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The Old Gray Homestead

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She allowed him to lead her, without saying a word, to the sheltered
slope of the river, and sat down under a great elm, while he flung
himself down beside her, laying his head in her lap.

"Sylvia--just think--less than three weeks now! It's been running through
my head all day--I've almost got it down to hours, minutes, and
seconds--What's the matter with Edith, anyway? Father and mother are as
dumb as posts."

"The matter is--oh, my darling boy--I might as well tell you at once--we
can't--I've got to go away with Edith. Austin, you must wait for
me--another year--" And her courage giving out completely, she threw
herself into his arms, and sobbed out the tragic story.




CHAPTER XIX


"Sylvia, I won't give you up--_I can't!"_

"Darling, it isn't giving me up--it's only waiting a little longer for
me."

"Don't you think I've waited long enough already?"

"Yes, Austin, but--Perhaps I won't have to stay away a whole
year--perhaps by spring--or we might be married now, just as we planned,
and take Edith with us."

"No, no!" he cried; "you know I wouldn't do that--I want you all to
myself!" Then, still more passionately, "You're only twenty-two
yourself--you shan't darken your own youth with--this--this horrible
thing. You've seen sorrow and sin enough--far, far too much! You've a
right to be happy now, to live your own life--and so have I."

"And hasn't Edith any right?"

"No--she's forfeited hers."

"Do you really think so? Do you believe that a young, innocent, sheltered
girl, so pretty and so magnetic that she attracts immediate attention
wherever she goes, who has starved for pretty things and a good time, and
suddenly finds them within her reach, whose parents wilfully shut their
eyes to the fact that she's growing up, and boast that 'they've kept
everything from her'--and then let her go wherever she chooses, with that
pitiful lack of armor, doesn't deserve another chance? And I think if you
had stayed with her through last night--and seen the change that
suffering--and shame--and hopelessness have wrought in that little gay,
lovely, thoughtless creature, you'd feel that she had paid a pitifully
large forfeit already--and realize that no matter how much we help her,
she'll have to go on paying it as long as she lives."

Austin was silent for a moment; then he muttered:

"Well, why doesn't she marry Jack Weston? She admits that it was half her
fault--and that he really does care for her."

"_Marry_ him!" Sylvia cried,--"_after that_! He cares for her as much as
it is in him to care for anybody--but you know perfectly well what he is!
Do you want her to tie herself forever to an ignorant, intemperate,
sensual man? Put herself where the nightmare of her folly would stare her
perpetually in the face! Where he'd throw it in her teeth every time he
was angry with her, that he married her out of charity--and probably tell
the whole countryside the same thing the first time he went to
Wallacetown on a Saturday evening and began to 'celebrate'? How much
chance for hope and salvation would be left for her then? Have you
forgotten something you said to me once--something which wiped away in
one instant all the bitterness and agony of three years, and sent
me--straight into your arms? 'The best part of a decent man's love is not
passion, but reverence; his greatest desire, not possession, but
protection; his ultimate aim, not gratification, but sacrifice.'"

"I didn't guess then what a beautiful and wonderful thing passion could
be--I'd only seen the other side of it."

Sylvia winced, but she only said, very gently: "Then can you, with that
knowledge, wish Edith to keep on seeing it all her life? It's--it's
pretty dreadful, I think--remember I've seen it too."

"Good God, Sylvia, do stop talking as if the cases were synonymous! _You
were married_! It's revolting to me to hear you keep saying that you
'understand.' There's no more likeness between you and Edith than there
is between a lily growing in a queen's garden and a sweet-brier rose
springing up on a dusty highroad."

"I know how you feel, dear; but remember, the sweet-brier rose isn't a
_weed_! They're both flowers--and fragrant--and--and fragile, aren't
they?" Then, very softly: "Besides, the lily growing in the queen's
garden, even though the wicked king may own it for a time, is usually
picked in the end--by the fairy prince--to adorn his palace; while the
little sweet-brier rose any tramp may pluck and stick in his hat--and
fling away when it is faded. And if it was really the property of an
honest woodman and his wife, and the highroad ran very close to the
border of a sheltered wood, where their cottage was--wouldn't they feel
very badly when they found their rose was gone?"

"You plead very well," said Austin almost roughly, "and you're pleading
for every one _but me_--for Edith and father and mother, who've all done
wrong--and now you want to take the burden of their wrongdoing on your
own innocent shoulders, and make me help you--no matter how _I_ suffer!
_I've_ tried to do _right_--never so hard in all my life--and mostly--I
've succeeded. You've helped--I never could have done it without you--but
a lot of it has been pulling myself up by my own bootstraps. Now I've
reached the end of my rope--and I suppose, instead of thinking of that
--the next thing you do will be to make excuses for Jack Weston."

