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The Old Gray Homestead

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Howard put his arm around his wife, and drew her down beside him on the
old horsehair sofa. One of the precious red wool tidies slipped to the
floor, and lay there unnoticed. Slowly, while Mrs. Gray had been talking,
the full depth of her trouble became clear to him, and the words to
comfort her rose to his lips.

"They will, Mary," he said; "they will; you wait and see. How could you
think for one moment that our children could look down on their mother?
It's mighty seldom, let me tell you, that any boy or girl does that, and
only with pretty good reason then--never when they've been blessed with
one like you. I haven't been able to do what I wanted for ours, but at
least I gave them the best thing they possibly could have--a good
mother--and with that I don't think the hardships have hurt them much!
Have you forgotten--you mustn't think I'm sacrilegious, dear--that the
greatest mother we know anything about was just a poor carpenter's
wife--and how much her Great Son loved her? Her name was Mary, too--I'm
glad we gave Molly that name--she's a good girl--somehow it seems to me
it always carries a halo of sacredness with it, even now!--Then,
besides--Thomas and Austin are both going to be farmers, and live right
here on the old place. Austin's so smart, he may do other things besides,
but this will always be his home and Sylvia's. Peter and Edith'll be
here, too, and Sally and Ruth aren't more than a stone's-throw off, as
you might say. That makes four out of the eight--more than most parents
get. The others will come back, fast enough, to visit, with us and them
here! And think of the grandchildren coming along! Why, in the next
generation, there'll be more kids piling in and out of this living-room
than you could lug water and mend socks for if you never turned your hand
to another thing! And, thank God, you won't have to do that now--you can
just sit back and take solid comfort with them. You had to work so hard
when our own children were babies, Mary, that you never could do that.
But with Ruth's and Austin's and Sally's--"

He paused, smiling, as he looked into the future. Then he kissed her,
almost as shyly as he had first done more than thirty years before.

"Besides," he said, "I'm disappointed if you're lonely here with me, just
for a little while, because I'm enjoying it a whole lot. Haven't you ever
noticed that when two people that love each other first get married,
there's a kind of _glow_ to their happiness, like the glow of a sunrise?
It's mighty beautiful and splendid. Then the burden and heat of the day,
as the Bible says, comes along. It doesn't mean that they don't care for
each other any more. But they're so tired and so pressed and so worried
that they don't say much about their feelings, and sometimes they even
avoid talking to each other, or quarrel. But when the hard hours are
over, and the sun's gone down--not so bright as it was in the morning,
maybe, but softer, and spreading its color over the whole sky--the stars
come out--and they know the best part of the day's ahead of them still.
They can take time then to sit down, and take each other's hands, and
thank God for all his blessings, but most of all for the life of a man
and a woman together. Austin and Sylvia think they're going to have the
best part now, in the little brick cottage. But they're not. They'll be
having it thirty years from now, just as you and I are, in the Old Gray
Homestead."

Mary Gray wiped her eyes. "Why, Howard," she said, "you used to say you
wanted to be a poet, but I never knew till now that you _was_ one! I'd
rather you'd ha' said all that to me than--than to have been married to
Shakespeare!" she ended with a happy sob, and put her white head down on
his shoulder.




CHAPTER XXI


Uncle Mat, whose long-postponed visit was at last taking place, sat
talking in front of the fire in Sylvia's living-room with the "new
minister." The room was bright with many candles, and early fall flowers
from her own garden stood about in clear glass vases. In the dining-room
beyond, they could see the two servants moving around the table, laid for
supper. A man's voice, whistling, and the sound of rapidly approaching
footsteps, came up the footpath from the Homestead. And at the same
moment, the door of Sylvia's own room opened and shut and there was the
rustle of silk and the scent of roses in the hall.

A moment later she came in, her arm on Austin's. Her neck and arms were
bare, as he loved to see them, and her white silk dress, brocaded in tiny
pink rosebuds, swept soft and full about her. A single string of great
pearls fell over the lace on her breast, and almost down to her waist,
and there was a high, jewelled comb in her low-dressed hair. She leaned
over her uncle's chair.

