CHAPTER XIV
"Are you two young idiots going out again this evening?" asked Uncle Matas the three were eating their dessert, glancing from Sylvia's low-neckedwhite gown to Austin's immaculate dress-suit.
"No. This is entirely in each other's honor. But I hope you are, for Iwant to talk to Austin."
"Good gracious! What have you been doing all day? What do you expect_me_ to do?"
"You can go to your club and have five nice long rubbers of bridge," saidSylvia mercilessly, "and when you come back, please cough in the hall."
"I want to write a few lines to my mother, after I've had a little talkwith Mr. Stevens--then I'm entirely at your disposal," said Austin, asshe lighted their cigars and rose to leave them.
"I'm glad some one wants to talk to me," murmured Uncle Mat meekly.
Sylvia hugged him and kissed the top of his head. "You dear jealous oldthing! I've got some telephoning and notes to attend to myself. Come andknock on my door when you're ready, Austin."
"You have a good deal of courage," remarked Uncle Mat, nodding inSylvia's direction as she went down the hall.
"Perhaps you think effrontery would be the better word."
"Not at all, my dear boy--you misunderstand me completely. Sylvia's thedearest thing in the world to me, and I've been worrying a good dealabout her remarriage, which I knew was bound to come sooner or later. I'mmore than satisfied and pleased at her choice--I'm relieved."
"Thank you. It's good to know you feel that way, even if I don'tdeserve it."
"You do deserve it. In speaking of courage, I meant that the poor husbandof a rich wife always has a good deal to contend with; and aside from themoney question, you're supersensitive about what you consider your lackof advantages and polish--though Heaven knows you don't need to be!" headded, glancing with satisfaction at the handsome, well-groomed figurestretched out before him. "I never saw any one pick up the veneer of goodsociety, so called, as rapidly as you have. It shows that real goodbreeding was back of it all the time."
"I guess I'd better go and write my letter," laughed Austin, "before youflatter me into having an awfully swelled head. But I want to tell youfirst--I'm not a pauper any more. I've got twenty thousand dollars of myown--an old aunt has died and left most of her will in my favor. I'vetaken capital, and paid off all our debts--except what we owe to Sylvia.She can give me that for a wedding present if she wants to. It's queerhow much less sore I am about her money now that I've got a little of myown! There are one or two things that I want to buy for her, and I wantto pay my own expenses and Peter's on a trip through western New Yorkfarms this summer. The rest I must invest as well as I can, to bring mein a little regular income. I'm sure, now that the farm and the familyare perfectly free of debt, that I can earn enough to add quite a littleto it every year. If Sylvia lost every cent she had, we could get marriedjust the same, and though she'd have to live simply and quietly, shewouldn't suffer. I thought you would help me with investments--or take meto some other man who would."
"I will, indeed--if you don't spend _all_ your time, as Sylvia fullyintends you shall, making love to her. This changes the outlookwonderfully--clears the sky for both of you! It's bad for a man to bewholly dependent on his wife, and scarcely less bad for her. But there'sanother matter--"
"Yes, sir?"
"I don't want you to think I'm meddling--or underestimating Sylvia--"
"I won't think that, no matter what you say."
"How long have you and she been in love with each other? Wasn't it prettynearly a case of 'first sight'?"
Austin flushed. "It certainly was with me," he said quietly.
"And haven't you--quarrelled from the very beginning, too?"
The boy's flush deepened. "Yes," he said, still more quietly, "we seemedto misunderstand--and antagonize each other."
"Even to-day?"--Then as Austin did not answer, "Now, tell metruthfully--whose fault is it?"
"The first time it was mine," said Austin quickly. "She made me clean upthe yard--it needed it, too!--and I was furious! And I was rude--worsethan rude--to her for a long time. But since then--"
"You needn't be afraid to say it was hers," remarked Sylvia's uncledryly. "She wants an absolutely free hand, which isn't good for her tohave--she's only twenty-two now, pretty as a picture, and stillabsolutely inexperienced about many things. She can't bear the thought ofdictation, and you're both young and self-willed and proud, and very muchin love--which makes the whole thing harder, and not easier, as I supposeyou imagine. Now, some women, even in these days, aren't fit to live withuntil--figuratively speaking--they've been beaten over the head with aclub. Sylvia's not that kind. She's not only got to respect her husband'swishes, she's got to _want_ to--and I believe you can make her want to! Ithink you're absolutely just--and unusually decent. If I didn't Ishouldn't dare say all this to you--or let you have her at all, if Icould help it. And besides being fair, you know how to expressyourself--which some poor fellows unfortunately can't do--they'reabsolutely tongue-tied. In fact, you're perfectly capable of takingthings into your own hands every way, and making a success of it--and ifyou don't before you're married, neither of you can possibly hope to behappy afterwards."
"There's one thing you're overlooking, Mr. Stevens, which I should havehad to tell you to-night, anyway."
"What is it?"