"Yes," said Sylvia, very gently, "that's just what I'm going to do. I
know how hard you've tried--I know how well you've succeeded. I know
there aren't many men like you--_as good as you_--in the whole world. I'm
not saying that because I'm in love with you--I'm not saying it to
encourage you--I'm saying it because it's true. You've conquered--all
along the line. It's so wonderful--and so glorious--that sometimes it
almost takes my breath away. Darling--you know I've never reproached
you--even in my own mind--for anything that may have happened before you
knew me--and _I_ know, that much as you wish now it never had
happened--still you can comfort yourself with the old platitudes of 'the
double standard.' 'All men do this some time--or nearly all men. I
haven't been any worse than lots of others--and I've always respected
_good_ women'--oh, I've heard it all, hundreds of times! Some day I hope
you'll feel differently about that, too--that you won't teach _your_ son
to argue that way--not only because it's wrong, but because it's
dangerous--and very much out of date, besides. This isn't the time to go
into all that--but I wonder if you would be willing to tell me everything
that went through your mind for five minutes--when I came to you the
night of the Graduation Ball, and you took me in your arms?"

"_Sylvia!_" The cry came from the hidden depths of Austin's soul, wrung
with grief and shame. "I thought you never guessed---Since you did--how
could you go on loving me so--how can you say what you just have--about
my--_goodness_?"

"Darling, _don't_! I never would have let you know that I guessed--if
everything else I said hadn't failed! That wasn't a reproach! 'Go on
loving you'--how could I help loving you a thousand times more than
ever--when you won the greatest fight of all? It's no sin to be
tempted--I'm glad you're strong enough--and human enough--for that. And
I'm thankful from the bottom of my heart--that you're strong
enough--and _divine_ enough--to resist temptation. But you know--even a
man like you--what a sorceress plain human nature can be. What chance
has a weakling like Jack Weston against her, when she leads him in the
same path?"

For all answer, he buried his face in the folds of her dress, and lay
with it hidden, while she stroked his hair with soft and soothing
fingers; she knew that she had wounded him to the quick, knew that this
battle was the hardest of all, knew most surely that it was his last one,
and that he would win it. Meanwhile there was nothing for her to do but
to wait, unable to help him, and forced to bear alone the burden of
weariness and sacrifice which was nearly crushing her. Should Austin
sense, even dimly, how the sight of Edith's suffering through the long,
sleepless night had brought back her own, by its reawakened memories of
agony which he had taught her to forget; should divine that she, too, had
counted the days to their marriage, and rejoiced that the long waiting
was over, she knew that Edith's cause would be lost. She counted on the
strength of the belief that most men hold--they never guess how
mistakenly--that fatigue and pain are matters of slight importance among
the really big things of life, and that women do not feel as strongly as
they do, that there is less passion in the giving than in the taking,
that mother-love is the greatest thing they ever know. Some day, she
would convince him that he was wrong; but now--At last he looked up, with
an expression in his eyes, dimly seen in the starlight, which brought
fresh tears to hers, but new courage to her tired heart.

"If you do love me, and I know you do," he said brokenly, "never speak to
me about that again. You've forgiven it--you forgive everything--but I
never shall forgive myself, or feel that I can atone, for what I
meant--for that one moment--to do, as long as I live. On Christmas night,
when there was no evil in my heart, you thought you saw it there, because
your trust had been betrayed before; I vowed then that I would teach you
at least that I was worthy of your confidence, and that most men were;
and when I had taught you, not only to trust me, but to love me, so that
you saw no evil even when it existed--I very nearly betrayed you. It
wasn't my strength that saved us _both_--it was your wonderful love and
faith. There's no desire in the world that would profane such an altar
of holiness as you unveiled before me that night." He lifted her soft
dress, and kissed the hem of her skirt. "I haven't forgiven myself
about--what happened before I knew you, either," he whispered; "you're
wrong there. I used those arguments, once, myself, but I can't any more.
We'll teach--_our son_--better, won't we, so that he'll have a cleaner
heritage to offer his wife than I've got for mine--but he won't love her
any more. Now, darling, go back to the house, and get some rest, if you
can, but before you go to sleep, pray for me--that when Edith doesn't
need you any more--I may have you for my own. And now, please, leave
me--I've got to be alone--"

"Dat," said a voice out of the darkness, "is just vat she must nod do."

Austin sprang to his feet. It was too dark to see more than a few feet.
But there could be no doubt that the speaker was very near, and the
accent was unmistakable. Austin's voice was heavy with anger.

