She spoke as if it were entirely Mary Garland's fault that Rex would come there. She didn't mention the fact that they hadn't money to stop anywhere else or do any more celebrating than they had done. She didn't say that it took the last cent they had to get into the movie that Florimel had insisted upon before she came on to this that she considered an ordeal.
Mary Garland reflected that perhaps the less she said to this girl before she had a thorough understanding with Rex, the better, so she made no reply to this statement, and the conversation presently languished. But she kept her seat nearby and, not to seem utterly silent, took advantage of a lull in the conversation across the room to speak to Sylvia.
"Sylvia, tell us more about the concert tonight. I'm sure from your face that you enjoyed it."
"Oh, Mother! It was marvelous!" said Sylvia, her face lighting up in a wonderful way that caused the new sister-in-law to reverse her decision somewhat. She decided that Sylvia wasn't so shy and backward as she had thought at first. Instead, there was a loveliness about her, a marvelous quality that she didn't understand. And when Sylvia began to talk about the oratorio and discuss the skill and technique of the musicians and singers, she realized that the girl knew what she was talking about and that she was far above Florimel's head, way beyond her education or comprehension. Was this just a patter that people used to show they understood classical music, or was it real?
Then Rance Nelius was drawn into the conversation and added his impression of the soloists, and Florimel simply sat and stared.
"That's one thing I've missed at college, music," declared Paul. "You know, we scarcely ever had any concerts up in that direction that are worth hearing, except by way of radio. I always have the symphony orchestra on Saturday night, of course. But we're too far from any big city to get the best things, and it takes too long to run back home for an evening. I didn't even take my violin up with me this winter. And Rex didn't have his cello along, either. By the way, Sylvia, we must have some good times playing this holiday. I suppose Rex and I are both out of practice, but we can make a stab at it, with you at the piano."
"Oh, I've been working too hard myself in the university to do anything at practicing either, except a few minutes now and then," said Sylvia.
"Well, that settles what we'll do part of the time on Christmas Day," said Rance Nelius. "I shall be audience and shall simply clamor for music."
Florimel favored him with an angry scowl. Not if she could prevent it, he almost felt she was saying. This was the first she knew about Rex playing the cello. She turned that glare at him. Cello! Sissy instrument, wasn't it? No music for a man, an athlete! Well, she'd see that he soon got over that!
But now suddenly Rance realized that it was getting late and took his leave. Paul and Rex immediately followed him to the front door and stepped outside to bring in Rex's baggage, but they didn't come back at once. They stayed for last words. Mary Garland excused herself to go to the kitchen a moment and see if Selma understood about breakfast. Stan strolled outside to be "with the men," and the atmosphere of silence grew tense.
Sylvia unpinned her flowers and released their stems from the confining wires.
"Fae, dear, will you go and get the cut-glass celery dish with some water in it for my flowers?" she said.
"Sure!" said Fae, glad to get away for a moment, and was back again with the dish and a pitcher of water.
Sylvia arranged her flowers and then turned brightly toward her new sister-in-law.
"Don't you want to take your hat off, and your jacket? It's pretty warm in this room."
"No!" said Florimel shortly. "Why on earth don't they come in? What do they find to talk about, anyway?"
She got up and stalked over to the window, but the shades were down, and when she snapped one up to the top of the window, she couldn't see the young men very well, as they were standing at the other side of the front door.
"Oh, heck!" she said furiously and flounced over to Sylvia. "Where's my room? I can't stand around here waiting for Rex any longer!"
"Why, of course," said Sylvia brightly. "I'll take you right upstairs. You must be very tired, of course."
But the visitor said nothing until they had reached the top of the stairs, and then she spoke as to an inferior: "I wish you'd get me a glass of wine, or brandy or something. I don't feel very well!"
Sylvia stared at her an instant, and then she said, "I'm sorry you don't feel well, but I can't get you anything like that. We haven't any in the house. I could get you some aromatic ammonia. Mother always uses that in place of liquor when people feel faint."
"Aromatic ammonia!" sneered the bride. "Oh, heck! Gosh! What are you, anyway? A bunch of lilies?"
Sylvia looked at her aghast for an instant, and then with a kind of dignity that Florimel didn't understand, Sylvia said, "I'm sorry!" And turning, she went downstairs, leaving Florimel standing in the doorway to a big, beautiful guest room, a more beautiful room, perhaps, than Florimel had ever entered before.
Rex was on his way upstairs with his bags and suitcases, and Florimel's heavy coat with its silver fox collar dragging behind him. He gave his sister a shy, wistful, half-apologetic smile, as if he would plead with her not to judge him too harshly, and kept on up the stairs.
It keenly reminded Sylvia of the day in their very early youth. Their mother had made a rule that if they left their things around out of place, they would be carried up to the back attic, a sort of lumber room over the kitchen, which was approached by steep stairs and was dark and dusty. It was a hard jaunt up there to find lost articles. One day she, a little girl, only a year older than Rex, had come down the hall and had seen Rex ascending those back attic stairs. He had given her a quick, furtive look, and she had lingered about. He came down a few minutes later with perspiration dropping from his brow, carrying his ball, his bat, his cap, and a handful of his handkerchiefs crumpled in his hands, grinning shamefully. Sylvia, being nearest in age, had been Rex's confidante in times of stress, and his eyes had a trick of telling her the truth and knowing that she would sympathize.
