The Old Gray Homestead

by Frances Parkinson Keyes

  CHAPTER XIX

  "Sylvia, I won't give you up--_I can't!"_

  "Darling, it isn't giving me up--it's only waiting a little longer forme."

  "Don't you think I've waited long enough already?"

  "Yes, Austin, but--Perhaps I won't have to stay away a wholeyear--perhaps by spring--or we might be married now, just as we planned,and take Edith with us."

  "No, no!" he cried; "you know I wouldn't do that--I want you all tomyself!" Then, still more passionately, "You're only twenty-twoyourself--you shan't darken your own youth with--this--this horriblething. You've seen sorrow and sin enough--far, far too much! You've aright to be happy now, to live your own life--and so have I."

  "And hasn't Edith any right?"

  "No--she's forfeited hers."

  "Do you really think so? Do you believe that a young, innocent, shelteredgirl, so pretty and so magnetic that she attracts immediate attentionwherever she goes, who has starved for pretty things and a good time, andsuddenly finds them within her reach, whose parents wilfully shut theireyes to the fact that she's growing up, and boast that 'they've kepteverything from her'--and then let her go wherever she chooses, with thatpitiful lack of armor, doesn't deserve another chance? And I think if youhad stayed with her through last night--and seen the change thatsuffering--and shame--and hopelessness have wrought in that little gay,lovely, thoughtless creature, you'd feel that she had paid a pitifullylarge forfeit already--and realize that no matter how much we help her,she'll have to go on paying it as long as she lives."

  Austin was silent for a moment; then he muttered:

  "Well, why doesn't she marry Jack Weston? She admits that it was half herfault--and that he really does care for her."

  "_Marry_ him!" Sylvia cried,--"_after that_! He cares for her as much asit is in him to care for anybody--but you know perfectly well what he is!Do you want her to tie herself forever to an ignorant, intemperate,sensual man? Put herself where the nightmare of her folly would stare herperpetually in the face! Where he'd throw it in her teeth every time hewas angry with her, that he married her out of charity--and probably tellthe whole countryside the same thing the first time he went toWallacetown on a Saturday evening and began to 'celebrate'? How muchchance for hope and salvation would be left for her then? Have youforgotten something you said to me once--something which wiped away inone instant all the bitterness and agony of three years, and sentme--straight into your arms? 'The best part of a decent man's love is notpassion, but reverence; his greatest desire, not possession, butprotection; his ultimate aim, not gratification, but sacrifice.'"

  "I didn't guess then what a beautiful and wonderful thing passion couldbe--I'd only seen the other side of it."

  Sylvia winced, but she only said, very gently: "Then can you, with thatknowledge, wish Edith to keep on seeing it all her life? It's--it'spretty dreadful, I think--remember I've seen it too."

  "Good God, Sylvia, do stop talking as if the cases were synonymous! _Youwere married_! It's revolting to me to hear you keep saying that you'understand.' There's no more likeness between you and Edith than thereis between a lily growing in a queen's garden and a sweet-brier rosespringing up on a dusty highroad."

  "I know how you feel, dear; but remember, the sweet-brier rose isn't a_weed_! They're both flowers--and fragrant--and--and fragile, aren'tthey?" Then, very softly: "Besides, the lily growing in the queen'sgarden, even though the wicked king may own it for a time, is usuallypicked in the end--by the fairy prince--to adorn his palace; while thelittle sweet-brier rose any tramp may pluck and stick in his hat--andfling away when it is faded. And if it was really the property of anhonest woodman and his wife, and the highroad ran very close to theborder of a sheltered wood, where their cottage was--wouldn't they feelvery badly when they found their rose was gone?"

  "You plead very well," said Austin almost roughly, "and you're pleadingfor every one _but me_--for Edith and father and mother, who've all donewrong--and now you want to take the burden of their wrongdoing on yourown innocent shoulders, and make me help you--no matter how _I_ suffer!_I've_ tried to do _right_--never so hard in all my life--and mostly--I've succeeded. You've helped--I never could have done it without you--buta lot of it has been pulling myself up by my own bootstraps. Now I'vereached the end of my rope--and I suppose, instead of thinking of that--the next thing you do will be to make excuses for Jack Weston."

