The Old Gray Homestead Part 20

For a moment she struggled vainly. Austin's arms tightened about her like bands of steel. She gave a little sigh, and lifted her face again.

"I can't seem to--kiss back any more," she whispered, "but if this is what you want--if it will make up to you for these last weeks--it doesn't matter whether you hurt or not."

Every particle of resistance had left her. Austin had wished for an unconditional surrender, and he had certainly attained it. There could never again be any question of which should rule. She had come and laid her sweet, proud, rebellious spirit at his very feet, begging his forgiveness that it had not sooner recognized its master. A wonderful surge of triumph at his victory swept over him--and then, suddenly--he was sick and cold with shame and contrition. He released her, so abruptly that she staggered, catching hold of a chair to steady herself, and raising one small clenched hand to her lips, as if to press away their smarting. As she did so, he saw a deep red mark on her bare white arm. He winced, as if he had been struck, at the gesture and what it disclosed, but it needed neither to show him that she was bruised and hurt from the violence of his embrace; and dreadful as he instantly realized this to be, it seemed to matter very little if he could only learn that she was not hurt beyond all healing by divining the desire and intention which for one sacrilegious moment had almost mastered him.

A gauzy scarf which she had carried when she entered the room had fallen to the floor. He stooped and picked it up, and stood looking at it, running it through his hands, his head bent. It was white and sheer, a mere gossamer--he must have stepped on it, for in one place it was torn, in another slightly soiled. Sylvia, watching him, holding her breath, could see the muscles of his white face growing tenser and tenser around his set mouth, and still he did not glance at her or speak to her. At last he unfolded it to its full size, and wrapped it about her, his eyes giving her the smile which his lips could not.

"Nothing matters to me in the whole world either--except you," he said brokenly. "I think these last few--dreadful days--have shown us both how much we need each other, and that the memory of them will keep us closer together all our lives. If there's any question of forgiveness between us, it's all on my side now, not yours, and I don't think I can--talk about it now. But I'll never forget how you came to me to-night, and, please G.o.d, some day I'll be more worthy of--of your love and--and your _trust_ than I've shown myself now. Until I am--" He stopped, and, lifting her arm, kissed the bruise which his own roughness had made there. "What can I do--to make that better?" he managed to say.

"It didn't hurt--much--before--and it's all healed--now," she said, smiling up at him; "didn't your mother ever 'kiss the place to make it well' when you were a little boy, and didn't it always work like a charm?

It won't show at all, either, under my glove."

"Your glove?" he asked stupidly; and then, suddenly remembering what he had entirely forgotten--"Oh--we were going to a ball together. You came to tell me you would, after all. But surely you won't want to now--"

"Why not? We can take the motor--we won't be so very late--the others went in the carryall, you know."

He drew a long breath, and looked away from her. "All right," he said at last. "Go downstairs and get your cloak, if you left it there. I'll be with you in a minute."

She obeyed, without a word, but waited so long that she grew alarmed, and finally, unable to endure her anxiety any longer, she went back upstairs.

Austin's door was open into the hall, but it was dark in his room, and, genuinely frightened, she groped her way towards the electric switch. In doing so she stumbled against the bed, and her hand fell on Austin's shoulder. He was kneeling there, his whole body shaking, his head buried in his arms. Instantly she was on her knees beside him.

"My darling boy, what is it? Austin, _don't_! You'll break my heart."

"The marvel is--if I haven't--just now. I told your uncle that I was afraid I would some time--that I knew I hadn't any right to you. But I didn't think--that even I was bad enough--to fail you--like _this_--"

"You _haven't_ failed me--you _have_ a right to me--I never loved you so much in all my life--" she hurried on, almost incoherently, searching for words of comfort. "Dearest--will it make you feel any better--if I say I'll marry you--right away?"

"What do you mean? When?"

"To-night, if you like. Oh, Austin, I love you so that it doesn't matter a bit--whether I'm afraid or not. The only thing that really counts--is to have you happy! And since I've realized that--I find that I'm not afraid of anything in the whole world--and that I want to belong to you as much--and as soon--as you can possibly want to have me!"

It was many months before Hamstead stopped talking about the "Graduation Ball of that year." It surpa.s.sed, to an almost extraordinary degree, any that had ever been held there. But the event upon which the village best loved to dwell was the entrance of Sylvia Cary, the loveliest vision it had ever beheld, on Austin Gray's arm, when all the other guests were already there, and everyone had despaired of their coming. Following the unwritten law in country places, which decrees that all persons engaged, married, or "keeping company," must have their "first dance" together, she gave that to Austin. Then Thomas and James, Frank and Fred, Peter, and even Mr. Gray and Mr. Elliott, all claimed their turn, and by that time Austin was waiting impatiently again. But country parties are long, and before the night was over, all the men and boys, who had been watching her in church, and bowing when they met her in the road, and seizing every possible chance to speak to her when they went to the Homestead on errands--or excuses for errands--had demanded and been given a dance. She was lighter than thistledown--indeed, there were moments when she seemed scarcely a woman at all, but a mere essence of fragile beauty and sweetness and graciousness. It had been generally conceded beforehand that the honors of the ball would all go to Edith, but even Edith herself admitted that she took a second place, and that she was glad to take it.

