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The Old Gray Homestead

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I also found a letter from Mr. Little in Amsterdam, saying that Mrs.
Little and Flora were about to start for Paris, and asking if I would
care to act as their escort, since neither he nor his son could leave The
Hague just then--simply a kind way of saying, "Here's another chance for
you," of course! You can imagine the answer I telegraphed him! We "broke"
the journey in Brussels and Antwerp, and I saw no end of new wonders, of
course, and in Brussels we went to the opera. I did wish Molly was there,
for she certainly would have thought she had struck Heaven, and I did,
pretty nearly! I'm getting used to my dress-suit, and it isn't quite such
an exquisite piece of torture to "do" my tie as it was at first, since
Flora did it for me one night, and gave me some little hints for the
future. She is really an awfully jolly girl.

We got to Paris late at night, and I never shall forget the long drive
from the station, through the bright streets to the Fessendens' house,
where the Littles were going to visit. Sylvia had given me a letter of
introduction to them, too, but I didn't need to use it, for, of course, I
got introduced to them then and there. There are three fellows--no
girls--in the family, besides Mr. and Mrs. I knew beforehand that Flora
was engaged to one of them, but I couldn't tell which, for they all fell
upon her and embraced her with about equal enthusiasm. Then they all
kissed Mrs. Little, and Mrs. Little and Mrs. Fessenden hugged each other,
and Mr. Fessenden hugged Flora. I began to think that perhaps I might be
included--by mistake--but all my hopes were in vain. I was invited to
come to dinner the next night, however, and then I took my leave, and
drove round for an hour--it seemed like an hour in Fairyland--before I
went back to my hotel.

You must be getting settled in college now--it must have been an awful
wrench to tear yourself away from the Homestead, I know, but you'll have
a great time after you get over the first pangs of separation, I'm sure,
and don't forget that "absence makes the heart grow fonder." I refer, of
course, to Sylvia's heart because you've made it sufficiently plain to
all of us that yours _can't._ Well, the best of luck go with you.

AUSTIN

* * * * *

Southampton,
October 27

DEAR SYLVIA:

I had a feeling in my bones when I woke up this morning that something
extra pleasant was going to happen; and when I got down to breakfast, and
saw, on the top of my pile of mail, a letter postmarked Hamstead, but in
a strange handwriting, I knew that it _had_ happened.

You begin by scolding me because I haven't written mother oftener. I know
I deserve it, and I'll write her from now on, every Sunday, at least; but
then you go on by asking why I've never written you, except the little
note I sent back by the pilot, which you say is not a note at all, "but a
series of repetitions of unmerited thanks." I haven't written because I
didn't feel that I you wanted to be bothered with me. And how can I
write, and not say, "Thank you, thank you, thank you," with every line?
Why, I've learned more, enjoyed more, _lived_ more, in these two months
since I came to Europe, than I had in all the rest of my life before!
Sylvia--but I won't, if you don't like it!

Now, to answer your question, "What have I been doing all this time?" I
feel sure you've seen what I have written, so you know what a wonderful
trip I had from, The Hague to Paris. I'm glad I haven't got to try to
describe Paris to you, for of course you know it much better than I do;
but I hope some day, when my mind's a little calmer, I can describe it to
the rest of the family. Just now I'm not in any state yet to separate the
details from the wild, magnificent jumble of picture galleries and
churches, tombs and palaces, parks and gardens, wonderful broad, bright
streets, theatres, cafes, and dinner-parties. Of course, all your letters
were the main reason that every one was so nice to me. My first day of
sight-seeing ended with a perfectly uproarious dinner at the Fessendens';
I never in my life ran into such a jolly crowd. I finally discovered
which brother Flora belonged to--which had been puzzling me a good deal
before--because about ten o'clock the other two suggested that we should
go out and see if "we could have a little fun." I thought we were having
a good deal right there, but of course I agreed, so we went; and we did.

Then--during the next ten days--I went to mass at the Madeleine, and to
a ball at the American Embassy; I rode on the top of 'buses, and spun
around in motors. We took some all-day trips out into the country, and
saw not only the famous places, like Versailles and Fontainebleau, but
lots of big, beautiful private estates with farms attached. There's none
of the spotless shininess of Holland or the beautiful cattle there; but
agriculture is developed to the _n_th degree for all that. Those French
farmers wring more out of one acre than we do out of ten; but we're
going to do some wringing in Hamstead, Vermont, in the future, I can tell
you! The last night in Paris, I never went to bed at all. Twenty of us
had dinner at the Café de la Paix--went to the theatre--saw the girls and
fathers and mothers home--then went off with the other fellows to another
show which lasted until three A.M. I had barely time to rush back to the
hotel, collect my belongings, and catch my early train--for I'd made up
my mind to do that so that I could stop off for two hours at Rouen on my
way to Calais, and I was glad I did, though I must confess I yawned a
good deal, even while I was looking at the Cathedral and the relics of
Joan of Arc.

