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The Old Gray Homestead

F >> Frances Parkinson Keyes >> The Old Gray Homestead




"I don't want to," said Austin, with more truth than his sister guessed.

A young, lovely, and agreeable widow, with a great deal of money, and no
"impediments" in the way of either parents or children, is apt to find
life made extremely pleasant for her by her friends; and every one felt,
moreover, that "Sylvia had behaved so very well." For two months after
her husband's death, she had lived in the greatest seclusion, too ill,
too disillusioned and horror-stricken, too shattered in body and soul--as
they all knew only too well--to see even her dearest friends. Then she
had gone to the country, remaining there quietly for a year, regaining
her health and spirits, and had now returned to her uncle's home,
lightening her mourning, going out a little, taking up her old interests
again one by one--a fitting and dignified prelude for a new establishment
of her own. She could not help being pleased and gratified at the warmth
of her reception; and she found, as Austin had predicted, that "New York
looked pretty good to her." It is doubtful whether the taste for luxury,
once acquired, is ever wholly lost, even though it may be temporarily
cast aside; and Sylvia was too young and too human, as well as too
healthy and happy again, not to enjoy herself very much, indeed.

For nearly a month she found each day so full and so delightful as it
came, that she had no time to be lonely, and no thought of going away;
but gradually she came to a realization of the fact that the days were
_too_ full; that there were no opportunities for resting and reading and
"thinking things over"; that the quiet little dinners and luncheons of
four and six, given in her honor, were gradually but surely becoming
larger, more formal and more elaborate; that her circle of callers was no
longer confined to her most intimate friends; that her telephone rang in
and out of season; that the city was growing hot and dusty and tawdry,
and that she herself was getting tired and nervous again. And when she
waked one morning at eleven o'clock, after being up most of the night
before, her head aching, her whole being weary and confused, it needed
neither the insistent and disagreeable memory of a little incident of the
previous evening, nor the letter from Austin that her maid brought in on
her breakfast-tray, to make her realize that the tinsel of her gayety was
getting tarnished.

* * * * *

DEAREST (the letter ran):

It is midnight, and--as you know--I am always up at five, but I must send
you just a few words before I go to bed, for these last two days have
been so full that it has seemed to be impossible to find a moment in
which to write you. "Business is rushing" at the Gray Homestead these
days, and everything going finely. The chickens and ducklings are all
coming along well--about four hundred of them--and we've had three
beautiful new heifer calves this week. Peter is beside himself with joy,
for they're all Holsteins. I went to Wallacetown yesterday afternoon, and
made another $200 payment on our note at the bank--at this rate we'll
have that halfway behind us soon.

To-day I've been over at your house every minute that I could spare and
succeeded in getting the last workman out--for good--at eight o'clock
this evening. (I bribed him to stay overtime. There are a few little odd
jobs left, but I can work those in myself in odd moments.) There is no
reason now why you shouldn't begin to send furniture any time you like. I
never would have believed that it would be possible to get three such
good bedrooms--not to mention a bathroom and closets--out of the attic,
or that tearing out partitions and unblocking fireplaces would work such
wonders downstairs. It's all just as you planned it that first day we
tramped over in the snow to see it--do you remember?--and it's all
lovely, especially your bedroom on the right of the front door, and the
big living-room on the left. The papers you chose are exactly right for
the walls, and the white paint looks so fresh and clean, and I'm sure the
piazza is deep enough to suit even you. I've ploughed and planted your
flower- and vegetable-gardens, as well as those at the Homestead, and
this warm, early spring is helping along the vegetation finely, so I
think things will soon be coming up. We've decided to try both wheat and
alfalfa as experiments this year, and I can hardly wait to see whether
they'll turn out all right.

Katherine graduates from high school the eighteenth of June, and as
Sally's teaching ends the same day, and Fred's patience has finally given
out with a bang, she has fixed the twenty-fifth for her wedding. Won't
she be busy, with just one week to get ready to be a bride, after she
stops being a schoolmarm? But, of course, we'll all turn to and help her,
and Molly will be home from the Conservatory ten days before that--you
know how efficient she is. By the way, has she written you the good news
about her scholarship? We may have a famous musician in the family yet,
if some mere man doesn't step in and intervene. Speaking of lovers, Peter
is teaching Edith Dutch! And when mother remonstrated with her, she
flared up and asked if it was any different from having you teach me
French! (I sometimes believe "the baby" is "onto us," though all the
others are still entirely unsuspicious, and keep right on telling me I
never half appreciated you!) So they spend a good deal of time at the
living-room table, with their heads rather close together, but I haven't
yet heard Edith conversing fluently in that useful and musical foreign
language which she is supposed to be acquiring.