"_Eavesdropping, Peter_?"

"No--pardon, missus; pardon, Mr. Gray. Frieda is sick. I been lookin'
ev'ywhere for Mr. Gray to tell him. At last I hear him speak out here, I
come to find. Then I overhear--I cannot help it. I try--vat you
say--interrupt--it vas my vish. Beliefe me, please. But somet'ing hold
me--here." He put his hand to his throat. "I could not. I ver' sorry. But
as it is so I haf heard--I haf also some few words to speak.

"Dere vas vonce a grade lady," he said, coming up closer to them, "who
vas so good, and so lofly, and so sveet, that no vone who saw her
could help lofing her; and she vas glad to help ev'y vone, and gif to
ev'y vone, and she vas so rich and vise dat she could help and gif a
great deal.

"And dere vas a poor boy who vas stupid and homely and poor, and he did
nodings for any vone. But it happened vone time dat dis boy t'ought dat
he and the grade lady could help the same person. So he vent to her and
say--but ve'r respectful, like he alvays felt to her, 'Dis is my turn.
Please, missus, let me haf it.'"

"What do you mean, Peter?" asked Sylvia gently.

He came closer still. It was not too dark, as he did so, to see the
furrows which fresh tears had made on his grimy face, to be conscious of
his soiled and stained working clothes, and his clumsiness of manner and
carriage; but the earnest voice went on, more doggedly than sadly:

"Vat I heard 'bout Edit' to-night, I guessed dis long time ago.
Missus--if you hear that Mr. Gray done som ver' vrong t'ing--even _dis_
ver' vrong t'ing--"

"I know," said Sylvia quickly; "it wouldn't make any difference now--I
care too much. I'd want him--if he still wanted me--just the same. I'd be
hurt--oh, dreadfully hurt--but I wouldn't feel angry--or
revengeful--that's what you mean, isn't it, Peter?"

"Ya-as," said Peter gratefully, "dats yust it, missus, only, of course I
couldn't say it like dat. I t'ank you, missus. Vell, den, I lof Edit'
ever since I come here last fall, ver' much, yust like you lof Mr.
Gray--only, of course, you can't believe dat, missus."

"Yes, I can," said Sylvia.

"So I say," went on Peter, looking only at Sylvia now, "Edit' need you,
but Mr. Gray, he need you, too. No vone in t'e vorld need me but Edit'.
You shall say, 'Peter's fat'er haf sent for him, Peter go back to Holland
ver' quick'--vat you say, suddenly. 'Let Edit' marry Peter and go mit.'
Ve stay all vinter mit my fat'er and moder--"

"You'll travel," interrupted Sylvia. "Edith will have the same dowry from
me that Sally had for a wedding present. She won't be poor. You can take
her everywhere--oh, Peter, you can--_give her a good time_!"

Peter bowed his head. There was a humble grace about the gesture which
Sylvia never forgot.

"You ver' yust lady, missus," he said simply; "dat must be for you to
say. Vell, den, after my fat'er and moder haf welcomed her, ve shall
travel. Dem in de spring if you need me for de cows--Mr. Gray--if
you don't t'ink shame to haf boy like me for your broder--ve come
back. If nod, ve'll stay in Holland. You need no fear to haf--I vill
make Edit' happy--"

Some way, Austin found Peter's hand. He was beyond speech. But Sylvia
asked one more question.

"Edith thinks you can't possibly love her any more," she said--"that you
won't even be willing to see her again. If she thought you were marrying
her out of charity, she'd die before she'd let you. How are you going to
convince her that you want to marry her because you love her?"

"Vill you gif me one chance to try?" replied Peter, looking straight
into her eyes.




CHAPTER XX


"Well, I declare it's so sudden like, I should think your breath would be
took away."

Mrs. Gray smiled at Mrs. Elliott, and went on with her sewing, rocking
back and forth placidly in her favorite chair. If the latter had been a
woman who talked less and observed more, she would have noticed how drawn
and furrowed her old friend's rosy, peaceful face had grown, how much
repression there was about the lips which smiled so bravely. But these
details escaped her.

"'Course it does look that way to an outsider," said Mrs. Gray, slowly,
as if rehearsing a part which had been carefully taught her, "but when
you come to know the facts, it ain't so strange, after all."

"Would you feel to tell them?" asked Mrs. Elliott eagerly.

"Why, sure. Edith an' Peter's been sort of engaged this long time back,
but they was so young we urged 'em to wait. Then Peter's father wrote
sayin' he was so poorly, he wished Peter could fix it so's to come home,
through the cold weather, an' Edith took on terrible at bein' separated
from him, an' Peter declared he wouldn't leave without her; an'
then--well, Sylvia sided with 'em, an' that settled it."