Dawn was turning the quiet valley and distant mountains into a riotous rosy glory, when, as they drove slowly up to her house, Austin gently raised the gossamer scarf which had blown over Sylvia's face, half-hiding it from him. She looked up with a smile to answer his.

"Are you very tired, dear?"

"Not at all--just too happy to talk much, that's all."

"Sylvia--"

"Yes, darling--"

"You know I have planned to start West with Peter three days after Sally's wedding--"

"Yes--"

"Would you rather I didn't go?"

"No; I'm glad you're going--I mean, I'm glad you have decided to keep to your plan."

"What makes you think I have?"

"Because, being you, you couldn't do otherwise."

"But when I come back--"

Her fingers tightened in his.

"I want two months all alone with you in this little house," he whispered. "Send the servants away--it won't be very hard to do the work--for just us two--I'll help. That's--that's--_marriage_--a big wedding and a public honeymoon--and--all that go with them--are just a cheap imitation--of the real thing. Then, later on, if you like, this first winter, we'll go away together--to Spain or Italy or the South of France--or wherever you wish--but first--we'll begin together here. Will you marry me--the first of September, Sylvia?"

Austin drove home in the broad daylight of four o'clock on a June morning. Then, after the motor was put away, he took his working clothes over his arm, went to the river, and plunged in. When he came back, with damp hair, cool skin, and a heart singing with peace and joy, he found Peter, whistling, starting towards the barn with his milk-pail over his arm. It was the beginning of a new day.

CHAPTER XVII

"I, Sarah, take thee, Frederick, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to G.o.d's holy ordinance. And thereto I give thee my troth."

The old clock in the corner was ticking very distinctly; the scent of roses in the crowded room made the air heavy with sweetness; the candles on the mantelpiece flickered in the breeze from the open window; outside a whip-poor-will was singing in the lilac bushes.

"With this ring I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

An involuntary tear rolled down Mrs. Gray's cheek, to be hastily concealed and wiped away with her new lace handkerchief; her husband was looking straight ahead of him, very hard, at nothing; Ruth adjusted the big white bow on little Elsie's curls; Sylvia felt for Austin's hand behind the folds of her dress, and found it groping for hers.

Then suddenly the spell was broken. The minister was shaking hands with the bride and groom, Sally was taking her bouquet from Molly, every one was laughing and talking at once, crowding up to offer congratulations, handling, admiring, and discussing the wedding presents, half-falling over each other with haste and excitement. Delicious smells began to issue from the kitchen, and the long dining-table was quickly laden down.

Sylvia took her place at one end, behind the coffee-urn, Molly at the other end, behind the strawberries and ice-cream. Katherine, Edith, and the boys flew around pa.s.sing plates, cakes of all kinds, great sugared doughnuts and fat cookies. Sally was borne into the room triumphant on a "chair" made of her brothers' arms to cut and distribute the "bride's cake." Then, when every one had eaten as much as was humanly possible, the piano was moved out to the great new barn, with its fine concrete floors swept and scoured as only Peter could do it, and its every stall festooned with white crepe paper by Sylvia, and the dancing began--for this time the crowd was too great to permit it in the house, in spite of the s.p.a.cious rooms. Molly and Sylvia took turns in playing, and each found several eager partners waiting for her, every time the "s.h.i.+ft"

occurred. Finally, about midnight, the bride went upstairs to change her dress, and the girls gathered around the banisters to be ready to catch the bouquet when she came down, laughing and teasing each other while they waited. Great shouts arose, and much joking began, when Edith--and not Sylvia as every one had privately hoped--caught the huge bunch of flowers and ribbon, and ran with it in her arms out on the wide piazza, all the others behind her, to be ready to pelt Sally and Fred with rice when they appeared. Thomas was to drive them to the station, and Sylvia's motor was bedecked with white garlands and bows, slippers and bells, from one end of it to the other. At last the rush came; and the happy victims, showered and dishevelled, waving their handkerchiefs and shouting good-bye, were whisked up the hill, and out of sight.

Sylvia insisted on staying, to begin "straightening out the worst of the mess" as soon as the last guest had gone, and on remaining overnight, sleeping in Sally's old room with Molly, to be on hand and go on with the good work the first thing in the morning. Sadie and James had to leave on the afternoon train, as James had stretched his leave of absence from business to the very last degree already; so by evening the house was painfully tidy again, and so quiet that Mrs. Gray declared it "gave her the blues just to listen to it."

The next night was to be Austin's last one at home, and he had promised Sylvia to go and take supper with her, but just before six o'clock the telephone rang, and she knew that something had happened to disappoint her.

"Is that you, Sylvia?"

"Yes, dear."

"Mr. Carter--the President of the Wallacetown Bank, you know--has just called me up. There's going to be a meeting of the bank officers just after the fourth, as they've decided to enlarge their board of directors, and add at least one 'rising young farmer' as he put it--And oh, Sylvia, he asked if I would allow my name to be proposed! Just think--after all the years when we couldn't get a _cent_ from them at any rate of interest, to have that come! It's every bit due to you!"

"It isn't either--it's due to the splendid work you've done this last year."

"Well, we won't stop to discuss that now. He wants me to drive up and see him about it right away. Do you mind if I take the motor? I can make so much better time, and get back to you so much more quickly--but I can't come to supper--you must forgive me if I go."

"I never should forgive you if you didn't--that's wonderful news! Don't hurry--I'll be glad to see you whatever time you get back."