"I'm not worthy of tying up Sylvia's shoes--much less of marrying her.I've been straight as a string since she came to the farm, but beforethat--any one in Hamstead would tell you. It was town talk. I can't,knowing that, act as I would if I--didn't have that to remember. It's allvery well to say that a man--_gets through_ with all that,absolutely--I've heard them say it dozens of times! But how can he besure he is through--that the old sins won't crop up again? I love Sylviamore than--than I can possibly talk about, and I'm _afraid_--afraid thatI won't be worthy of her, and that if she gave in absolutely--that I'dabuse my position."
Uncle Mat glanced up quietly from his cigar. There were tears in theboy's eyes, his voice trembled. The older man, for a moment, feltpowerless to speak before the penitent sincerity of Austin's confession,the humility of his bared soul.
"As long as you feel that way," he said at last, a trifle huskily, "Idon't believe there's very much danger--for either of you. And rememberthis--lots of good people make mistakes, but if they're made of the rightstuff, they don't make the same mistake but once. And sometimes they gainmore than they lose from a slip-up. You certainly are made of the rightstuff. Perhaps you will go through some experience like what you'redreading, though I can't foresee what form it will take. Meanwhileremember that Sylvia's been through an awful ordeal, and be very gentlewith her, though you take the reins in your hands, as you should do. I'mthankful that she has such a bright prospect for happiness ahead of hernow--but don't forget that you have a right to be happy, too. Don't betoo grateful and too humble. She's done you some favors in the past, butshe isn't doing you one now--she never would have accepted you if shehadn't been head over heels in love with you. Now write your letter, andthen go to her. But to-morrow I want you all the morning--we must lookinto the acquaintances I spoke about, and the investments you spokeabout. Meanwhile, the best of luck--you deserve it!"
Austin smoked thoughtfully for some minutes after Uncle Mat left him, andfinally, roused from his brown study by the striking of a clock, wenthurriedly to the desk and began his letter. Before he had finished,Sylvia's patience had quite given out, and she came and stood behind him,with her arm over his shoulder as he wrote. He acknowledged the caresswith a nod and a smile, but went on writing, and did not speak until theletter was sealed and stamped.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting, dear. Now, then, what is it?"
"I've been thinking things over."
"So I supposed. Well, what have you thought, honey?"
"First, that I want you to have these. I've been going through my jewelrylately, and have had Uncle Mat sell everything except a few littletrinkets I had before I--was married, and the pe
arls he gave me then. Inmy sorting process, I came across these things that were my father's. Inever offered them to--to--any one before. But I want you to wear them,if you will."
She handed him a little worn leather box as she spoke, and on opening ithe found, besides a few pins and studs of no great value, a handsome,old-fashioned watch and a signet ring.
"Thank you very much, dear. I'll wear them with great pride and pleasure,and this will be an exchange of gifts, for I've got something for you,too--that's what my shopping was this morning."
He took her left hand in his, slipped off her wedding ring, and slidanother on her finger--a circle of beautiful diamonds sunk in a platinumband delicately chased.
"_Austin!_ How exquisite! I never had--such a lovely ring! How did youhappen to choose--just this?"
"Largely because I thought you could use it for both an engagement ringnow, and a wedding ring when we get married--which was what I wanted."And without another word, he took the discarded gold circle and threw itinto the fire. "And partly," he went on quite calmly--as if nothingunusual had happened, and as if it was an everyday occurrence to burn upladies' property without consulting them--"because I thought it wasbeautiful, and--suitable, like the little star."
"And you expect me to wear it, publicly, now?"
"I shall put it a little stronger than that--I shall insist upon yourdoing so."
She looked up in surprise, her cheeks flushing at his tone, but he wenton quietly:
"I've just written my mother, and asked her to tell the rest of thefamily, that we are engaged. They have as much right to know as youruncle. You can do as you please about telling other people, of course.But you can't wear another man's ring any longer. And it seems to me, aswe shall no longer be living in the same house, and as I shall be comingconstantly to see you after you come back to Hamstead, that it would bemuch more dignified if I could do so openly, in the role of yourprospective husband. While as far as your friends here areconcerned--after what you told me this morning--I think you must agreewith me that it is much fairer to let them know at once how things standwith you, and introduce me to them."
"I don't want to use up these few precious days giving parties. I wantyou to myself."
"I know, dear--that's what I'd prefer, in one way, too. But I have got totake some time for business, and later on your friends will feel that youwere ashamed of me--and be justified in feeling so--when they learn thatwe are to be married, and that you were not willing to have me meet themwhen I was here."
Sylvia did not answer, but sat with her eyes downcast, biting her lips,and pulling the new ring back and forth on her finger.
"That is, of course, unless you _are_ ashamed--are you perfectly sure ofyour own mind? If not, my letter isn't posted yet, and it is very easy totell your uncle that you have found you were mistaken in your feelings."
"What would you do if I should?" she asked defiantly.
"Do? Why, nothing. Tell him the same thing, of course, pack my suit-case,and start back to Hamstead as soon as I had met the men I came to see onbusiness."
