Part 1 (2/2)
As his wife she shared his triumphs. ”For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health...” the ancient phrases repeated themselves so many times in her softly confused thought, as she moved about among the flowers, that they finally took on a rhythm--
_”For better or worse, For richer or poorer, For richer or poorer, For better or worse--”_
On this day her life was beginning. She had given herself irrevocably into the hands of this man. She would live only in him. Her life would find expression only through his. His strong, trained mind would be her guide, his st.u.r.dy courage her strength. He would build for them both, for the twain that were one.
She caught up one red rose, winked the moisture from her eyes, and gazed--rapt, lips parted, color high--out at the close-clipped lawn behind the privet hedge. The afternoon would soon be waning--in another hour or so. She must not disturb him now.
In an hour, say, she would run up the stairs and tap at his door. And he would come out, clasp her in his big arms, and she would stand on the tips of her toes and kiss away the wrinkles between his brows, and they would walk on the lawn and talk about themselves and the miracle of their love.
The clock on the mantel struck three. She pouted; turned and stared at it. ”Well,” she told herself, ”I'll wait until half-past four.”
The doorbell rang.
Genevieve's color faded. The slim hand that held the rose trembled a very little. Her first caller! She decided that it would be best not to talk about George. Not one word about George! Her feelings were her secret--and his.
Marie ushered in two ladies. One, who rushed forward with outstretched hand, was a curiously vital-appearing creature in black--plainly a widow--hardly more than thirty-two or thirty-three, fresh of skin, rather prominent as to eyeb.a.l.l.s, yet, everything considered, a handsome woman. This was Alys Brewster-Smith. The other, shorter, slighter, several years older, a faded, smiling, tremulously hopeful spinster, was Genevieve's own cousin, Emelene Brand.
”It's so nice of you to come--” Genevieve began timidly, only to be swept aside by the superior aggressiveness and the stronger voice of Mrs. Brewster-Smith.
”My _dear_! Isn't it perfectly delightful to see you actually mistress of this wonderful old home. And”--her slightly prominent eyes swiftly took in furniture, pictures, rugs, flowers,--”how wonderfully you have managed to give the old place your own tone!” ”Nothing has been changed,” murmured Genevieve, a thought bewildered.
”Nothing, my dear, but yourself! I am _so_ looking forward to a good talk with you. Emelene and I were speaking of that only this noon. And I can't tell you how sorry I am that our first call has to be on a miserable political matter. Tell me, dear, is that wonderful husband of yours at home?”
”Why--yes. But I am not to disturb him.”
”Ah, shut away in his den?”
Genevieve nodded.
”It's a very important paper he has to write. It has to be done now, before he is drawn into the whirl of campaign work.”
”Of course! Of course! But I'm afraid the campaign is whirling already.
I will tell you what brought us, my dear. You know of course that Mrs. Harvey Herrington has come out for suffrage--thrown in her whole personal weight and, no doubt, her money. I can't understand it--with her home, and her husband--going into the mire of politics. But that is what she has done. And Grace Hatfield called up not ten minutes ago to say that she has just led a delegation of ladies up to your husband's office. Think of it--to his office! The first day!... Well, Emelene, it is some consolation that they won't find him there.”
”He isn't going to the office today,” said Genevieve. ”But what can they want of him?”
”To get him to declare for suffrage, my dear.”
”Oh--I'm sure he wouldn't do that!”
”Are you, my dear? Are you _sure_?”
”Well----”
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