CHAPTER III
Edith and her fourteen-year-old neighbor, Johnny Bennett, had climbedinto the old black-heart cherry tree--(Johnny always conceded that Edithwas a good climber--"for a girl.") But when they saw Lion, tugging upthe road, Edith, who was economical with social amenities, told herguest to go home. "I don't want you any longer," she said; "father andmother are coming!" And with that she rushed around to the stable door,just in time to meet the returning travelers, and ask a dozenquestions--the first:
"_Did_ you get a letter from Maurice?"
But when her father threw the reins down on Lion's back, and said,briefly, "Can't you unharness him yourself, Buster?" she stuck out hertongue, opened her eyes wide, and said nothing except, "Yes, father."Then she proceeded, with astonishing speed, to put Lion into his stall,run the buggy into the carriage house, and slam the stable door, afterwhich she tore up to her mother's room.
"Mother! Something has bothered father!"
"Well, yes," Mrs. Houghton said; "a little. Maurice is married."
Edith's lips fell apart; "Maurice? _Married_? Who to? Did she wear aveil? I don't see why father minds."
Mrs. Houghton, standing in front of her mirror, said, dryly: "There arethings more important than veils, when it comes to getting married. Inthe first place, they eloped--"
"Oh, how lovely! I am going to elope when I get married!"
"I hope you won't have such bad taste. Of course they ought not to havegot married that way. But the thing that bothers your father, is thatthe lady Maurice has married is--is older than he."
"How much older?" Edith demanded; "a year?"
"I don't just know. Probably twenty years older."
Edith was silent, rapidly adding up nineteen and twenty; then shegasped, "_Thirty-nine_!"
"Well, about that; and father is sorry, because Maurice can't go back tocollege. He will have to go into business."
Edith saw no cause for regret in this. "Guess he's glad not to have tolearn things! But why weren't we invited to the wedding? I always meantto be Maurice's bridesmaid."
Mrs. Houghton said she didn't know. Edith was silent, for a wholeminute. Then she said, soberly:
"I suppose father's sorry 'cause she'll die so soon, she's so old? Andthen Maurice will feel awfully. Poor Maurice! Well, I'll live with him,and comfort him."
"My dear, I'm fifty!" Mrs. Houghton said, much amused.
"Oh, well, _you_--" Edith demurred; "that's different. You're my mother,and you--" She paused; "I never thought of you being old, or dying,_ever_. And yet I suppose you are rather old?" She pondered. "I supposesome day you'll die? Mother!--promise me you won't!" she said,quaveringly.
"Edith, don't be a goose!" Mrs. Houghton said, laughing--but she turnedand kissed the rosy, anxious face, "Maurice's wife isn't old at all.She's quite young. It's only that he is so much younger."
Edith lapsed into silence. She was very quiet for the rest of thatsummer morning. Just before dinner she went across the west pasture toDoctor Bennett's house, and, hailing Johnny, told him the news. Hisindifference--for he only looked at her, with his mild, nearsightedbrown eyes, and said, "Huh?"--irritated her so that she would notconfide her dismay at Maurice's approaching widowerhood, but ran hometo a sympathetic kitchen: "Katy! Maurice got eloped!"
