Part 24 (1/2)
When for the third time Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia returned to their home with the oblong brown parcels there was no indecision about them; there was only righteous scorn.
”And do you really think that Mis' Snow _expected_ us to allow that silk to be cut up into those skimpy little skin-tight bags she called skirts?” demanded Miss Priscilla, in a shaking voice. ”Why, Amelia, we couldn't ever make them over!”
”Of course we couldn't! And when skirts got bigger, what could we do?”
cried Miss Amelia. ”Why, I'd rather never have a black silk dress than to have one like that--that just couldn't be changed! We'll go on wearing the gowns we have. It isn't as if everybody didn't know we had these black silk dresses!”
When the fourth spring came the rolls of silk were not even taken from their box except to be examined with tender care and replaced in the enveloping paper. Miss Priscilla was not well. For weeks she had spent most of her waking hours on the sitting-room couch, growing thiner, weaker, and more hollow-eyed.
”You see, dear, I--I am not well enough now to wear it,” she said faintly to her sister one day when they had been talking about the black silk gowns; ”but you--” Miss Amelia had stopped her with a shocked gesture of the hand.
”Priscilla--as if I could!” she sobbed. And there the matter had ended.
The townspeople were grieved, but not surprised, when they learned that Miss Amelia was fast following her sister into a decline. It was what they had expected of the Heath twins, they said, and they reminded one another of the story of the strained eyes and the gla.s.ses. Then came the day when the little dressmaker's rooms were littered from end to end with black silk sc.r.a.ps.
”It's for Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia,'” said Mrs. Snow, with tears in her eyes, in answer to the questions that were asked.
”It's their black silk gowns, you know.”
”But I thought they were ill--almost dying!” gasped the questioner.
The little dressmaker nodded her head. Then she smiled, even while she brushed her eyes with her fingers.
”They are--but they're happy. They're even happy in this!” touching the dress in her lap. ”They've been forty years buying it, and four making it up. Never until now could they decide to use it; never until now could they be sure they wouldn't want to--to make it--over.” The little dressmaker's voice broke, then went on tremulously: ”There are folks like that, you know--that never enjoy a thing for what it is, lest sometime they might want it--different. Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia never took the good that was goin'; they've always saved it for sometime--later.”
A Belated Honeymoon
The haze of a warm September day hung low over the house, the garden, and the dust-white road. On the side veranda a gray-haired, erect little figure sat knitting. After a time the needles began to move more and more slowly until at last they lay idle in the motionless, withered fingers.
”Well, well, Abby, takin' a nap?” demanded a thin-chested, wiry old man coming around the corner of the house and seating himself on the veranda steps.
The little old woman gave a guilty start and began to knit vigorously.
”Dear me, no, Hezekiah. I was thinkin'.” She hesitated a moment, then added, a little feverishly: ”--it's ever so much cooler here than up ter the fair grounds now, ain't it, Hezekiah?”
The old man threw a sharp look at her face. ”Hm-m, yes,” he said. ”Mebbe 't is.”
From far down the road came the clang of a bell. As by common consent the old man and his wife got to their feet and hurried to the front of the house where they could best see the trolley-car as it rounded a curve and crossed the road at right angles.
”Goes slick, don't it?” murmured the man.
There was no answer. The woman's eyes were hungrily devouring the last glimpse of paint and polish.
”An' we hain't been on 'em 't all yet, have we, Abby?” he continued.
She drew a long breath.
”Well, ye see, I--I hain't had time, Hezekiah,” she rejoined apologetically.
”Humph!” muttered the old man as they turned and walked back to their seats.