  "Yes," said Sylvia, very gently, "that's just what I'm going to do. Iknow how hard you've tried--I know how well you've succeeded. I knowthere aren't many men like you--_as good as you_--in the whole world. I'mnot saying that because I'm in love with you--I'm not saying it toencourage you--I'm saying it because it's true. You've conquered--allalong the line. It's so wonderful--and so glorious--that sometimes italmost takes my breath away. Darling--you know I've never reproachedyou--even in my own mind--for anything that may have happened before youknew me--and _I_ know, that much as you wish now it never hadhappened--still you can comfort yourself with the old platitudes of 'thedouble standard.' 'All men do this some time--or nearly all men. Ihaven't been any worse than lots of others--and I've always respected_good_ women'--oh, I've heard it all, hundreds of times! Some day I hopeyou'll feel differently about that, too--that you won't teach _your_ sonto argue that way--not only because it's wrong, but because it'sdangerous--and very much out of date, besides. This isn't the time to gointo all that--but I wonder if you would be willing to tell me everythingthat went through your mind for five minutes--when I came to you thenight of the Graduation Ball, and you took me in your arms?"

  "_Sylvia!_" The cry came from the hidden depths of Austin's soul, wrungwith grief and shame. "I thought you never guessed---Since you did--howcould you go on loving me so--how can you say what you just have--aboutmy--_goodness_?"

  "Darling, _don't_! I never would have let you know that I guessed--ifeverything else I said hadn't failed! That wasn't a reproach! 'Go onloving you'--how could I help loving you a thousand times more thanever--when you won the greatest fight of all? It's no sin to betempted--I'm glad you're strong enough--and human enough--for that. AndI'm thankful from the bottom of my heart--that you're strongenough--and _divine_ enough--to resist temptation. But you know--even aman like you--what a sorceress plain human nature can be. What chancehas a weakling like Jack Weston against her, when she leads him in thesame path?"

  For all answer, he buried his face in the folds of her dress, and laywith it hidden, while she stroked his hair with soft and soothingfingers; she knew that she had wounded him to the quick, knew that thisbattle was the hardest of all, knew most surely that it was his last one,and that he would win it. Meanwhile there was nothing for her to do butto wait, unable to help him, and forced to bear alone the burden ofweariness and sacrifice which was nearly crushing her. Should Austinsense, even dimly, how the sight of Edith's suffering through the long,sleepless night had brought back her own, by its reawakened memories ofagony which he had taught her to forget; should divine that she, too, hadcounted the days to their marriage, and rejoiced that the long waitingwas over, she knew that Edith's cause would be lost. She counted on thestrength of the belief that most men hold--they never guess howmistakenly--that fatigue and pain are matters of slight importance amongthe really big things of life, and that women do not feel as strongly asthey do, that there is less passion in the giving than in the taking,that mother-love is the greatest thing they ever know. Some day, shewould convince him that he was wrong; but now--At last he looked up, withan expression in his eyes, dimly seen in the starlight, which broughtfresh tears to hers, but new courage to her tired heart.

  "If you do love me, and I know you do," he said brokenly, "never speak tome about that again. You've forgiven it--you forgive everything--but Inever shall forgive myself, or feel that I can atone, for what Imeant--for that one moment--to do, as long as I live. On Christmas night,when there was no evil in my heart, you thought you saw it there, becauseyour trust had been betrayed before; I vowed then that I would teach youat least that
I was worthy of your confidence, and that most men were;and when I had taught you, not only to trust me, but to love me, so thatyou saw no evil even when it existed--I very nearly betrayed you. Itwasn't my strength that saved us _both_--it was your wonderful love andfaith. There's no desire in the world that would profane such an altarof holiness as you unveiled before me that night." He lifted her softdress, and kissed the hem of her skirt. "I haven't forgiven myselfabout--what happened before I knew you, either," he whispered; "you'rewrong there. I used those arguments, once, myself, but I can't any more.We'll teach--_our son_--better, won't we, so that he'll have a cleanerheritage to offer his wife than I've got for mine--but he won't love herany more. Now, darling, go back to the house, and get some rest, if youcan, but before you go to sleep, pray for me--that when Edith doesn'tneed you any more--I may have you for my own. And now, please, leaveme--I've got to be alone--"

  "Dat," said a voice out of the darkness, "is just vat she must nod do."