I had just a week in the Channel Islands, and though I didn't think
beforehand that I could possibly get as much out of them as I did out of
the country in Holland, of course, I found that I was mistaken. I bought
six head of cattle, brought them to Southampton with me, and saw them
safely embarked for America, as I cabled father. I suppose they've got
there by now. They're beauties, but I believe I'm going to like the
Holsteins better, just the same. They're larger and sturdier--less
nervous--and give more milk, though it's not nearly so rich.

The Browns met me there, and I was awfully glad to see them again. I
bought a knapsack, and, leaving all my good clothes behind me, started
out with them on a week's walking trip through the Isle of Wight, getting
back here only last night. We stopped overnight at any place we happened
to be near, usually a farmhouse, and the next morning pursued our way
again, with a lunch put up by our latest hostess in our pockets. Of
course, the Browns didn't take the same interest in farming that I did,
but they had a fine time, too. It's been a great thing for me to know
them, especially Emily. She's not a bit pretty, or the sort that a fellow
could get crazy over, or--well, I can't describe it, but you know what I
mean. Every man who meets her must realize what a fine wife she'd make
for somebody, and yet he wouldn't want her himself. But she's a wonderful
friend. Do you know, I never had a woman friend before, or realized that
there could be such a thing--for a man, I mean--unless there was some
sentiment mixed up with it. This isn't the least of the valuable lessons
I've learned.

After lunch to-day, we're going off again--not on foot this time, as it
would take too long to see what we want to that way, but on hired
bicycles. I'm sending my baggage ahead to London to "await arrival," but
if the mild, though rather rainy, weather we've had so far holds, I hope
to have two weeks more of _country_ England before I go there; we have no
definite plans, but expect to go to some of the cathedral towns, and to
Oxford and Warwick at least.

And now I've overstayed the time you first thought I should be gone,
already, and yet I'm going to close my letter by quoting the last lines
in yours, "If you need more money, cable for it. (I don't; I haven't
begun to spend all I had.) Don't hurry; see all you can comfortably and
thoroughly; and if you decide you want to go somewhere that we didn't
plan at first, or stay longer than you originally intended, please do.
The family is well, the building going along finely, and Peter, your
Dutch boy, most efficient--by the way, we all like him immensely. This is
your chance. Take it."

Well, I'm going to. After the Browns leave London, they're going to Italy
for the winter, and they want me to go with them, for a few weeks before
I start home. I'll sail from Naples, getting home for Christmas, and what
a Christmas it'll be! I know you'll tell me honestly if you think I ought
not to do this, and I'll start for Liverpool at once, and without a
regret; but if you cable "stay," I'll go towards Rome with an easy heart
and a thankful soul.

I must stop, because I don't dare write any more. The "thank-you's" would
surely begin to crop out.

Ever yours faithfully

AUSTIN GRAY




CHAPTER VII


The first of October found a very quiet household at the old Gray
Homestead. Austin was in Europe; Thomas had gone to college at
Burlington, Molly to the Conservatory of Music in Boston. Sally had
prudently decided to teach for another year before getting married, and
now that she could keep all her earnings, was happily saving them for her
modest trousseau; she "boarded" in Wallacetown, where she taught, coming
home only for Saturdays and Sundays, while Katherine and Edith were in
high school, and gone all day. Mrs. Gray declared that she hardly knew
what to do with herself, she had so much spare time on her hands with so
many "modern improvements," and such a small family in the house.

"Go with Mr. Gray on the 'fall excursion' to Boston," said Sylvia. "He
told me that you hadn't been off together since you took your wedding
trip. That will give you a chance to look in on Molly, too, and see how
she's behaving--and you'll have a nice little spree besides. I'll look
after the family, and Peter can look after the cows."