Mrs. Elliott nodded. "You'd never think that little soft-lookin'
creature could be so set an' determined, now, would you?" she asked. "I
never see any one to beat her. An' mum! She shuts her mouth tighter'n a
steel trap!"

"If any family ever had a livin' blessin' showered on 'em right out of
heaven," said Mrs. Gray, "we did, the day Sylvia come here. Funny,
Austin's the only one of us can see's she's got a single fault. He says
she's got lots of 'em, just like any other woman--but I bet he'd cut the
tongue out of any one else who said so. Seems as if I couldn't wait for
the third of September to come so's she'll really be my daughter, though
I haven't got one that seems any dearer to me, even now."

"Speakin' of weddin's," said Mrs. Elliott, "why didn't you have a regular
one for Edith, same as for Sally?"

"Land! I can't spend my whole time workin' up weddin's! Seems like they
was some kind of contagious disease in this family. James was married
only last December, an' even if we wasn't to that, we got all het up over
it just the same. An' now we've hardly got our breath since Sally's, an'
Austin's is starin' us in the face! I couldn't see my way clear to
house-cleanin' this whole great ark in dog-days for nobody, an' Edith
an' Peter's got to leave the very day after Sylvia 'n Austin get married.
Peter was hangin' round outside Edith's door the whole blessed time,
after her fall--"

"Strange she should be so sick, just from a fall, ain't it?"

"Yes, 't is, but the doctor says they're often more serious than you'd
think for. Well, as I was sayin', Sylvia come out of Edith's room an'
found Peter settin' on the top of the stairs for the third time that day,
an' she flared right up, an' says, 'For Heaven's sake, why don't you get
married right off--now--to-day--then you can go in an' out as you like!'
And before we half knew what she was up to she had telephoned the new
minister. Austin said he wished she'd shown more of that haste about
gettin' married herself, an' she answered him right back, if she'd been
lucky enough to get as good a feller as Peter, maybe she might have. It's
real fun to hear 'em tease each other. Sylvia likes the new minister. She
says the best thing about the Methodist Church that she knows of is the
way it shifts its pastors around--nothin' like variety, she says--an' a
new one once in three years keeps things hummin'. She says as long as so
many Methodists don't believe in cards an' dancin' an' such, they deserve
to have a little fun some way, an'--"

"You was talkin' about Edith," interrupted Mrs. Elliott, rather tartly,
"you've got kinder switched off."

"Excuse me, Eliza--so I have. Well, Sylvia got Edith up onto the couch
(the doctor had said she might get up for a little while that day,
anyhow) an' give her one of her prettiest wrappers--"

"What color? White?"

"No, Sylvia thought she was too pale. It was a lovely yellow, like the
dress she wore to the Graduation Ball. We all scurried 'round an' changed
our clothes--Austin's the most stunnin'-lookin' thing in that white
flannel suit of his, Sylvia wants he should wear it to his own weddin',
'stead of a dress-suit--an' I wore my gray--Well, it was all over before
you could say 'Jack Robinson' an' I never sweat a drop gettin' ready for
it, either! I shall miss Edith somethin' terrible this winter, but she'll
have an elegant trip, same as she's always wanted to, an' Peter says he
knows his parents'll be tickled to death to have such a pretty
daughter-in-law!"

"Don't you feel disappointed any," Mrs. Elliott could not help asking,
"to have a feller like Peter in the family?"

Mrs. Gray bit her thread. "I don't know what you got against Peter," she
said; "I look to like him the best of my son-in-laws, so far."

But that evening, as she sat with her husband beside the old
reading-lamp which all the electricity that Sylvia had installed had not
caused them to give up, her courage deserted her. Howard, sensing that
something was wrong, looked up from "Hoard's Dairyman," which he was
eagerly devouring, to see that the _Wallacetown Bugle_ had slipped to her
knees, and that she sat staring straight ahead of her, the tears rolling
down her cheeks.

"Why, Mary," he said in amazement--"Mary--"

The old-fashioned New Englander is as unemotional as he is
undemonstrative. For a moment Howard, always slow of speech and action,
was too nonplussed to know what to do, deeply sorry as he felt for his
wife. Then he leaned over and patted her hand--the hand that was scarcely
less rough and scarred than his own--with his big calloused one.

