Part 26 (1/2)
Mary Gray wiped her eyes. ”Why, Howard,” she said, ”you used to say you wanted to be a poet, but I never knew till now that you _was_ one! I'd rather you'd ha' said all that to me than--than to have been married to Shakespeare!” she ended with a happy sob, and put her white head down on his shoulder.
CHAPTER XXI
Uncle Mat, whose long-postponed visit was at last taking place, sat talking in front of the fire in Sylvia's living-room with the ”new minister.” The room was bright with many candles, and early fall flowers from her own garden stood about in clear gla.s.s vases. In the dining-room beyond, they could see the two servants moving around the table, laid for supper. A man's voice, whistling, and the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, came up the footpath from the Homestead. And at the same moment, the door of Sylvia's own room opened and shut and there was the rustle of silk and the scent of roses in the hall.
A moment later she came in, her arm on Austin's. Her neck and arms were bare, as he loved to see them, and her white silk dress, brocaded in tiny pink rosebuds, swept soft and full about her. A single string of great pearls fell over the lace on her breast, and almost down to her waist, and there was a high, jewelled comb in her low-dressed hair. She leaned over her uncle's chair.
”Austin says the others are on their way. Am I all right, do you think, Uncle Mat?”
”You look to me as if you had stepped out of an old French painting,” he said, pinching her rosy cheek; ”I'm satisfied with you. But the question arises, is Austin? He's so fussy.”
Austin laughed, straightening his tie. ”I can't fuss about this dress,”
he said, ”for I chose it myself. But I'm not half the tyrant you all make me out--I'm wearing white flannel to please her. Is there plenty of supper, Sylvia? I'm almost starved.”
”I know enough to expect a man to be hungry, even if he's going to be hanged--or married,” she retorted, ”but I'll run out to the kitchen once more, just to make sure that everything is all right.”
The third of September had come at last. There was no question, this time, of a wedding in St. Bartholomew's Church, with twelve bridesmaids and a breakfast at Sherry's; no wonderful jewels, no press notices, almost no trousseau. Austin's family, Uncle Mat, and a few close friends came to Sylvia's own little house, and when the small circle was complete, she took her uncle's arm and stood by Austin's side, while the ”new minister” married them. Thomas was best man; Molly, for the second time that summer, maid-of-honor. Sadie and James were missing, but as ”a wedding present” came a telegram, announcing the safe arrival of a nine-pound baby-girl. Edith was not there, either, and the date of sailing for Holland had been postponed. She had gained less rapidly than they had hoped, and still lay, very pale and quiet, on the sofa between the big windows in her room. But she was not left alone when the rest of the family departed for Sylvia's house; for Peter sat beside her in the twilight, his big rough fingers clasping her thin white ones.
There proved to be ”plenty of supper,” and soon after it was finished the guests began to leave, Uncle Mat with many imprecations at Sylvia's ”lack of hospitality in turning them out, such a cold night.” Even the two capable servants, having removed all traces of the feast, came to her with many expressions of good-will, and the a.s.surance of ”comin' back next season if they was wanted,” and departed to take the night train from Wallacetown for New York. By ten o'clock the white-panelled front door with its bra.s.s knocker had opened and shut for the last time, and Austin bolted it, and turned to Sylvia, smiling.
”Well, _Mrs. Gray_,” he said, ”you're locked in now--far from all the sights and sounds that made your youth happy--shop-windows, and hotel dining-rooms, the slamming of limousine doors, and the clinking of ice in c.o.c.ktail-shakers. Your last chance of escape is gone--you've signed and sealed your own death-warrant.”
”Austin! don't joke--to-night!”
”My dear,” he asked, lifting her face in his hands, ”did you never joke because you were afraid--to show how much you really felt?”
”Yes,” she replied, ”very often. But there's nothing in the whole world for me to be afraid of now.”
”So you're really ready for me at last?” he whispered.
Whatever she answered--or even if she did not answer at all--to all appearances, Austin was satisfied. His mother, seeing him for the first time three days later, was almost startled at the radiance in his face.
It was, perhaps, a strange honeymoon. But those who thought so had felt, and rightly, that it was a strange marriage. After the first few days, Austin spent every day at the farm, as usual, walking back to the little brick cottage for his noonday dinner, and leaving after the milking was done at night; and Sylvia, dressed in blue gingham, cooked and cleaned and sewed, and put her garden in shape for the winter. In spite of her year's training at Mrs. Gray's capable hands, she made mistakes; she burnt the grape jelly, and forgot to put the brown sugar into the sweet pickle, and took the varnish off the dining-room table by polis.h.i.+ng it with raw linseed oil, and boiled the color out of her sheerest chiffon blouse; and they laughed together over her blunders. Then, when evening came, she was all in white again, and there was the simple supper served by candle-light in the little dining-room, and the quiet hours in front of the glowing fire afterwards, and the long, still nights with the soft stars s.h.i.+ning in, and the cool air blowing through the open windows of their room.
Then, when the Old Gray Homestead had settled down to the blessed peacefulness and security which, the harvest safely in, the snows still a long way off, comes to every New England farm in the late fall, they closed their white-panelled front door behind them, and sailed away together, as Austin had wished to do. There were a few gay weeks in London and Paris, The Hague and Rome--”enough,” wrote Sylvia, ”so that we won't forget there _is_ any one else in the world, and use the wrong fork when we go out to dine.” There was a fortnight at the little Dutch house where by this time Peter and Edith were spending the winter with Peter's parents--”where our bed,” wrote Sylvia, ”was a great big box built into the wall, but, oh! so soft and comfortable; with another box for the very best cow just around the corner from it, and the music of Peter's mother's scrubbing-brush for our morning hymn.” And then there were several months of wandering--”without undue haste, but otherwise just like any other tourists,” wrote Sylvia. They went leisurely from place to place, as the weather dictated and their own inclinations advised. Part of the time Edith and Peter were with them, but even then they were nearly always alone, for Edith was not strong enough to keep up, even with their moderate pace. They revisited places dear to both of them, they sought out many new ones; early spring found them in Paris; and it was here that there finally came an evening when Austin put his arms around his wife's shoulders--they had made a longer day of sight-seeing than usual, and she looked pale and tired, as having finished dressing earlier than he she sat in the window, looking down at the brilliant street beneath them, waiting for him to take her down to dinner--and spoke in the unmistakably firm tone that he so seldom used.
”It's time you were at home, Sylvia--we're overstaying our holiday. I'll make sailing arrangements to-morrow.”
So, by the end of May, they were back in the little brick cottage again, and the two capable servants were there, too, for there must be no danger, now, of Sylvia's getting over-tired. Those were days when Austin seldom left his wife for long if he could help it; found it hard, indeed, not to watch her constantly, and to keep the expression of anxiety and dread from his eyes. He had not proved to be among those men, who, as some French cynic, more clever than wise, has expressed it, find ”the chase the best part of the game.” His engagement had been a period containing much joy, it is true, but also, much doubt, much self-adjusting and repression--his marriage had not held one imperfect hour. Sylvia, as his wife, with all the petty barriers which social inequality and money and restraint had reared between them broken down by the very weight of their love, was a being even much more desired and hallowed than the pale, black-robed, unattainable lady of his first wors.h.i.+p had been; that Sylvia should suffer, because of him, was horrible; that he might possibly lose her altogether was a fear which grew as the days went on. It fell to her to dispel that, as she had so many others.
”Why do you look at me so?” she asked, very quietly, as, according to their old custom, they sat by the riverbank watching the sun go down.
”I don't mean to. But sometimes it seems as if I couldn't bear all this that's coming. Nothing on earth can be worth it.”