As he went upstairs now, he gave her one of those pleading, understanding looks. Could it be that Rex was a little ashamed of what he had done?
They had all long ago been broken of their habit of leaving their possessions about. But could it be that there were still deep-seated faults that Rex must be disciplined for? Oh, must he suffer for having left his emotions about? Poor Rex! So generous and warmhearted! So impulsive and eager! Oh, to see Rex chained to that creature upstairs was going to be rare and exquisite torture for Mother and them all to endure! How was it going to be bearable? She seemed to be worse than even their most dreaded fears. Poor Mother! How terrible it was going to be for her! And yet how royally she had entered into the punishment!
Should she tell her mother what Florimel had just said?
No! Not at present, anyway. She would see enough herself. Why give her more to worry about?
So in due time the household settled to quiet, though few of them to real rest, perhaps, except that given to them from above.
Chapter 10
There were crisp brown hot sausages and buckwheat cakes with maple syrup for breakfast; fried potatoes, too, with brown edges and tasty dashes of pepper, just the way they all liked them. Applesauce, amber coffee, and a great pitcher of milk for those who preferred it. A real old-fashioned breakfast. Just the thing for a cold winter morning on the day before Christmas.
Mary Garland had ordered the hour to be a little later than usual, because they had all been up late the night before, and she wanted the air of good cheer to prevail. It was going to be a hard day, of course, both for the family and for the new member of it who seemed to have entered with such a belligerent spirit.
"You'd think we were the ones who were forcing ourselves in where we have no right to be, instead of the bride," remarked Paul, as they waited around at the door of the dining room for Rex and Florimel to appear. But he said it in a low tone with a comical
grin. He had no intention of making any more trouble than they had already.
"Perhaps she thinks we ought to hand over Rex root and branch to her and keep out of their affairs," suggested Sylvia with a wry smile.
"There, now, children!" said Mary Garland. "Don't foster such thoughts."
Then they heard Rex open the door upstairs and come out and shut it with a slam. Paul gave a glance up and saw he was coming alone.
"Aha!" said Paul comically in a whisper to Sylvia. "The bride is not going to favor us with her presence!"
"Hush up!" said the sister. "You don't want to hurt Rex's feelings."
"Don't I?" growled Paul. "Well, mebbe not, but that's not saying he doesn't deserve it!"
Mary Garland was at the foot of the stairs now, looking up toward her son, as Rex came slowly down, his brows in a heavy frown, a haunted, terribly worried, half-frightened look upon him.
Mary Garland's eyes searched her son's keenly. She didn't ask the question "Where is your wife?" but her eyes demanded kindly to understand her absence.
"Florimel doesn't want to come down," he said haltingly. "I guess she's pretty well all in."
"Yes?" said his mother. "That's too bad. Could I do anything for her? Does she want a doctor?"
"Oh my, no!" said Rex in alarm. "She'll be all right. She just wants to lie still awhile. I just thought I'd take her up a cup of coffee, if you don't mind."
"Why, of course!" she said. "Sylvia, go and get a tray with some breakfast for Rex to take up."
"Just coffee would do, I guess," said Rex with a worried look.
"You fix a nice tray, Sylvia."
Sylvia vanished and was back in an astonishingly short time with a well-laden tray. They all felt deep and humble relief that the stranger was not coming down to breakfast. Rex, too, looked relieved.
He took the tray and hurried up the stairs, calling back, "I'll be right with you!"
So they all sat down at once, to make him feel more at his ease, and he was soon back. Luckily, the walls of the old house were thick, and they could not hear the words that passed between Rex and Florimel when she heard he was leaving her to eat her breakfast by herself.
"You think you have to dance attendance on the whole crew of them, don't you? You're terribly afraid of them, aren't you?" were the final words, fairly shrieked in Florimel's most carrying tones, after Rex had opened the hall door to go back to breakfast. But he shut it quickly behind him and hurried down the stairs, thereby gaining the admiration of his older sister, who had been reckoning that he would stay upstairs with his bride.
Rex took his old seat at the table with an air of relaxing, and one of his old-time smiles beamed out on his lips.
"I'll say, this breakfast smells good!" he declared, accepting his plate from his mother. "Buckwheat cakes! That's great! We don't have anything like that at college! And Selma's fried potatoes! Oh boy!"
He applied himself to his breakfast, and his mother noted with tender concern that his old boyish attitude was upon him for the moment. Poor boy! How he had messed up his life with a girl who didn't know how to help him and wouldn't have been so inclined if she had known how!
As they rose from the table at last, she said in a low tone to Rex, "I suppose Florimel won't feel like going to church this morning, will she?"
"Church?" said Rex, and his face grew suddenly blank. "Oh, church! Why, I forgot it was Sunday. There'll be church, of course. No, Mother, I don't believe she'd want to go this morning. Of course, I forgot to say anything about it, but I'm quite sure she wouldn't want to go today!"
