CHAPTER XX
"Well, I declare it's so sudden like, I should think your breath would betook away."
Mrs. Gray smiled at Mrs. Elliott, and went on with her sewing, rockingback and forth placidly in her favorite chair. If the latter had been awoman who talked less and observed more, she would have noticed how drawnand furrowed her old friend's rosy, peaceful face had grown, how muchrepression there was about the lips which smiled so bravely. But thesedetails escaped her.
"'Course it does look that way to an outsider," said Mrs. Gray, slowly,as if rehearsing a part which had been carefully taught her, "but whenyou come to know the facts, it ain't so strange, after all."
"Would you feel to tell them?" asked Mrs. Elliott eagerly.
"Why, sure. Edith an' Peter's been sort of engaged this long time back,but they was so young we urged 'em to wait. Then Peter's father wrotesayin' he was so poorly, he wished Peter could fix it so's to come home,through the cold weather, an' Edith took on terrible at bein' separatedfrom him, an' Peter declared he wouldn't leave without her; an'then--well, Sylvia sided with 'em, an' that settled it."
Mrs. Elliott nodded. "You'd never think that little soft-lookin'creature could be so set an' determined, now, would you?" she asked. "Inever see any one to beat her. An' mum! She shuts her mouth tighter'n asteel trap!"
"If any family ever had a livin' blessin' showered on 'em right out ofheaven," said Mrs. Gray, "we did, the day Sylvia come here. Funny,Austin's the only one of us can see's she's got a single fault. He saysshe's got lots of 'em, just like any other woman--but I bet he'd cut thetongue out of any one else who said so. Seems as if I couldn't wait forthe third of September to come so's she'll really be my daughter, thoughI haven't got one that seems any dearer to me, even now."
"Speakin' of weddin's," said Mrs. Elliott, "why didn't you have a regularone for Edith, same as for Sally?"
"Land! I can't spend my whole time workin' up weddin's! Seems like theywas some kind of contagious disease in this family. James was marriedonly last December, an' even if we wasn't to that, we got all het up overit just the same. An' now we've hardly got our breath since Sally's, an'Austin's is starin' us in the face! I couldn't see my way clear tohouse-cleanin' this whole great ark in dog-days for nobody, an' Edithan' Peter's got to leave the very day after Sylvia 'n Austin get married.Peter was hangin' round outside Edith's door the whole blessed time,after her fall--"
"Strange she should be so sick, just from a fall, ain't it?"
"Yes, 't is, but the doctor says they're often more serious than you'dthink for. Well, as I was sayin', Sylvia come out of Edith's room an'found Peter settin' on the top of the stairs for the third time that day,an' she flared right up, an' says, 'For Heaven's sake, why don't you getmarried right off--now--to-day--then you can go in an' out as you like!'And before we half knew what she was up to she had telephoned the newminister. Austin said he wished she'd shown more of that haste aboutgettin' married herself, an' she answered him right back, if she'd beenlucky enough to get as good a feller as Peter, maybe she might have. It'sreal fun to hear 'em tease each other. Sylvia likes the new minister. Shesays the best thing about the Methodist Church that she knows of is theway it shifts its pastors around--nothin' like variety, she says--an' anew one once in three years keeps things hummin'. She says as long as somany Methodists don't believe in cards an' dancin' an' such, they deserveto have a little fun some way, an'--"
"You was talkin' about Edith," interrupted Mrs. Elliott, rather tartly,"you've got kinder switched off."
"Excuse me, Eliza--so I have. Well, Sylvia got Edith up onto the couch(the doctor had said she might get up for a little while that day,anyhow) an' give her one of her prettiest wrappers--"
"What color? White?"
"No, Sylvia thought she was too pale. It was a lovely yellow, like thedress she wore to the Graduation Ball. We all scurried 'round an' changedour clothes--Austin's the most stunnin'-lookin' thing in that whiteflannel suit of his, Sylvia wants he should wear it to his own weddin','stead of a dress-suit--an' I wore my gray--Well, it was all over beforeyou could say 'Jack Robinson' an' I never sweat a drop gettin' ready forit, either! I shall miss Edith somethin' terrible this winter, but she'llhave an elegant trip, same as she's always wanted to, an' Peter says heknows his parents'll be tickled to death to have such a prettydaughter-in-law!"
"Don't you feel disappointed any," Mrs. Elliott could not help asking,"to have a feller like Peter in the family?"