I haven't had a letter from you in nearly a week, but I'm sure, if you
weren't well and happy, Mr. Stevens would let us know. I'm glad you're
having such a good time--you certainly deserve it after being cooped up
so long. Sorry you think it isn't suitable for you to dance yet, for, of
course, you would enjoy that a lot, but you can pretty soon, can't you?

Good-night, darling. God bless you always!

AUSTIN

* * * * *

There was something in the quiet, restrained tone of the letter, with its
details of homely, everyday news, and the tidings of his care and
interest in her little house, that touched Sylvia far more than many
pages of passionate outpouring of loneliness and longing could have done.
She knew that the loneliness and longing were there, even though he would
not say so, and she turned from the great bunch of American Beauties
which had also come in with her breakfast-tray, with something akin
almost to disgust as she thought of Austin's tiny bunch of arbutus--his
"bouquet des fiançailles," as he had called it--the only thing, besides
the little star, that he had ever given her. She called her maid, and
announced that in the future she would never be at home to a certain
caller; then she reached for the telephone beside her bed and cancelled
all her engagements for the next few days, on the plea of not feeling
well, which was perfectly true; and then she called up Western Union, and
dispatched a long telegram, after which she indulged in a comforting and
salutary outburst of tears.

"It will serve me quite right if he won't come," she sobbed. "I wouldn't
if I were he, not one step--and he's just as stubborn as I am. I never
was half good enough for him, and now I've neglected him, and frittered
away my time, and even flirted with other men--when I'd scratch out the
eyes of any other woman if she dared to look at him. It's to be hoped
that he doesn't find out what a frivolous, empty-headed, silly, vain
little fool I am--though it probably would be better for him in the end
if he did."

Sylvia passed a very unhappy day, as she richly deserved to do. For the
woman who gives a man a new ideal to live for, and then, carelessly,
herself falls short of the standard she has set for him, often does as
great and incalculable harm as the woman who has no standards at all.

Uncle Mat received a distinct shock when he reached his apartment that
night, to find that his niece, dressed in a severely plain black gown,
was dining at home alone with him. Before he finished his soup he
received another shock.

"Austin Gray is coming to New York," she said, coolly, buttering a
cracker; "I have just had a telegram saying he will take a night train,
and get in early in the morning--eight o'clock, I believe. I think I'll
go and meet him at the station. Are you willing he should come here, and
sleep on the living-room sofa, as you suggested once before, or shall I
take him to a hotel?"

"Bring him here by all means," returned her bewildered relative; "I like
that boy immensely. What streak of good luck is setting him loose? I
thought he was tied hand and foot by bucolic occupations."

"Apparently he has found some means of escape," said Sylvia; "would you
care to read aloud to me this evening?"




CHAPTER XIII


"Why, Sylvia, my dear! I never dreamed that you would come to meet me!"

Austin was, indeed, almost beside himself with surprise and delight when,
as he left the train and walked down the long platform in the Grand
Central Station, he saw Sylvia, dressed in pure white serge, standing
near the gate. He waved his hat like a schoolboy, and hurried forward,
setting down his suit-case to grip her hands in both of his.

"Have you had any breakfast?" she asked, as they started off.

"Yes, indeed, an hour ago."

"Then where would you like to go first? I have the motor here, and we're
both entirely at your disposal."

He hesitated a moment, and then said, laughing, "It didn't occur to me
that you'd come to the station, and I fully intended to go somewhere and
get a hair-cut that wouldn't proclaim me as coming straight from
Hamstead, Vermont, and replenish the wardrobe that looked so
inexhaustible to me last fall, before I presented myself to you."

Sylvia joined in his laugh. "Go ahead. I'll sit in the motor and wait
for you. Afterwards we'll go shopping together."

"To buy things like these?" he asked, eyeing her costume with approval.