Sylvia had recovered rapidly from her illness, and her former shyness and
aversion to seeing people were rapidly leaving her. She no longer lay in
bed until noon, but was up with the rest of the family, insisting on
doing her share in the housework, and proving a very apt pupil in
learning that useful and wrongly despised art; when callers came she
always dropped in to chat with them a little while, and even the
mail-carrier of the "rural delivery, route number two," the errand-boy on
the wagon from Harrington's General Store, and all the agents for
flavoring extracts and celluloid toilet sets and Bibles for miles around,
were not infrequently found lingering on the "back porch" passing the
time of day with her, whether they had any excuse of mail or merchandise
or not. Not infrequently she went to spend the day with Mrs. Elliott or
with Ruth, and to church on Sunday with all the family; and although
perhaps she was not sorry at heart that her deep mourning gave her an
excuse for not attending the village "parties" and "socials," she never
said so. The Library, the Grange, and the Village Improvement Society all
found her ready and eager to help them in their struggles to raise money,
provide better quarters for themselves, or get up entertainments; and the
Methodist minister was the first person to meet with a flat refusal to
his demands upon her purse. He was far-famed as a successful "solicitor,"
and conceived the brilliant idea that Sylvia was probably sent by
Providence to provide the needed repairs upon the church and parsonage
and the increase in his own salary. He called upon her, and graciously
informed her of his plan.

"The Lord has been pleased to make you the steward of great riches," he
said unctuously, "and I feel sure there is no way you could spend them
which would be more pleasing in his sight than that which I have just
suggested."

"I agree with you perfectly that the church is in a disgraceful state of
disrepair," said Sylvia calmly, "and that your salary is quite inadequate
to live on properly. I have often wondered how your congregation could
worship reverently in such a place, or allow their pastor to be so poorly
housed. I believe the Bible commands us somewhere to do things decently
and in order."

"You are quite right, Mrs. Cary, quite right. Then may I understand--"

"Wait just a minute. I have also wondered at the lack of proper pride
your congregation seemed to show in such matters. It does not seem to me
that it would really help matters very much if I, a complete outsider,
not even a member of your communion, furnished all the necessary funds to
do what you wish. Your flock would sit back harder than ever, and wait
for some one else to turn up and do likewise when I have gone--and
probably that second millionaire would never materialize, and you would
be left worse off than before, even."

"My dear lady!" exclaimed the divine, amazed and distressed at the turn
the conversation had taken, "most of the members of my congregation are
in very moderate circumstances."

"I know--but they should do _their share_. And there are some, who,
for a small village, are rich, and just plain stingy--why don't you
go to them?"

"Unfortunately that would only result in the entire withdrawal of their
support, I fear."

"And those are the worthy, struggling Christians whom you wish me to
supply with everything to make their church beautiful and their minister
comfortable--you want me to put a premium on stinginess! I shan't give
you one cent under those conditions! Go to the three richest men in your
church, and say to them, 'Whatever sum you will give, Mrs. Cary will
double.' Appeal to your congregation as a whole, and tell it the same
thing. Ask those who you know have no cash to spare to give some of their
time, at whatever it is worth by the hour or the day. Set the children to
arranging for a concert--I suppose you wouldn't approve of a little
play--and see how the relatives and friends will flock to hear it. I'll
gladly drill them. When you've tried all this, and the response has been
generous and hearty, if still you haven't all you need, I'll gladly lend
you the remainder of the sum without interest, and you may take your own
time in discharging the debt."

"That is a young lady who gives a man much food for thought," remarked
the minister to Mr. Gray, as, somewhat abashed, but greatly impressed, he
was leaving the house a few minutes later.

"Very true--in more ways than one."

"Her person is not unpleasing and she seems to have an agile mind,"
continued Mr. Jessup.

Mr. Gray turned away to hide a smile. Later he teased Sylvia about her
new conquest. "I am afraid," he said, his mouth twitching, "that you
would flirt with a stone post."

"I didn't flirt with _him_" said Sylvia indignantly; "he ended the call
by dropping on his knees, right there in my sitting-room, and saying,
'Let us pray--for new hearts!' Well, I've had lots of calls end with a
prayer for a change of heart--"

"You little wretch! What did you do?"

"Do! I always strive to please! I knelt down beside him, of course, and
then he took my hand, so I--Honestly, I don't care much what men
_say_--if they only say it _right_--but I draw the line at being
_stroked_! If that's your idea of a flirtation, it isn't mine!"