"Oh, Austin, how can you talk so! I don't believe you really want me,after all!"
"Don't you?" he asked in an absolutely expressionless voice, and pushingback his chair he walked over to the window, turning his back on hercompletely.
She was beside him in an instant, promising to do whatever he wished andbegging his forgiveness. But it was so long before he answered her, oreven looked at her, that she knew that for the second time that day shehad wounded him almost beyond endurance.
"If you ever say that to me again, no power on earth will make me marryyou," he said, in a voice that was not in the least threatening, but sodecisive that there could be no doubt that he meant what he said; "andwe've got to think up some way of getting along together withoutquarrelling all the time unless you have your own way about everything,whether it's fair that you should or not. Now, tell me what you wantedto talk to me about, and we'll try to do better--those troublesomedetails you mentioned before you left the farm? Perhaps I can straightenout some of them for you, if you'll only let me."
"The first one is--money."
"I thought so. It's a rather large obstacle, I admit. But things are notgoing to be so hard to adjust in that quarter as I feared. I'll tell younow about the little legacy I mentioned this morning." And he repeatedhis conversation with Uncle Mat. "You can do what you please with yourown money, of course--take care of your own personal expenses, and runthe house, and give all the presents you like to the girls--but you can'tever give me another cent, unless you want to call the familyindebtedness to you your wedding present to me."
"You can't get everything you want on the income of ten thousanddollars--which is about all the capital you'll have left when you've paidall these first expenses you mention."
"I can have everything I _need_--with that and what I'll earn. What'syour next 'detail'?"
"I suppose I'll have to give in about the money--but will you mind, verymuch, if we have--a long engagement?"
"I certainly shall. As I told you before, I think too much has beensacrificed to convention already."
"It isn't that."
"What, then?"
"I don't know how to tell you, and still have you believe I loveyou dearly."
"You mean, that for some reason, you're not ready to marry me yet?" Andas she nodded without speaking, her eyes filling with tears, he askedvery gently, "Why not, Sylvia?"
"I'm afraid."
"Afraid--_of me?_"
"No--that is, not of you personally--but of marriage itself. I can't bearyet--the thought of facing--passion."
The hand that had been stroking her hair dropped suddenly, and she felthim draw away from her, with something almost like a groan, and put herarms around his neck, clinging to him with all her strength.
"_Don't_--I love you--and love you--and _love you_--oh, can't I make yousee? Are you very angry with me, Austin?"
"No, darling, I'm not angry at all. How could I be? But I'm justbeginning to realize--though I thought I knew before--what a perfect hellyou've been through--and wondering if I can ever make it up to you."
"Then this doesn't seem to you dreadful--to have me ask for this?"
"Not half so dreadful as it would to have you look at me as you did onChristmas night."
He began stroking her hair again, speaking reassuringly, his voice fullof sympathy.
"Don't cry, dearest--it's all right. There's nothing to worry over. It'sright that you should have your way about this--it's _my_ way, too, aslong as you feel like this. I hope you won't _too_ long--for--I love you,and want you, and--and need you so much--and--I've waited a year for youalready. But I promise never to force--or even urge--you in any way, ifyou'll promise me that when you _are_ ready--you'll tell me."
"I will," she sobbed, with her head hidden on his shoulder.
"Then that's settled, and needn't even be brought up again. Don't cry so,honey. Is there anything else?"
"Just one thing more; and in a way, it's the hardest to say of any."
"Well, tell me, anyway; perhaps I may be able to help."
"My baby," she said, speaking with great difficulty, "the poor littlething that only lived two weeks. It's buried in the same lot with--itsfather--at Greenwood. I never can go near that place again. I've paidsome one to take care of it, and Uncle Mat has promised me to see thatit's done. I think some day you and I--will have a son--more than one, Ihope--and he will _live_! But if this--this baby--could be taken awayfrom where he is now, and buried in that little cemetery, you know--Icould go sometimes, quite happily, and stay with him, and put flowers onhis little grave; and later on there could be a stone which said, merely,'Harold, infant son of Sylvia--Gray.'"
Apparently Austin forgot what he had said that morning, for long beforeshe had finished he took her in his arms; but the kisses with which hecovered her face and hair were like those he would have given to a littlechild, and there was no need of an answer this time. For a long whi
le shelay there, clinging to him and crying, until she was utterly spent withemotion, as she had been on the night when they had stayed in the wood;and at last, just as she had done then, she dropped suddenly and quietlyto sleep. Through the tears which still blinded his own eyes, Austinhalf-smiled, remembering how he had longed to kiss her as he carried herhome, rejoicing that his conscience no longer needed to stand like aniron barrier between his lips and hers. He waited until he was sure thatshe was sleeping so soundly that there would be little danger of wakingher, then lifted her, took her down the hall to her room, and laid heron the big, four-posted bed.
"That's the second time you've been to sleep in my arms, darling," hewhispered, bending over to kiss her before he left her; "the third timewill be on our wedding might--God grant that isn't very far away!"