"Austin says the others are on their way. Am I all right, do you think,
Uncle Mat?"

"You look to me as if you had stepped out of an old French painting," he
said, pinching her rosy cheek; "I'm satisfied with you. But the question
arises, is Austin? He's so fussy."

Austin laughed, straightening his tie. "I can't fuss about this dress,"
he said, "for I chose it myself. But I'm not half the tyrant you all make
me out--I'm wearing white flannel to please her. Is there plenty of
supper, Sylvia? I'm almost starved."

"I know enough to expect a man to be hungry, even if he's going to be
hanged--or married," she retorted, "but I'll run out to the kitchen once
more, just to make sure that everything is all right."

The third of September had come at last. There was no question, this
time, of a wedding in St. Bartholomew's Church, with twelve bridesmaids
and a breakfast at Sherry's; no wonderful jewels, no press notices,
almost no trousseau. Austin's family, Uncle Mat, and a few close friends
came to Sylvia's own little house, and when the small circle was
complete, she took her uncle's arm and stood by Austin's side, while the
"new minister" married them. Thomas was best man; Molly, for the second
time that summer, maid-of-honor. Sadie and James were missing, but as "a
wedding present" came a telegram, announcing the safe arrival of a
nine-pound baby-girl. Edith was not there, either, and the date of
sailing for Holland had been postponed. She had gained less rapidly than
they had hoped, and still lay, very pale and quiet, on the sofa between
the big windows in her room. But she was not left alone when the rest of
the family departed for Sylvia's house; for Peter sat beside her in the
twilight, his big rough fingers clasping her thin white ones.

There proved to be "plenty of supper," and soon after it was finished the
guests began to leave, Uncle Mat with many imprecations at Sylvia's "lack
of hospitality in turning them out, such a cold night." Even the two
capable servants, having removed all traces of the feast, came to her
with many expressions of good-will, and the assurance of "comin' back
next season if they was wanted," and departed to take the night train
from Wallacetown for New York. By ten o'clock the white-panelled front
door with its brass knocker had opened and shut for the last time, and
Austin bolted it, and turned to Sylvia, smiling.

"Well, _Mrs. Gray_," he said, "you're locked in now--far from all the
sights and sounds that made your youth happy--shop-windows, and hotel
dining-rooms, the slamming of limousine doors, and the clinking of ice in
cocktail-shakers. Your last chance of escape is gone--you've signed and
sealed your own death-warrant."

"Austin! don't joke--to-night!"

"My dear," he asked, lifting her face in his hands, "did you never joke
because you were afraid--to show how much you really felt?"

"Yes," she replied, "very often. But there's nothing in the whole world
for me to be afraid of now."

"So you're really ready for me at last?" he whispered.

* * * * *

Whatever she answered--or even if she did not answer at all--to all
appearances, Austin was satisfied. His mother, seeing him for the first
time three days later, was almost startled at the radiance in his face.
It was, perhaps, a strange honeymoon. But those who thought so had felt,
and rightly, that it was a strange marriage. After the first few days,
Austin spent every day at the farm, as usual, walking back to the little
brick cottage for his noonday dinner, and leaving after the milking was
done at night; and Sylvia, dressed in blue gingham, cooked and cleaned
and sewed, and put her garden in shape for the winter. In spite of her
year's training at Mrs. Gray's capable hands, she made mistakes; she
burnt the grape jelly, and forgot to put the brown sugar into the sweet
pickle, and took the varnish off the dining-room table by polishing it
with raw linseed oil, and boiled the color out of her sheerest chiffon
blouse; and they laughed together over her blunders. Then, when evening
came, she was all in white again, and there was the simple supper served
by candle-light in the little dining-room, and the quiet hours in front
of the glowing fire afterwards, and the long, still nights with the soft
stars shining in, and the cool air blowing through the open windows of
their room.

