Master of the Vineyard Part 55

"No," echoed Rosemary.

"No unusual excitement of any sort? Or no bad news?"

"Not that I know of," Matilda replied, calmly.

"Nothing unusual," Rosemary a.s.sured him.

"Extraordinary!" he murmured. "I'll be in again this afternoon."

When he had gone, Aunt Matilda turned anxiously to Rosemary. "Do you think we did right? Shouldn't we have told him?"

"I don't know what difference it could make," Rosemary replied, thoughtfully. "I'd hate to have anybody know what she's done. Maybe it's my fault," she went on, sadly. "Perhaps I shouldn't have told her."

"Don't go to blaming yourself, Rosemary. I don't know why you shouldn't have told her. If I'd been you, I'd have told her long ago--or had you just found it out?"

[Sidenote: Unable to Speak]

"I've known for quite a while. I don't think I'd have said anything, though, if I wasn't going to be married. It didn't seem as if I could be married in brown gingham when father meant for me to have everything I wanted and the money was there."

"Don't worry about it for a minute," said Aunt Matilda, kindly. "You've done just right and you ain't to blame for what's happened. It's her own fault."

Rosemary prepared a breakfast tray and Matilda took it up. "It's better for you to stay away, Rosemary," she said, "for we don't want her to get excited." When she returned, she reported that the old lady had, with evident difficulty, eaten a little oatmeal and choked down a cup of coffee. She was calmer, but unable to speak.

The unaccustomed silence of the house affected them both strangely.

Grandmother might be up-stairs and helpless but the powerful impress of her personality still lingered in the rooms below. Her red-and-black plaid shawl, hanging from the back of her chair, conveyed a subtle restraint; the chair itself seemed as though she had just left it and was likely to return to it at any moment.

When the doctor came again, in the afternoon, Matilda went up-stairs with him, while Rosemary waited anxiously in the dining-room. It seemed a long time until they came back and held a brief whispered conference at the front door. When he finally went out, Matilda came into the dining-room, literally tense with excitement.

[Sidenote: The Doctor's Word]

"He says," she began, sinking into a chair, "that he don't know. I like it in him myself, for a doctor that'll admit he don't know, when he don't, instead of leavin' you to find out by painful experience, is not only scarce, but he's to be trusted when you come across him.

"He says she may get better and she may not--that in a little while she may be up and movin' around and talkin' again about the same as she always did, and again, she may stay just like she is, or get worse. He said he'd do what he could, but he couldn't promise anything--that only time would tell.

"If she stays like this, she's got to be took care of just the same as if she was a baby--fed and turned over and bathed,--and if she gets better she can help herself some. Seems funny, don't it? Yesterday she was rampagin' around and layin' down the law to you, and to-day she can't say yes or no."

"She said yesterday," Rosemary returned, "that she'd never speak to me again as long as she lived. I wonder if it's true!"

"I wonder!" echoed Matilda. "I'd forgotten that."

[Sidenote: The Way of Sacrifice]

"I hadn't," said the girl, with a grim smile.

"Seems almost as if it might be a judgment on her," Matilda observed, after a pause. "She said she'd never speak to you again and she may never speak to anybody any more. And I've got to take care of her.

That's the trouble with judgments--they never hit just the person they were meant to hit. We're all so mixed up that somebody else has to be dragged into it."

Plainly before Rosemary there opened the way of sacrifice and denial.

For a moment she hesitated, then offered up her joy on the altar of duty.

"I won't be married, Aunt Matilda," she said, bravely, though her mouth quivered. "I'll stay and help you."

"What?"

"I said I wouldn't be married. I'll--I'll tell Alden I can't. I'll stay and help you."

"You won't. I won't have you speak of such a thing, let alone doing it."

"You can't help it, if I make up my mind."

"Yes, I can. I'll go and see Mrs. Marsh, and him, and the minister, and the doctor, and everybody. I'll tell 'em all everything. You go right on ahead with your gettin' married. I ain't goin' to have your life spoiled the way mine has been. You're young yet and you've got a right to it."

[Sidenote: Matilda's Burden]

"But--but, Aunt Matilda!"

"Aunt Matilda nothin'! What could you do, anyhow? She don't want you anywheres near her, and the doctor said she mustn't be excited."

"I could do what I've always done--cooking and cleaning and was.h.i.+ng and ironing, and I could carry things up-stairs for you."

"Maybe you could, Rosemary, but you ain't goin' to. You've served out your time. Don't you worry about me--I ain't goin' to kill myself."

"I--I wish you'd let me," Rosemary stammered.

"Well, I won't, and that's the end of it. I'll get along someways. The minister used to say that when G.o.d gave any of us a burden we couldn't carry by ourselves, He'd always send help, so, if I need help, I'll have it.

"I'll enjoy myself, too, in a way," she went on, after a little. "It's goin' to seem awful peaceful to have the house quiet, with no talkin'

nor argument goin' on in it. Sometimes I've thought that if I could get out of the sound of the human voice for a spell I wouldn't feel so ugly.

It's wore on me considerable--never bein' alone except nights or when I went up-stairs afternoons and pretended to take a nap. Lots of times I wasn't lyin' down at all--I was just settin' there, with the door locked, thinkin' how nice and quiet it was. Ma'll get a good rest, too, while she ain't talkin', though it ain't for me to say she's needed it."

[Sidenote: The Wedding Dawn]

"So," she continued, clearing her throat, "you go right on ahead with your marrying."

Rosemary bent and kissed the hollow, withered cheek. "I will," she said.

"Oh, dear Aunt Matilda! I wish you hadn't missed it all!"

The older woman's steel blue eyes softened, then filled. "Maybe I've missed it and maybe I ain't," she said, huskily. "Maybe this life is only a discipline to fit us for somethin' better that's comin'. Anyway, if we keep on goin' and doin' the best we can as we go, I believe G.o.d will make it right for us later on."

The morning of Rosemary's wedding dawned clear and cool. It was Autumn and yet the sweetness of Summer still lingered in the air. Scarlet banners trailed upon the maples and golden leaves rained from the birches, s.h.i.+mmering as they fell. Amethystine haze lay upon the valley, shot through with silver gleams from the river that murmured toward the sea with the sound of far waters asleep.

Purple lights laid enchantment upon the distant hills, where the Tapestry-Maker had stored her threads--great skeins of crimson and golden green, russet and flaming orange, to be woven into the warp and woof of September by some magic of starlight and dawn. Lost rainbows and forgotten sunsets had mysteriously come back, to lie for a moment upon hill or river, and then to disappear.

[Sidenote: Making Ready]

Noon had been chosen for the ceremony, in the little church at the foot of the Hill of the Muses, for, as Alden had said, with a laugh, "even though it was private, it might as well be fas.h.i.+onable." Aunt Matilda was up at dawn, putting new lace into the neck and sleeves of her best brown alpaca, as tremulous and anxious as though she herself were to be the bride.