"No. I have enough clothes now. I was going to begin choosing our
furniture--and thought you might be interested. Get in, dear, this is
ours," she said, walking up to the limousine which Sally had described
with such enthusiasm, and which now stood waiting for her, its door held
open by a French chauffeur, who was smiling with true Gallic appreciation
of his mistress's "affaire de coeur," "and here," she added, after they
were comfortably seated inside, taking a gardenia from the flower-holder,
"is a posy I've got for you."

"Thank you. Have you anything else?" he asked, folding his hand over hers
as she pinned it on.

"Oh, Austin, you're such a funny lover!"

"Why?"

"Because you nearly always--ask beforehand. Why don't you take what
you've a perfect right to--if you want it?"

"Possibly because I don't feel I have a perfect right to--or sure that I
have any right at all," he answered gravely, "and I can't believe it's
really real yet, anyway. You see, I only had two days with you--the new
way--before you left, and I had no means of knowing when I should have
any more--and a good deal of doubt as to whether I deserved any."

There was no reproach in the words at all, but so much genuine
humility and patience that Sylvia realized more keenly than ever how
selfish she had been.

"You'll make me cry if you talk to me like that!" she said quickly. "Oh,
Austin, I've countless things to say to you, but first of all I want to
tell you that I'll never leave you like this again, that it's--just as
real as _I am_, that you can have just as many days as you care to now,
and that I'll spend them all showing you how much right you have!" And
she threw her arms around his neck and drew his face down to hers,
oblivious alike of Andre on the front seat and all the passing crowds on
Fifth Avenue.

"Don't," Austin said after a moment. "We mustn't kiss each other like
that when some one might see us--I forgot, for a minute, that there
_was_ any one else in the world! Besides, I'm afraid, if we do, I'll let
myself go more than I mean to--it's all been stifled inside me so
long--and be almost rough, and startle or hurt you. I couldn't bear to
have that happen to you--again. I want you always to feel safe and
shielded with me."

"Safe! I hope I'll be as safe in heaven as I am with you! Don't you think
I know what you've been through this last year?"

"No, I don't," he said passionately; "I hope not, anyway. And that was
before I ever touched you, besides. It's different now. I shan't kiss you
again to-day, my dear, except"--raising her hand to his lips--"like this.
Are you going to wait for me here?" he ended quietly, as the motor began
to slow down in front of the Waldorf.

"No," she said, her voice trembling; "I'm going to church, 'to thank God,
kneeling, for a good man's love.' Come for me there, when you're ready."

"Are you in earnest?"

"I never was more so."

He joined her at St. Bartholomew's an hour later, and seeking her out,
knelt beside her in the quiet, dim church, empty except for themselves.
She felt for his hand, and gripping it hard, whispered with downcast eyes
and flushed cheeks:

"Austin, I have a confession to make."

"Of course, you have--I knew that from the moment I got your telegram.
Well, how bad is it?" he said, trying to make his voice sound as light as
possible. But her courage had apparently failed her, for she did not
answer, so at last he went on:

"You didn't miss me much, at first, did you? When you thought of me I
seemed a little--not much, of course, but quite an important little--out
of focus on the only horizon that your own world sees. Well, I knew that
was bound to happen, and that if you really cared for me as much as you
thought you did at the farm, it was just as well that it should--for
you'd soon find out how much your own horizon had broadened and
beautified. Don't blame yourself too much for that. I suppose the worst
confession, however, is that something occurred to make you long, just a
little, to have me with you again--just as you were glad to see me come
into the room the last day our minister called. What was it?"

"Austin! How can you guess so much?"

"Because I care so much. Go on."

"People began to make love to me," she faltered, "and at first I
did--like it. I--flirted just a little. Then--oh, Austin, don't make me
tell you!"

"I never imagined," he said grimly, "that Thomas and Mr. Jessup were
the only men who would ever look at you twice. I suppose I've got to
expect that men are going to _try_ to make love to you always--unless I
lock you up where no one but me can see you, and that doesn't seem very
practical in this day and generation! But I don't see any reason--if
you love me--why you should _let_ them. You have certainly got to tell
me, Sylvia."

"I will not, if you speak to me that way," she flashed back. "Why should
I? You wouldn't tell me all the foolish things you ever did!"