"Look out, my dear," warned Howard; "he's a widower and a famous beggar."
And Sylvia laughed with him. During the first months she had never
laughed. "I am getting to love that child as if she were my own," he said
to his wife later. "Whatever shall we do when she goes away? It won't be
long now, you'll see."

"Mercy! Don't you even speak of it!" rejoined Mrs. Gray. But she, too,
was brooding over the possibility in secret. "Are you sure you're
quite contented here, Sylvia?" she asked anxiously the next time they
were alone.

Sylvia laid down the dish she was wiping, and came and laid her cheek,
now growing softly pink again, against Mrs. Gray's. "Contented," she
echoed; "why, I'm--I'm happy--I never was happy in my whole life before.
But I shall freeze to death here this winter, unless you'll let me put a
furnace in this great house; and I want to glass in part of the big
piazza, and have a tiny little conservatory for your plants built off the
dining-room. Do you mind if I tear up the place that much more--you've
been so patient about it so far."

Mrs. Gray could only throw up her hands.

The "spree" to Boston took place, and proved wonderfully delightful, and
then they all settled down quietly for the winter, looking forward to
Christmas as the time that was to bring the entire family together again.
For even James, the eldest son, had written that he was about to be
married, and should come home with his bride for the holidays for his
wedding trip; and as Sylvia still firmly refused to leave the farm, Mr.
Stevens asked for permission to join Austin when he landed, and be with
his niece over the great day. As the time drew near, the house was hung
with garlands, and every window proudly displayed a great laurel wreath
tied with a huge red bow. Sylvia moved all her belongings into her
parlor, and decorated her bedroom for the bride and groom, and went about
the house singing as she unpacked great boxes and trimmed a mammoth
Christmas tree.

Four days before Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. James Gray arrived, and Mrs.
James was promptly pronounced to be "all right" by her husband's family,
though the poor girl, of course, underwent tortures before she was sure
of their decision. Fred, who with his father and mother was to join in
the great feast, brought Sally home from Wallacetown that same night, and
took advantage of the mistletoe which Sylvia had hung up, right before
them all. Thomas and Molly, both wonderfully citified already, appeared
during the course of the next afternoon from opposite directions, and
Molly played, and Thomas expounded scientific farming, to the wonder of
them all. And finally Mr. Gray went to meet the midnight train from New
York at Wallacetown the night before Christmas Eve, and found himself
being squeezed half to pieces by the bear hugs of Austin and the hearty
handshakes of Mr. Stevens.

"Pile right into the sleigh," he managed to say at last when he was
partially released, but still gasping for breath; "we mustn't stand
fooling around here, with the thermometer at twenty below zero, and a
whole houseful waiting to treat you the same way you've treated me.
Austin, seems as if you were bigger than ever, and you've got a different
look, same as Thomas and Molly have, only yours is more different."

"There was more room for improvement in my case," his son laughed back,
throwing his arm around him again. "My, but it's good to see you! Talk
about changes! You look ten years younger, doesn't he, Mr. Stevens? How's
mother? And--and Thomas, and the girls? And--and Peter?"

"Yes, how is _Peter_?" said Mr. Stevens.

"Why, Peter's all right," returned Mr. Gray soberly; "what makes you ask?
That sort is never sick and he's as good and steady a boy as I ever saw."

"I'm so glad to hear it," murmured Mr. Stevens in an interested voice.

"And we had the biggest creamery check this month, Austin," went on his
father, "that we _ever_ had--with just those few cows you sent! Peter
tends them as if they were young girls being dressed up for their
sweethearts. The hens are laying well, too, right through this cold
weather--the poultry house is so clean and warm, they don't seem to know
that it's winter. We have enough eggs for our own use, and some to sell
besides--I guess there won't be any to sell _this_ week, will there?
You'll like James's wife, I'm sure, Austin, and you, too, Mr.
Stevens--she's a nice, healthy, jolly girl with good sense, I'm sure.
She's not as pretty as my girls, but, then, few are, of course, in my
eyes. It's plain to see they just set their eye-teeth by each
other--Sadie and James, I mean--and, of course, Fred is about most of
the time; so with two pairs of lovers, it keeps things lively, I can
tell you."

"Has Thomas recovered?" inquired Austin.

"Indeed, he hasn't! It's mean of us all to make fun of him--he's very
much in earnest."

"How does Sylvia take it?" asked Sylvia's uncle.

"I don't think she notices."

"Oh, don't you?" said Mr. Stevens, in the same interested tone he had
used before.