"You must stop grieving over Edith," he said gently, "and blaming
yourself for what's happened. You've been a wonderful mother--there
aren't many like you in the world. Think how well the other seven
children are coming along, instead of how the eighth slipped up.
Think how blessed we've been never to lose a single one of them by
death. Think--"

"I do think, Howard." Mrs. Gray pressed his hand in return, smiling
bravely through her tears. "I'm an old fool to give way like this, an' a
worse one to let you catch me at it. But it ain't wholly Edith I'm
cryin' about. Land, every time I start to curse the devil for Jack
Weston, I get interrupted because I have to stop an' thank the Lord for
Peter. An' all the angels in heaven together singin' Halleluia led by
Gabriel for choir-master, couldn't half express my feelin's for Sylvia! I
guess 'twould always be that way if we'd stop to think. Our blessin's is
so much thicker than our troubles, that the troubles don't show up no
more than a little yellow mustard growin' up in a fine piece of
oats--unless we're bound to look at the mustard instead of the oats. As
it happens, I wasn't thinkin' of Edith at all at that moment, or really
grievin' either. It was just--"

"Yes?" asked Howard.

"This room," said Mrs. Gray, gulping a little, "is about the only one in
the house that ain't changed a mite. The others are improved somethin'
wonderful, but I'm kinder glad we've kept this just as it was. There's
the braided rugs on the floor that I made when you was courtin' me,
Howard, an' we used to set out on the doorstep together. An' the fringed
tidies over the chairs an' sofa that Eliza give me for a weddin'
present--they're faded considerable, but that good red wool never wears
out. There's the crayon portraits we had done when we was on our
honeymoon, an' the ones of James an' Sally when they was babies. Do you
remember how I took it to heart because we couldn't scrape together the
money no way to get one of Austin when he come along? He was the
prettiest baby we ever had, too, except--except Edith, of course. An'
after Austin we didn't even bring up the subject again--we was pretty
well occupied wonderin' how we was goin' to feed an' clothe 'em all, let
alone havin' pictures of 'em. Then there's the wax flowers on the
mantelpiece. I always trembled for fear one of the youngsters would knock
'em off an' break the glass shade to smithereens, but they never did. An'
there's your Grandfather Gray's clock. I was a little disappointed at
first because it had a brass face, 'stead o' bein' white with scenes on
it, like they usually was--an' then it was such a chore, with everything
else there was to do, to keep it shinin' like it ought to. But now I
think I like it better than the other kind, an' it's tickin' away, same
as it has this last hundred years an' more. Do you remember when we began
to wind it up, Saturday nights, 'together?--All this is the same, praise
be, but--"

"Yes?" asked Howard Gray again.

"For years, evenin's," went on Mrs. Gray, "this room was full of kids.
There was generally a baby sleepin'--or refusin', rather loud, to
sleep!--in the cradle over in the corner. The older ones was settin'
around doin' sums on their slates, or playin' checkers an' cat's-cradle.
They quarrelled considerable, an' they was pretty shabby, an' I never had
a chance to set down an' read the _Bugle_ quiet-like, after supper,
because the mendin'-basket was always waitin' for me, piled right up to
the brim. Saturday nights, what a job it was all winter to get enough
water het to fill the hat-tub over an' over again, an' fetch in front of
the air-tight. Often I was tempted to wash two or three of 'em in the
same water, but, as you know, I never done it. Thank goodness, we'd never
heard of such a thing as takin' a bath every day then! I don't deny it's
a comfort, with all the elegant plumbin' we've got now, not to feel
you've got to wait for a certain day to come 'round to take a good soak
when you're hot or dirty, but it would have been an awful strain on my
conscience an' my back both in them days. I used to think sometimes, 'Oh,
how glad I shall be when this pack of unruly youngsters is grown up an'
out of the way, an' Howard an' I can have a little peace.' An' now that
time's come, an' I set here feelin' lonely, an' thinkin' the old room
_ain't_ the same, in spite of the fact, as I said before, that it ain't
changed a mite, because we haven't got the whole eight tumblin' 'round
under our heels. I know they're doin' well--they're doin' most _too_
well. I'm scared the time's comin' when they'll look down on us, Howard,
me especially. Not that they'll mean to--but they're all gettin' so--so
different. You had a good education, an' talk right, but I can't even do
that. I found an old grammar the other day, an' set down an' tried to
learn somethin' out of it, but it warn't no use--I couldn't make head or
tail of it. An' then they're all away--an' they're goin' to keep on bein'
away. James is South, an' Thomas is at college, an' Molly's studyin'
music in Boston, an' before we know it Katherine'll be at college too,
an' Edith an' Austin in Europe. That leaves just Ruth an' Sally near us,
an' they're both married. I don't begrudge it to 'em one bit. I'm glad
an' thankful they're all havin' a better chance than we did. If I could
just feel that some day they'd all come back to the Homestead, an' to
us--an' come because they _wanted_ to--"

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