Katy was much more satisfactory than Johnny; she said, "God save us!Mr. Maurice eloped? Who with, then? Well, well!" But Edith was stillabstracted. Time, as related to life, had acquired significance. Atdinner she regarded her father with troubled eyes. He, too, was old,like Maurice's wife. He, too, as well as the bride, and her mother,would die, sometime. And she and Maurice would have such awfulgrief!... Something tightened in her throat; "Please 'scuse me," shesaid, in a muffled voice; and, slipping out of her chair, made a dashfor the back door, and ran as hard as she could to her chicken house.The little place was hot, and smelled of feathers; through the windows,cobwebbed and dusty, the sunshine fell dimly on the hard earth floor, andon an empty plate or two and a rusty, overturned tin pan. Here, sittingon a convenient box, she could think things out undisturbed: Maurice, andhis lovely, dying Bride; herself, orphaned and alone; Johnny Bennett,indifferent to all this oncoming grief! Probably Maurice was worryingabout it all the time! How long would the Bride live? Suddenly sheremembered her mother's age, and had a revulsion of hope for Maurice.Perhaps his wife would live to be as old as mother? "Why, I hadn'tthought of that! Well, then, she will live--let's see: thirty-nine fromfifty leaves eleven--yes; the Bride will live eleven years!" Why, thatwasn't so terrible, after all. "That's as long as I have been alive!"Obviously it would not be necessary to take care of Maurice for quite agood while. "I guess," she reflected, "I'll have some children by thattime. And maybe I'll be married, too, for Maurice won't need me foreleven years. But I don't know what I'd do with my husband then?" Shefrowned; a husband would be bothering, if she had to go and live withMaurice. "Oh, well, probably my husband will be so old, he'll die aboutthe time Maurice's wife does." She had meant to marry Johnny. "But Iwon't. He's too young. He's only three years older 'an me. He might livetoo long. I must get an old husband. I'll tell Johnny about itto-morrow. I'll wear mourning," she thought; "a long veil! It's sointeresting. But not over my face--you can't see through it, and itisn't sense not to be able to see." (The test Edith applied to conductwas always, "Is it sense?") "Of course I shall feel badly about myhusband; but I've got to take care of Maurice.... Yes; I must get an oldone," she thought. "I must get one as old as the Bride. If they'd onlywaited, the Bride could have married my husband!"
But this line of thought was too complicated; and, besides, she hadso entirely cheered up that she practically forgot death. She began tocount how much money her mother owed her for eggs--which reminded her tolook into the nests; and when, in spite of a clucking remonstrance, sheput her hand under a feathery breast and touched the hot smoothness of anew-laid egg, she felt perfectly happy. "I guess I'll go and get somefloating-island," she thought. "Oh, I _hope_ they haven't eaten it allup!"
With the egg in her hand, she rushed back to the dining room, and wasreassured by the sight of the big glass dish, still all creamy yellowand fluffy white.
"Edith," Mrs. Houghton said, "you won't mind letting Maurice and Eleanorhave your room, will you, dear?"
"Is her name 'Eleanor'? I think it's a perfectly beautiful name! No,I'd love to give her my room! Mother, she won't be as old as you are foreleven years, and that's as long as I have been alive. So I won't worryabout Maurice just yet. Mother, may I have two helpings? When are theycoming?"
"They haven't been asked yet," her father said, grimly. "I'm not goingto concoct a letter, Mary, for a week. Let 'em worry! Maurice, confoundhim!--has never worried in his life. Everything rolls off him like wateroff a duck's back. It will do him good to chew nails for a while. I wishI was asleep!"
"Why, father!" Edith said, aghast; "I don't believe you _want_ theBride!"
"You're a very intelligent young person," her father said, scratchinga match under the table and lighting a cigar.
"But, my dear," his wife said, "has it occurred to you that it may beas unpleasant for the Bride to come, as for you to have her? _Henry!_That's the third since breakfast!"
"Wrong for once, Mrs. Houghton. It's the fourth."
"_I_ want the Bride," said Edith.
Her mother laughed. "Come along, honey," she said, putting her hand onher husband's shoulder, "and tell me what to say to her."
"Say she's a harpy, and tell her to go to the--"
"Henry!"
"My dear, like Mr. F.'s aunt, 'I hate a fool.' Oh, I'll tell you whatto say: Say, 'Mr. F.'s aunt will send her a wedding present.' That'sfriendly, isn't it?"
"Better not be too literary in public," his wife cautioned him, with asignificant glance at Edith, who was all ears.
When, laughing, they left the table, their daughter scraping her plate,pondered thus: "I suppose Mr. F. is the Bride's father. I wonder whatpresent his aunt will give her? I wonder what 'F' stands for--Frost
?Fuller? Father and mother don't want the Bride to come; and motherthinks the Bride don't want to come. So why should they ask her to come?And why should she come? I wouldn't," Edith said; "but I hope she will,for I love her! And oh, I _hope_ she'll bring her harp! I've never seena harpy. But people are funny," Edith summed it up; "inviting people andnot wanting 'em; and visiting 'em and not wanting to. It ain't sense,"said Edith.
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