Mrs. Gray was standing in the door to receive them, even if it was
twenty below zero, and was laughing and crying with her great boy in her
arms before he was half out of the sleigh. The kissing that had taken
place at the Fessendens' was nothing to that which now occurred at the
Grays'; for when he had finished with his mother, Austin found all his
sisters waiting for him, clamoring for the same welcome, and he ended
with his new sister-in-law, and then began all over again. Meanwhile Mr.
Stevens stood looking vainly about, and finally interrupted with
"Where's _my_ girl?"

"Oh, _there_, Mr. Stevens!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray, wiping her eyes, and
settling her hair, "it was downright careless of me not to tell you right
away, but I was so excited over Austin that I forgot all about it for a
minute; of course, it's a dreadful disappointment to you, but it just
couldn't seem to be helped. Frank--my son-in-law, you know, that lives in
White Water--telephoned down this morning that the trained nurse had
left, an' little Elsie was ailin', an' the hired girl so green, an'
nothin' would do but that Sylvia must traipse up there to help Ruth
before I could say 'Jack Robinson.'"

"What do you mean?" thundered Uncle Mat and Austin in the same breath; so
Mrs. Gray tried again.

"Why, Ruth had a new baby a month ago, another little girl, an' the
dearest child! They're all comin' home to-morrow, sure's the world, an'
you'll see her then--they've named her Mary, for me, an' of course I'm
real pleased. But as I was sayin'--it did seem as if some one had got to
take hold an' help them get straightened out if they was goin' to put it
through, an' of course, there's no one like Sylvia for jobs like that.
Land! I don't know how we ever got along before she come! Anyway, she's
up there now. Rode up with Hiram on the Rural Free Delivery--he was
tickled most to death. She left her love, an' said maybe one of the boys
would take the pair an' her big double sleigh, an' start up to get 'em
all in real good season to-morrow mornin'."

"That means me, of course," said Thomas importantly.

"Of course," echoed both his brothers, quite unanimously.

Mr. Stevens said nothing, but calmly went up to bed, where he apparently
slept well, as he did not reappear until after nine o'clock the
following morning. He sought out Mrs. Gray in the sunny, shining
kitchen, but did not evince as much surprise as she had expected when
she told him, while she bustled about preparing fresh coffee and toast
for him, that when Thomas, at seven o'clock, had gone to the barn to
"hitch up" he had found that the double sleigh, the pair, and--Austin
had all mysteriously vanished.

"Austin always was a dreadful tease," she ended, "but I can't help sayin'
this is downright mean of him, when he knows how Thomas feels."

"My dear lady," said Mr. Stevens, cracking open the egg she had
set before him with great care, "where are your eyes? What about
Austin himself?"

Mrs. Gray set down the coffee-pot, looking at him in bewilderment.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "I hope Austin is grateful to her
now--an' that he'll _say_ so. At first he didn't like her at all, an'
he's never taken to her same as the rest of us have--seems to feel
she's bossy an' meddlesome. Howard an' I have spoken of it a thousand
times. He began by resenting everything she did, an' then got so he
didn't even mention her name."

"Exactly. I've noticed that myself. I don't pretend to be an infallible
judge of human nature, but mark my words, Austin has cared for my
Sylvia since the first moment he ever set eyes on her. No man likes to
feel that the woman he's in love with is doing everything for him and
his family, and that he can't--as he sees it--do anything in return.
That's why he seems to resent her kindness, which I really think the
rest of you have almost overestimated--if she's helped you in material
ways, you've been her salvation in greater ways still. But there's
still more to it than that: I think your son Austin has in him the
makings of one of the finest men I ever knew, but he doesn't consider
himself worthy of her. He'll try to conceal, and even to conquer, his
feelings--just as long as he possibly can. I suppose he believes
that'll be always. Of course, it won't. But naturally he can't bear to
talk about her. Thomas has fallen in love with her face--which is
pretty--and her manner--which is charming--after the manner of most
men. But Austin has fallen in love with her mind--which is
brilliant--and her soul--which, in spite of some little superficial
faults that I believe he himself will unconsciously teach her to
overcome, is beautiful--after the manner of very few men--and those men
love but once, deeply and forever. And so, my dear Mrs. Gray, tease
Thomas all you like, for Sylvia will refuse Thomas when he asks for
her, and he will be engaged to another girl within a year; but she will
run away from Austin before he brings himself to tell her how he
feels--and it will be many a long day before his heart is light again."

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