes never leaving Sylvia's face, the doctor,
gathering up his belongings, touched the latter lightly on the arm.

"She'll have to have constant care for several days, perfect quiet for
two weeks at least. But if I send for a nurse--"

"I know. I'm sure I can do everything necessary for her. I've had some
experience with sickness before."

The doctor nodded, a look of relief and satisfaction passing over his
face. "I see that you have. Get her to drink this. She must have some
sleep at once."

But when Sylvia, left alone with her, held the glass to Edith's lips, she
shrank back in terror.

"No, no, no! I don't want to go to sleep--I mustn't--I shall dream!"

"Dear child, you won't--and if you do, I shall be right here beside you,
holding your hand like this, and you can feel it, and know that, after
all, dreams are slight things."

"You promise me?"

"Indeed I do."

"Oh, Sylvia, you're so brave--you told the doctor you'd taken care of
some one that was sick before--who was it?"

It was Sylvia's turn to shudder, but she controlled it quickly, and spoke
very quietly.

"I was married for two years to a man who finally died of delirium
tremens. No paid nurse--would have stayed with him--through certain
times. I can't tell you about it, dear, and I'm trying hard to forget
it--you won't ask me about it again, will you?"

"Oh, _Sylvia_! Please forgive me! I--I didn't guess--I'll drink the
medicine--or do anything else you say!"

So Edith fell asleep, and when she woke again, the sun was setting, and
Sylvia still sat beside her, their fingers intertwined. Sylvia looked
down, smiling.

"The doctor has been here to see you, but you didn't wake, and we both
felt it was better not to disturb you. He thinks that all is going
well with you. Will you drink some milk, and let me bathe your face
and hands?"

"No--not--not yet. Have you really been here--all these hours?"

"Yes, dear."

"With no rest--nothing to eat or drink?"

"Oh, yes, Austin brought me my dinner, but I ate it sitting beside you,
and wouldn't let him stay--he's so big, he can't help making a noise."

"Does he know?"

"Not yet."

"And father and mother?"

Sylvia was silent.

"Oh, Sylvia, I'm a wicked, wicked girl, but I'm not what you must think!
I'm not a--a murderess! Peter came up behind me on the stairs in the dark
last night, and spoke to me suddenly. It startled me--everything seems to
have startled me lately--and I slipped, and fell, and hurt myself--I
didn't do it on purpose."

"You poor child--you don't need to tell me that--I never would have
believed it of you for a single instant." Then she added, in the strained
voice which she could not help using on the very rare occasions when she
forced herself to speak of something that had occurred during her
marriage, but still as if she felt that no word which might give comfort
should be left unsaid, "Perhaps your mother has told you that the little
baby who died when it was two weeks old wasn't the first that
I--expected. A fall or--or a blow--or any shock of--fear or grief--often
ends--in a disaster like this."

"Will the others believe me, too?"

"Of course they will. Don't talk, dear, it's going to be all right."

"I must talk. I've got to tell--I've got to tell _you_. And you can
explain--to the family. You always understand everything--and you never
blame anybody. I often wonder why it is--you're so good yourself--and
yet you never say a word against any living creature, or let anybody
else do it when you're around; but lots of girls, who've--done just what
I have--and didn't happen to get found out--are the ones who speak most
bitterly and cruelly--I know two or three who will be just _glad_ if
they know--"

"They're not going to know."

"Then you will listen, and--and believe me--and _help_?"

"Yes, Edith."

"I thought it happened only in books, or when girls had no one to take
care of them--not to girls with fathers and mothers and good
homes--didn't you, Sylvia?"

"No, dear. I knew it happened sometimes--oh, more often than
_sometimes_--to girls--just like you."

"And what happens afterwards?"

Sylvia shuddered, but it was too dark in the carefully shuttered room for
Edith to see her. She said quite quietly:

"That depends. In many cases--nothing dreadful."

"Ever anything good?"

"Yes, yes, _good_ things can happen. They can be _made_ to."

"Will you make good things happen to me?"

"I will, indeed I will."

"And not hate me?"

"Never that."

"May I tell you now?"

"If you believe that it will make you feel better; and if you will
promise, after you have told me, to let me give you the treatment
you need."

"I promise--Do you remember that in the spring Hugh Elliott came to spend
a couple of months with Fred?"

Sylvia's fingers twitched, but all she said was, "Yes, Edith."

"He used to be in love with Sally; but he got all over that. He said he
was in love with me. I thought he was--he certainly acted that way.
Saying--fresh things, and--and always trying to touch me--and--that's the
way men usually do when they begin to fall in love, isn't it, Sylvia?"

"No, darling, not _usually_--not--some kinds of men." And Sylvia's
thoughts flew back, for one happy instant, to the man who had knelt at
her feet on Christmas night. "But--I know what you mean--"

"And--I liked it. I mean, I thought the talk was fun to listen to, and
that the--rest was--oh, Sylvia, do you understand--"

"Yes, dear, I understand."