"Yes, Sylvia, I will," he said gravely, "as far as I can without
incriminating anybody else--no man has a right to kiss--or do more than
that--and tell, in such a way as to betray any woman--no matter what sort
she is. Some of the things I've done wouldn't be pleasant, either to say
or to hear; for a man who is as hopeless as I was before you came to us
is often weak enough to be perilously near being wicked. But if you wish
to be told, you have every right to. And so have I a right to an answer
to my question. No one knows better than I do that I'm not worthy of you
in any way. But you must think I am or you wouldn't marry me, and if
you're going to be my wife, you've got to help me to keep you--as sacred
to me as you are now. Shall I tell first, or will you? A church is a
wonderful place for a confession, you know, and it would be much better
to have it behind us."

"You needn't tell at all," she said, lifting her face and showing as she
did so the tears rolling down her cheeks. "_Weak_! You're as strong as
steel! If all men were like you, there wouldn't be anything for me to
tell either. But they're not. The night before I telegraphed you, an old
friend brought me home after a dinner and theatre party. We had all had
an awfully gay time, and--well, I think it was a little _too_ gay. This
man wanted to marry me long ago, and I think, perhaps, I would have
accepted him once--if he'd--had any money. But he didn't then--he's made
a lot since. He began to pay me a good deal of attention again the
instant I got back to New York, and I was glad to see him again, and--Of
course, I ought to have told him about you right off, but some way, I
didn't. I always liked him a lot, and I enjoyed--just having him round
again. I thought that if he began to show signs of--getting restive--I
could tell him I was engaged, and that would put an end to it. But he
didn't show any signs--any _preliminary_ signs, I mean, the way men
usually do. He simply--suddenly broke loose on the way home that night,
and when I refused him, he said most dreadful things to me, and--"

"Took you in his arms by force, and kissed you, in spite of yourself."
Austin finished the sentence for her speaking very quietly.

"Oh, Austin, _please_ don't look at me like that! I couldn't help it!"

"Couldn't help it! No, I suppose you struggled and fought and called him
all kinds of hard names, and then you sent for me, expecting me to go to
him and do the same. Well, I shan't do anything of the sort. I think you
were twice as much to blame as he was. And if you ever--let yourself
in for such an experience again, I'll never kiss you again--that's
perfectly certain."

"_Austin!_"

"Well, I mean it--just that. I don't know much about society, but I know
something about women. There are women who are just plain bad, and women
who are harmless enough, and attractive, in a way, but so cheap and
tawdry that they never attract very deeply or very long, and women who
are good as gold, but who haven't a particle of--allure--I don't know how
else to put it--Emily Brown's one of them. Then there are women like you,
who are fine, and pure, and--irresistibly lovely as well; who never do or
say or even think anything that is indelicate, but whom no man can look
at without--wanting--and who--consciously or unconsciously--I hope the
latter--tempt him all the time. You apparently feel free to--play with
fire--feeling sure you won't get even scorched yourself, and not caring a
rap whether any one else gets burnt; and then you're awfully surprised
and insulted and all that if the--the victim of the fire, in his first
pain, turns on you. 'Said dreadful things to you'--I should think he
would have, poor devil! Perhaps young girls don't realize; but a woman
over twenty, especially if she's been married, has only herself to blame
if a man loses his head. Were you sweet and tender and--_aloof_, just
because you were sick and disgusted and disillusioned, instead of
because that was the real _you_--are you going to prove true to your
mother's training, after all, now that you're happy and well and safe
again? If you have shown me heaven--only to prove to me that it was a
mirage--you might much better have left me in what I knew was hell!"

He left her, so abruptly that she could not tell in which direction he
had turned, nor at first believe that he had really gone. Then she knelt
for what seemed to her like hours, the knowledge of the justice of all he
had said growing clearer every minute, the grief that she had hurt him so
growing more and more intolerable, the hopelessness of asking his
forgiveness seeming greater and greater It did not occur to her to try to
find him, or to expect that he would come back--she must stay there until
she could control her tears, and then she must go home. A few women,
taking advantage of the blessed custom which keeps nearly all Anglican
and Roman churches open all day for rest, meditation, and prayer, came
in, stayed a few minutes, and left again. At eleven o'clock there was a
short service, the daily Morning Prayer, sparsely attended. Sylvia knelt
and stood, mechanically, with the other worshippers. Then suddenly, just
before the benediction was pronounced, Austin slid into the seat beside
her, and groped for her hand. Neither spoke, nor could have spoken;
indeed, there seemed no need of words between them. A very great love is
usually too powerful to brook the interference of a question of
forgiveness. The clergyman's voice rose clear and comforting over them:

"'The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the
fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all ever more. Amen.'"