Then, when the Old Gray Homestead had settled down to the blessed
peacefulness and security which, the harvest safely in, the snows still a
long way off, comes to every New England farm in the late fall, they
closed their white-panelled front door behind them, and sailed away
together, as Austin had wished to do. There were a few gay weeks in
London and Paris, The Hague and Rome--"enough," wrote Sylvia, "so that we
won't forget there _is_ any one else in the world, and use the wrong fork
when we go out to dine." There was a fortnight at the little Dutch house
where by this time Peter and Edith were spending the winter with Peter's
parents--"where our bed," wrote Sylvia, "was a great big box built into
the wall, but, oh! so soft and comfortable; with another box for the very
best cow just around the corner from it, and the music of Peter's
mother's scrubbing-brush for our morning hymn." And then there were
several months of wandering--"without undue haste, but otherwise just
like any other tourists," wrote Sylvia. They went leisurely from place to
place, as the weather dictated and their own inclinations advised. Part
of the time Edith and Peter were with them, but even then they were
nearly always alone, for Edith was not strong enough to keep up, even
with their moderate pace. They revisited places dear to both of them,
they sought out many new ones; early spring found them in Paris; and it
was here that there finally came an evening when Austin put his arms
around his wife's shoulders--they had made a longer day of sight-seeing
than usual, and she looked pale and tired, as having finished dressing
earlier than he she sat in the window, looking down at the brilliant
street beneath them, waiting for him to take her down to dinner--and
spoke in the unmistakably firm tone that he so seldom used.

"It's time you were at home, Sylvia--we're overstaying our holiday. I'll
make sailing arrangements to-morrow."

So, by the end of May, they were back in the little brick cottage again,
and the two capable servants were there, too, for there must be no
danger, now, of Sylvia's getting over-tired. Those were days when Austin
seldom left his wife for long if he could help it; found it hard, indeed,
not to watch her constantly, and to keep the expression of anxiety and
dread from his eyes. He had not proved to be among those men, who, as
some French cynic, more clever than wise, has expressed it, find "the
chase the best part of the game." His engagement had been a period
containing much joy, it is true, but also, much doubt, much
self-adjusting and repression--his marriage had not held one imperfect
hour. Sylvia, as his wife, with all the petty barriers which social
inequality and money and restraint had reared between them broken down by
the very weight of their love, was a being even much more desired and
hallowed than the pale, black-robed, unattainable lady of his first
worship had been; that Sylvia should suffer, because of him, was
horrible; that he might possibly lose her altogether was a fear which
grew as the days went on. It fell to her to dispel that, as she had so
many others.

"Why do you look at me so?" she asked, very quietly, as, according to
their old custom, they sat by the riverbank watching the sun go down.

"I don't mean to. But sometimes it seems as if I couldn't bear all this
that's coming. Nothing on earth can be worth it."

"You don't know," said Sylvia softly. "You won't feel that way--after
you've seen him. You'll know then--that whatever price we pay--our life
wouldn't have been complete without this."

"I can't understand why men should have all the pleasure--and women all
the pain."

"My darling boy, they don't! That's only an old false theory, that
exploded years ago, along with the one about everlasting damnation, and
several other abominable ones of like ilk. Do you honestly believe--if
you will think sanely for a moment--that you have had more joy than I? Or
that you are not suffering twice as much as I am, or ever shall?"

"You say all that to comfort me, because you're twice as brave as I am."

"I say it to make you realize the truth, because I'm honest."

Molly and Katherine were busy at the Homestead in those days, Sally and
Ruth in their own little houses; but Edith was at the brick cottage a
great deal. In spite of all Peter's loving care, and the treatment of a
great doctor whom Sylvia had insisted she should see in London, she was
not very strong, and found that she must still let the long days slip by
quietly, while the white hands, that had once been so plump and brown,
grew steadily whiter and slimmer. She came upon Sylvia one sultry
afternoon, folding and sorting little clothes, arranging them in neat,
tiny piles in the scented, silk-lined drawers of a new bureau, and after
she had helped her put them all in order, with hardly a word, she leaned
her head against Sylvia's and whispered:

"I do wish there were some for me."