"And he was awfully jolly, and gave me such a good time. I felt flattered
to think he didn't treat me like a child, that he paid me more attention
than the older girls."

"Yes, Edith."

"And I thought what fun it would be to marry him, instead of some slow,
poky farmer, and have a beautiful house, and servants, and lovely
clothes. I kept thinking, every night, he would ask me to; but he didn't.
And finally, one time, just before we got home after a dance, he said--he
was going away in the morning."

"Yes, Edith."

"Oh, I was so disappointed, and sore, and--angry! That was it, just plain
angry. I had been going with Jack all along when Hugh didn't come for me,
and Jack came the very night after Hugh went away, and took me for a long
ride. He told me how terribly jealous he had been, and how thankful he
was that Hugh was out of the way at last, and that Peter was going, too.
So I laughed, and said that Peter didn't count at all, and that I hated
Hugh--of course neither of those things was true, but I was so hurt, I
felt _I'd_ like to hurt somebody, too. And finally, I blurted out how
mean Hugh had been, to make me think he cared for me, when he was
just--having a good time. Then Jack said, 'Well, _I_ care about you--I'm
just crazy over you.' 'I don't believe you,' I said; 'I'll never believe
any man again.' Just to tease him--that was all.' I'll show you whether I
love you,' he said, and began to kiss me. I think he had been
drinking--he does, you know. Of course, I ought to have stopped him, but
I--had let Hugh--it meant a lot to me, too--the first time. But after I
found it didn't mean anything to him--it didn't seem to matter--if some
one else _did_--kiss me--I was flattered--and pleased--and--comforted.
You mustn't think that what--happened afterwards--was all Jack's fault. I
think I could have stopped it even then--if he'd been sober, anyway. But
I didn't guess--I never dreamed--how far you could--get carried away--and
how quickly. Oh, Sylvia, why didn't somebody tell me? At home--in the
sunshine--with people all around you--it's like another world--you're
like another person--than when there's nothing but stillness and darkness
everywhere, and a man who loves you, pleading, with his arms around you--

"And afterwards I thought no one would ever know. Jack thought so, too.
Besides, you see, he is crazy to marry me--he'd give anything to. But I
wouldn't marry him for anything in the world--whatever happened--the
great ignorant, dirty drunkard! Only he isn't unkind--or cowardly--don't
think that--or let the others think so! He's willing to take his share
of the blame--he's _sorry_--

"Then, just a little while ago--I began to be afraid of--what had
happened. But I didn't know much about that, either. I thought, some way,
I might be mistaken--I hoped so, anyhow. I wanted to come--and tell you
all about it--but I didn't dare. I never saw you kiss Austin but
once--you're so quiet when you're with him, Sylvia, and other people are
around--and it was--it was just like--_a prayer_. After seeing that, I
_couldn't_ come to you--with my story--unless _I had_ to--I felt as if it
would be just like throwing mud on a flower.

"Then, yesterday, after the work was done, Peter asked me to go to walk
with him. It was so late, when he and Austin got home, that I had
scarcely seen him. I was going upstairs, in the dark, and I didn't know
that he was anywhere near--it frightened me when he called. So--so I
slipped--and fell--all the way down. I knew, right away, that I was
hurt; but, of course, I didn't guess how much. I went to walk with him
just the same, because it seemed as if it--would feel good to be with
Peter--he's always been so--well, I can't explain--_so square_. And
while we were out, I began to feel sick--and now, of course, he'll never
be willing--to take me to walk--to be seen anywhere with me again! I
can't bear it! I mind--not having been square to him--more than anything
else--more than half-killing mother, even! Oh, Sylvia, tell them,
please, _quickly_! and have it over with--tell them, too, that it was my
own fault--don't forget that part! And then take me away with you, where
I won't see them--or any one else I know--and teach me to be good--even
if you can't help me to forget!"

* * * * *

Two hours later, when Edith was sleeping again, Mrs. Gray came into the
room with a mute, haggard expression on her kind, homely face which
Sylvia never forgot, and put her arms around the younger woman.

"Austin's askin' for you, dearie. It's been a hard day for him, too--I
think you ought to go to him. I'll sit here until you come back."

Sylvia nodded, and stole silently out of the room. Austin was waiting for
her at the foot of the stairs, his smile of welcome changing to an
expression of stern solicitude as he looked at her.

"Have you been seeing ghosts? You're whiter than chalk--no wonder, shut
up in that hot, dark room all day, without any rest and almost without
any food! No matter if Edith does want you most, you'll have to take
turns with mother after this. Come out with me where it's cool for a
little while--and then you must have some supper, and a bath, and
Sally's room to sleep in--if you won't go home, which is really the best
place for you."

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