"Is there a flower-shop near here?" was the perfectly commonplace
question Austin asked as they went down the church steps together into
the spring sunshine.

"Yes, just a few steps away. Why?"

"I want to buy you some violets--the biggest bunch I can get."

"Aren't you rather extravagant?"

"Not at all. The truth is, I've come into a large fortune!"

"Austin! What do you mean?"

He evaded her question, smiling, bought her an enormous bouquet, and then
suggested that if her destination was not too far away they should walk.
She dismissed the smiling Andre, and walked beside Austin in silence for
a few minutes hoping that he would explain without being asked again.

"Did you say you were going to Tiffany's to buy furniture--I thought
Tiffany's was a jewelry store, and in the opposite direction?"

"It is. I'm going to the Tiffany Studios--quite a different place.
Austin--don't tease me--do tell me what you mean?"

"Why? Surely you're not marrying me for my money!"

"Good gracious, you plague like a little boy! Please!"

"Well, a great-aunt who lived in Seattle, and whom I haven't seen in ten
years, has died and left me all her property!"

"How much?"

"Mercy, Sylvia, how mercenary you are! Enough so you won't have to buy my
cigars and shoe-strings--aren't you glad?"

"Of course, but I wish you'd stop fooling and tell me all about it."

"Well, I shan't--if I did you'd make fun of me, because it would seem so
small to you, and I want to be just as lavish and extravagant as I like
with it all the time I'm in New York--you'll have to let me 'treat' now!
And just think! I'll be able to pay my own expenses when I take that
trip to Syracuse which you seem to think is going to complete my
agricultural education. Peter's going with me, and I imagine we'll be a
cheerful couple!"

"How are things going in that quarter?"

"Rather rapidly, I imagine. I've given father one warning, and I
shan't interfere again, bless their hearts! I caught him kissing her
on the back stairs the other night, but I walked straight on and
pretended not to see."

"Thereby earning their everlasting gratitude, of course, poor babies!"

"How many years older than Edith are you?"

"Never mind, you saucy boy! Here we are--have you any suggestions you
may not care to make before the clerks as to what kind of furniture I
shall buy?"

"None at all. I want to see for myself how much sense you have in certain
directions, and if I don't like your selections, I warn you beforehand
that the offending articles will be used for kindling wood."

"Do be careful what you say. They know me here."

"Careful what _I_ say! I shall be a regular wooden image. They'll think
I'm your second cousin from Minnesota, being shown the sights."

He did, indeed, display such stony indifference, and maintain such an
expression of stolid stupidity, that Sylvia could hardly keep her face
straight, and having chosen a big sofa and a rug for her living-room, and
her dining-room table, she announced that she "would come in again" and
graciously departed.

"I have a good mind to shake you!" she said as they went down the steps.
"I had no idea you were such a good actor--we'll have to get up some
dramatics when we get home. Did you like my selections?"

"Very much, as far as they went. Where are you going now--I see that
your grinning Frenchman and upholstered palace on wheels are waiting for
you again."

"Well, I can't walk _all_ day--I'm going to Macy's to buy kitchen-ware.
You'd better do something else--I'm afraid you'll criticize my brooms and
saucepans!"

"All right, go alone. I'm going to the real Tiffany's."

"What for?"

"To squander my fortune, Pauline Pry. I'll meet you at Sherry's at
one-thirty. I suppose some kindly policeman will guide my faltering
footsteps in the right direction. Good-bye." And he closed the door of
the car in her radiant face.

They had a merry lunch an hour later, Austin ordering the meal and paying
for it with such evident pleasure that Sylvia could not help being
touched at his joy over his little legacy. Then he proposed that,
although they were a little late, they might go to a matinee, and
afterwards insisted on walking up Fifth Avenue and stopping for tea at
the Plaza.

"I've seen more beautiful cities than New York," he said, as they
sauntered along, much more slowly than most of the hurrying
throng,--"Paris, for instance--fairly alive with loveliness! But I don't
believe there's a place in the world that gives you the feeling of
_power_ that this does--especially just at this time of day, when the
lights are coming on, and all these multitudes of people going home after
their day's work or pleasure. It's tremendous--lifts you right off your
feet--do you know what I mean?"

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