Mrs. Gray bit her thread. "I don't know what you got against Peter," shesaid; "I look to like him the best of my son-in-laws, so far."
But that evening, as she sat with her husband beside the oldreading-lamp which all the electricity that Sylvia had installed had notcaused them to give up, her courage deserted her. Howard, sensing thatsomething was wrong, looked up from "Hoard's Dairyman," which he waseagerly devouring, to see that the _Wallacetown Bugle_ had slipped to herknees, and that she sat staring straight ahead of her, the tears rollingdown her cheeks.
"Why, Mary," he said in amazement--"Mary--"
The old-fashioned New Englander is as unemotional as he isundemonstrative. For a moment Howard, always slow of speech and action,was too nonplussed to know what to do, deeply sorry as he felt for hiswife. Then he leaned over and patted her hand--the hand that was scarcelyless rough and scarred than his own--with his big calloused one.
"You must stop grieving over Edith," he said gently, "and blamingyourself for what's happened. You've been a wonderful mother--therearen't many like you in the world. Think how well the other sevenchildren are coming along, instead of how the eighth slipped up.Think how blessed we've been never to lose a single one of them bydeath. Think--"
"I do think, Howard." Mrs. Gray pressed his hand in return, smilingbravely through her tears. "I'm an old fool to give way like this, an' aworse one to let you catch me at it. But it ain't wholly Edith I'mcryin' about. Land, every time I start to curse the devil for JackWeston, I get interrupted because I have to stop an' thank the Lord forPeter. An' all the angels in heaven together singin' Halleluia led byGabriel for choir-master, couldn't half express my feelin's for Sylvia! Iguess 'twould always be that way if we'd stop to think. Our blessin's isso much thicker than our troubles, that the troubles don't show up nomore than a little yellow mustard growin' up in a fine piece ofoats--unless we're bound to look at the mustard instead of the oats. Asit happens, I wasn't thinkin' of Edith at all at that moment, or reallygrievin' either. It was just--"
"Yes?" asked Howard.
"This room," said Mrs. Gray, gulping a little, "is about the only one inthe house that ain't changed a mite. The others are improved somethin'wonderful, but I'm kinder glad we've kept this just as it was. There'sthe braided rugs on the floor that I made when you was courtin' me,Howard, an' we used to set out on the doorstep together. An' the fringedtidies over the chairs an' sofa that Eliza give me for a weddin'present--they're faded considerable, but that good red wool never wearsout. There's the crayon portraits we had done when we was on ourhoneymoon, an' the ones of James an' Sally when they was babies. Do youremember how I took it to heart because we couldn't scrape together themoney no way to get one of Austin when he come along? He was theprettiest baby we ever had, too, except--except Edith, of course. An'after Austin we didn't even bring up the subject again--we was prettywell occupied wonderin' how we was goin' to feed an' clothe 'em all, letalone havin' pictures of 'em. Then there's the wax flowers on themantelpiece. I always trembled for fear one of the youngsters would knock'em off an' break the glass shade to smithereens, but they never did. An'there's your Grandfather Gray's clock. I was a little disappointed atfirst because it had a brass face, 'stead o' bein' white with scenes onit, like they usually was--an' then it was such a chore, with everythingelse there was to do, to keep it shinin' like it ought to. But now Ithink I like it better than the other kind, an' it's tickin' away, sameas it has this last hundred years an' more. Do you remember when we beganto wind it up, Saturday nights, 'together?--All this
is the same, praisebe, but--"
"Yes?" asked Howard Gray again.