"I know, dear; but you're very young yet. Many wives are glad when this
doesn't happen right away. Sally is."

"I know. But, you see, I feel that perhaps there never will be any for
me--and that seems really only fair--doesn't it?"

Sylvia was silent. Her sympathy would not allow her to tell all the
London doctor had said to her about her young sister-in-law; neither
would it allow her to be untruthful. But certain phrases he had used came
back to her with tragic intensity.

"Many a woman who can recuperate almost miraculously from organic disease
fails to rally from shock--we've been overlooking that too long."--"Every
sleepless night undoes the good that the sunshine during the daytime has
wrought, and after many sleepless nights the days become simply horrible
preludes to more terrors."--"I can't drug a child like that to a long
life of uselessness--make her as happy as you can, but let her have it
over with as quickly as Nature will allow it--or take her to some other
man--I can't in charity to her tell you anything else."

So Sylvia and Peter made her "as happy as they could," and that they
hoped at times was very happy, indeed; but the look of dread never left
her eyes for long, and the tired smile which had replaced her ringing
laugh came less and less often to her pale lips.

There was another faithful visitor at the brick cottage that summer, for
after the end of June, Thomas, who came home from college at that time,
seemed to be on hand a good deal. He, as well as Austin, had proved false
to Uncle Mat's prophecy; for far from falling in love with another girl
within a year, he showed not the slightest indication of doing so, but
seemed to find perfect satisfaction in the society of his own family,
especially that portion of it in which Sylvia was, for the moment, to be
found. Austin at first marvelled at the ease with which he had accepted
her for a sister; but the boy's perfect transparency of behavior made it
impossible to feel that the new and totally different affection which he
now felt for her was a pose. Gradually he grew to depend on Thomas to
"look after Sylvia" when, for one reason or another, he was called away.
His interests at the bank took him more and more frequently to
Wallacetown; there were cattle auctions, too important to neglect, a
day's journey from home; there was even a tiny opening beginning to loom
up on the political horizon. Austin was too bound by every tie of blood
and affection to the Homestead ever to build his hearth-fire permanently
elsewhere; but he was also rapidly growing too big to be confined by it
to the exclusion of the new opportunities which seemed to be offering
themselves to him in such rapid succession in every direction.

Coming in very late one evening in August after one of these necessary
absences, he found Sylvia already in bed, their room dark. She had never
failed to wait up for him before. He felt a sudden pang of anxiety and
contrition.

"Are you ill, darling? I didn't mean to be so late."

"No, not ill--just a little more tired than usual." She drew his head
down to her breast, and for some minutes they held each other so,
silently, their hearts beating together. "But I think it would be better
if we sent for the doctor now--I didn't want to until you came home."

She slipped out of bed, and walked over to the open window, his arm still
around her. The river shone like a ribbon of silver in the moonlight; the
green meadows lay in soft shadows for miles around it; in the distance
the Homestead stood silhouetted against the starlit sky.

"What a year it's been!" she whispered, "for you and me alone together!
And how many years there are before us--and our children--and the
Homestead--and all that we stand for--as long as the New England farms
and the Great Glorious Spirit which watches over them shall endure!"

A cloud passed over the moon dimming its brightness. It brought them to
the realization that the long, hard hours of the night were before them
both, to be faced and conquered. The New York doctor, whom Sylvia had
once before refused to send for, and the fresh-faced, rosy nurse, who
had both been staying at the brick cottage for the last few days, were
called, the servants roused to activity. There came a time when Austin,
impotent to serve Sylvia, marvelling at her bravery, wrung by her
suffering, felt that such agony was beyond endurance, beyond hope, beyond
anything in life worth gaining. But when the breathless, horrible night
had dragged its interminable black length up to the skirts of the radiant
dawn, the mist rose slowly from the quiet river and still more quiet
mountains, the first singing of the birds broke the heavy stillness, and
Austin and Sylvia kissed each other and their first-born son in the glory
of the golden morning.

THE END

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