"Well then, Rex, after the rest are gone, I would like to have a little talk with you. Perhaps you'll come down in the living room. We can shut the dining room door, and there'll be no one about to disturb us."
"Okay, Mother! I'll be down!"
Rex departed half reluctantly, his mother thought, and presently came down with an empty tray. Florimel had devoured every crumb! Unless she had flung them out the window. Fae stole over and looked out on the lawn below the guest room window, but the snow was too deep to tell any tales.
Rex did not go back upstairs immediately. He lingered with the others, half shyly, as if he were not quite sure of his standing with them. And when they gathered around Sylvia at the piano and began to sing, he joined the circle and let his voice blend with the others as they sang:
"This is the day the Lord hath made;
He calls the hours His own;
Let Heav'n rejoice, let earth be glad,
And praise surround the throne."
They sang the verses through. They did not need a book. They knew the hymnbook from cover to cover. It had been a part of their daily life while they were growing up, and their voices drifted in beautiful harmony up to the guest room above. Rex was singing as hard as any of them and was thrilled with the thought of being back among them all again. It did not occur to him to wonder what his angry wife would be thinking of it all. It might later, but not at once.
Then Sylvia's fingers drifted into another song, and they followed:
"Safely through another week God has brought us on our way;
Let us now a blessing seek, on th'approaching Sabbath day."
As the last note died away, Mary Garland spoke.
"Fae has been learning some verses this morning. Repeat them now, dear, will you?"
Fae looked up surprised, a shy flush coming over her face, but she began to recite the Christmas story from Luke till she came to the verse:
"And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen."
"That's as far as I've learned, Mother," she said.
"All right," said Mary Garland with a smile, "that's far enough for now. That's lesson enough for today. Now, Paul, will you pray?"
Paul looked up, startled. She hadn't prepared him for this. But if she had, he might have felt more embarrassed. This hadn't been a habit of the family, not since their father died. What would Rex think of it?
But Paul's face grew grave and humble, and at once he knelt there beside the piano where he had been standing and began to pray. All of them followed his lead, Sylvia slipping down from the piano stool and bowing her head.
It wasn't a long prayer, just a bit of rejoicing that they were all together again after the separation, just a humble confession of sin, asking for blessing, pleading that they might so live to help one another to serve their Lord better.
When they rose, even Rex's lashes were wet, and there was a subdued expression on his face. No one had rebuked him, but he felt rebuked, perhaps by the Lord, rebuked with tenderness.
Sylvia slipped to the stool again and touched the keys, and again a song came back through the years from old habit to their lips:
"My God, is any hour so sweet
From blush of morn to evening star,
As that which calls me to Thy feet--
The hour of prayer?
Then is my strength by Thee renewed;
Then are my sins by Thee forgiv'n;
Then dost Thou cheer my solitude
With hopes of Heav'n."
And when they had finished the hymn, Mary Garland looked at the clock.
"It's time you went to church, children," she said in the old sweet tone, with the old phrase she had used through the years. And while they hadn't all contemplated going to church perhaps, they turned with a smile and went to get ready.
Rex, greatly stirred, went upstairs. He went to his own room first and locked the door.
Presently when he came out, he went gravely into the guest room where his wife lay staring unhappily at the wide white distant landscape. She was not one who was fond of pastoral scenes, either in summer or winter, and her thoughts were only plotting what she might do to get herself out of this place as quickly as possible without offending her young husband beyond reparation. Already he had hardened beyond her faintest expectation. Already he had answered her coldly and criticized severely the way she had behaved
the night before. But she didn't intend to let him think he could tell her what to do. She would show him who was the ruler in this pair. Not for nothing had she married him. She had planned that he was young enough for her to train her own way, and she didn't intend to weaken now at this stage of the game. Now was the time to conquer. Now while he was among this precious family of his. Let him find out, and they, too, that she was boss now. They were done! They needn't think they could control him any longer.
So now when he came into the room, she lay with cold, hard eyes staring off into the landscape that, though it was lovely, she did not see.
"Well," she said in anything but the honeyed tones with which she had at first won his interest, "where have you been? Did it take all this time to take a tray downstairs? And by the way, why did you have to carry it up? Are there no servants in this house? It seems rather insulting of them to ask you to wait on me."
And when he did not answer, just stood there leaning against the door sadly contemplating her, perhaps wondering why he had ever thought her lovely, she burst out upon him in contempt.
"What on earth has been going on downstairs, anyway?" she asked, her face expressing scorn. "Of all the holy howlings I ever heard, that was the limit. Sob stuff, I call it! What is this, anyway? A camp meeting revival or a funeral, I'd like to know? I suppose your mother thinks she'll convert me or something, and that stuffed shirt of a brother of yours is about as bad. If you get like that, I'll get a divorce mighty quick, I can tell you!"
"Florimel!"
"Yes, Rex! I'm right here listening, and I mean it! I never could bear pious youths. That other man that was here last night was just as bad, if not worse!"
"Florimel, don't talk that way! You're not yourself!"
"Oh, yeah? A lot you know what myself is! And if I had ever thought you would turn pious on me, I certainly wouldn't have come off here with you!"