"For years, evenin's," went on Mrs. Gray, "this room was full of kids.There was generally a baby sleepin'--or refusin', rather loud, tosleep!--in the cradle over in the corner. The older ones was settin'around doin' sums on their slates, or playin' checkers an' cat's-cradle.They quarrelled considerable, an' they was pretty shabby, an' I never hada chance to set down an' read the _Bugle_ quiet-like, after supper,because the mendin'-basket was always waitin' for me, piled right up tothe brim. Saturday nights, what a job it was all winter to get enoughwater het to fill the hat-tub over an' over again, an' fetch in front ofthe air-tight. Often I was tempted to wash two or three of 'em in thesame water, but, as you know, I never done it. Thank goodness, we'd neverheard of such a thing as takin' a bath every day then! I don't deny it'sa comfort, with all the elegant plumbin' we've got now, not to feelyou've got to wait for a certain day to come 'round to take a good soakwhen you're hot or dirty, but it would have been an awful strain on myconscience an' my back both in them days. I used to think sometimes, 'Oh,how glad I shall be when this pack of unruly youngsters is grown up an'out of the way, an' Howard an' I can have a little peace.' An' now thattime's come, an' I set here feelin' lonely, an' thinkin' the old room_ain't_ the same, in spite of the fact, as I said before, that it ain'tchanged a mite, because we haven't got the whole eight tumblin' 'roundunder our heels. I know they're doin' well--they're doin' most _too_well. I'm scared the time's comin' when they'll look down on us, Howard,me especially. Not that they'll mean to--but they're all gettin' so--sodifferent. You had a good education, an' talk right, but I can't even dothat. I found an old grammar the other day, an' set down an' tried tolearn somethin' out of it, but it warn't no use--I couldn't make head ortail of it. An' then they're all away--an' they're goin' to keep on bein'away. James is South, an' Thomas is at college, an' Molly's studyin'music in Boston, an' before we know it Katherine'll be at college too,an' Edith an' Austin in Europe. That leaves just Ruth an' Sally near us,an' they're both married. I don't begrudge it to 'em one bit. I'm gladan' thankful they're all havin' a better chance than we did. If I couldjust feel that some day they'd all come back to the Homestead, an' tous--an' come because they _wanted_ to--"
Howard put his arm around his wife, and drew her down beside him on theold horsehair sofa. One of the precious red wool tidies slipped to thefloor, and lay there unnoticed. Slowly, while Mrs. Gray had been talking,the full depth of her trouble became clear to him, and the words tocomfort her rose to his lips.
"They will, Mary," he said; "they will; you wait and see. How could youthink for one moment that our children could look down on their mother?It's mighty seldom, let me tell you, that any boy or girl does that, andonly with pretty good reason then--never when they've been blessed withone like you. I haven't been able to do what I wanted for ours, but atleast I gave them the best thing they possibly could have--a goodmother--and with that I don't think the hardships have hurt them much!Have you forgotten--you mustn't think I'm sacrilegious, dear--that thegreatest mother we know anything about was just a poor carpenter'swife--and how much her Great Son loved her? Her name was Mary, too--I'mglad we gave Molly that name--she's a good girl--somehow it seems to meit always carries a halo of sacredness with it, even now!--Then,besides--Thomas and Austin are both going to be farmers, and live righthere on the old place. Austin's so smart, he may do other things besides,but this will always be his home and Sylvia's. Peter and Edith'll behere, too, and Sally and Ruth aren't more than a stone's-throw off, asyou might say. That makes four out of the eight--more than most parentsget. The others will come back, fast enough, to visit, with us and themhere! And think of the grandchildren coming along! Why, in the nextgeneration, there'll be more kids piling in and out of this living-roomthan you could lug water and mend socks for if you never turned your handto another thing! And, thank God, you won't have to do that now--you canjust sit back and take solid comfort with them. You had to work so hardwhen our own children were babies, Mary, that you never could do that.But with Ruth's and Austin's and Sally's--"
He paused, smiling, as he looked into the future. Then he kissed her,almost as shyly as he had first done more than thirty years before.
"Besides," he said, "I'm disappointed if you're lonely here with me, justfor a little while, because I'm enjoying it a whole lot. Haven't you evernoticed that when two people that love each other first get married,there's a kind of _glow_ to their happiness, like the glow of a sunrise?It's mighty beautiful and splendid. Then the burden and heat of the day,as the Bible says, comes along. It doesn't mean that they don't care foreach other any more. But they're so tired and so pressed and so worriedthat they don't say much about their feelings, and sometimes they evenavoid talking to each other, or quarrel. But when the hard hours areover, and the sun's gone down--not so bright as it was in the morning,maybe, but softer, and spreading its color over the whole sky--the starscome out--and they know the best part of the day's ahead of them still.They can take time then to sit down, and take each other's hands, andthank God for all his blessings, but most of all for the life of a manand a woman together. Austin and Sylvia think they're going to have thebest part now, in the little brick cottage. But they're not. They'll behaving it thirty years from now, just as you and I are, in the Old GrayHomestead."
Mary Gray wiped her eyes. "Why, Howard," she said, "you used to say youwanted to be a poet, but I never knew till now that you _was_ one! I'drather you'd ha' said all that to me than--than to have been married toShakespeare!" she ended with a happy sob, and put her white head down onhis shoulder.