  Austin sprang to his feet. It was too dark to see more than a few feet.But there could be no doubt that the speaker was very near, and theaccent was unmistakable. Austin's voice was heavy with anger.

  "_Eavesdropping, Peter_?"

  "No--pardon, missus; pardon, Mr. Gray. Frieda is sick. I been lookin'ev'ywhere for Mr. Gray to tell him. At last I hear him speak out here, Icome to find. Then I overhear--I cannot help it. I try--vat yousay--interrupt--it vas my vish. Beliefe me, please. But somet'ing holdme--here." He put his hand to his throat. "I could not. I ver' sorry. Butas it is so I haf heard--I haf also some few words to speak.

  "Dere vas vonce a grade lady," he said, coming up closer to them, "whovas so good, and so lofly, and so sveet, that no vone who saw hercould help lofing her; and she vas glad to help ev'y vone, and gif toev'y vone, and she vas so rich and vise dat she could help and gif agreat deal.

  "And dere vas a poor boy who vas stupid and homely and poor, and he didnodings for any vone. But it happened vone time dat dis boy t'ought dathe and the grade lady could help the same person. So he vent to her andsay--but ve'r respectful, like he alvays felt to her, 'Dis is my turn.Please, missus, let me haf it.'"

  "What do you mean, Peter?" asked Sylvia gently.

  He came closer still. It was not too dark, as he did so, to see thefurrows which fresh tears had made on his grimy face, to be conscious ofhis soiled and stained working clothes, and his clumsiness of manner andcarriage; but the earnest voice went on, more doggedly than sadly:

  "Vat I heard 'bout Edit' to-night, I guessed dis long time ago.Missus--if you hear that Mr. Gray done som ver' vrong t'ing--even _dis_ver' vrong t'ing--"

  "I know," said Sylvia quickly; "it wouldn't make any difference now--Icare too much. I'd want him--if he still wanted me--just the same. I'd behurt--oh, dreadfully hurt--but I wouldn't feel angry--orrevengeful--that's what you mean, isn't it, Peter?"

  "Ya-as," said Peter gratefully, "dats yust it, missus, only, of course Icouldn't say it like dat. I t'ank you, missus. Vell, den, I lof Edit'ever since I come here last fall, ver' much, yust like you lof Mr.Gray--only, of course, you can't believe dat, missus."

  "Yes, I can," said Sylvia.

  "So I say," went on Peter, looking only at Sylvia now, "Edit' need you,but Mr. Gray, he need you, too. No vone in t'e vorld need me but Edit'.You shall say, 'Peter's fat'er haf sent for him, Peter go back to Hollandver' quick'--vat you say, suddenly. 'Let Edit' marry Peter and go mit.'Ve stay all vinter mit my fat'er and moder--"

  "You'll travel," interrupted Sylvia. "Edith will have the same dowry fromme that Sally had for a wedding present. She won't be poor. You can takeher everywhere--oh, Peter, you can--_give her a good time_!"

  Peter bowed his head. There was a humble grace about the gesture whichSylvia never forgot.

  "You ver' yust lady, missus," he said simply; "dat must be for you tosay. Vell, den, after my fat'er and moder haf welcomed her, ve shalltravel. Dem in de spring if you need me for de cows--Mr. Gray--ifyou don't t'ink shame to haf boy like me for your broder--ve comeback. If nod, ve'll stay in Holland. You need no fear to haf--I villmake Edit' happy--"

  Some way, Austin found Peter's hand. He was beyond speech. But Sylviaasked one more question.

  "Edith thinks you can't possibly love her any more," she said--"that youwon't even be willing to see her again. If she thought you were marryingher out of charity, she'd die before she'd let you. How are you going toconvince her that you want to marry her because you love her?"

  "Vill you gif me one chance to try?" replied Peter, looking straightinto her eyes.