The Old Gray Homestead

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She pointed, as she spoke, to the cluttered yard before them, to the
unwashed wagons and rusty tools that had not been put away, to the
shed-door half off its hinges, and the unpiled wood tossed carelessly
inside the shed. He reddened, as much at the scorn in her gesture as at
the words themselves, and answered angrily, as many persons do when they
are ashamed:

"That's very true; but when you work just as hard as you can, anyway, you
haven't much spirit left over for the frills."

"Excuse me; I didn't realize they were frills. No business man would
have his office in an untidy condition, because it wouldn't pay; I
shouldn't think it would pay on a farm either. Just as it seems to
me--though, of course, I'm not in a position to judge--that if you sold
all those tubercular grade cows, and bought a few good cattle, and kept
them clean and fed them well, you'd get more milk, pay less for grain,
and not have to work so hard looking after more animals than you can
really handle well."

As she spoke, she began to unfasten her long, frilled, black sleeves, and
rose with a smile so winning that it entirely robbed her speech of
sharpness.

"Let's go to work," she said, "and see how much we could do in the way of
making things look better before the others get home from church. We'll
start here. Hand me that broom and I'll sweep while you stack up the
milk-pails--don't stop to reason with me about it--that'll only use up
time. If there's any hot water on the kitchen stove and you know where
the mop is, I'll wash this porch as well as sweep it; put on some more
water to heat if you take all there is."

When the Grays returned from church, their astonished eyes were met
with the spectacle of their boarder, her cheeks glowing, her hair half
down her back, and her silk dress irretrievably ruined, helping Austin
to wash and oil the one wagon which still stood in the yard. She fled
at their approach, leaving Austin to retail her conversation and
explain her conduct as best he could, and to ponder over both all the
afternoon himself.

"She's dead right about the cows," declared Thomas; "but what would be
the use of getting good stock and putting it in these barns? It would
sicken in no time. We need new buildings, with proper ventilation, and
concrete floors, and a silo."

"Why don't you say we need a million dollars, and be done with it? You
might just as well," retorted his brother.

"Because we don't--but we need about ten thousand; half of it for
buildings, and the rest for stock and utensils and fertilizers, and for
what it would cost to clean up our stumpy old pastures, and make them
worth something again."

At that moment Mrs. Cary entered the room for dinner, and the discussion
of unpossessed resources came to an abrupt end. Her color was still
high, and she ate her first hearty meal since her arrival; but her dress
and her hair were irreproachably demure again, and she talked even less
than usual.

That evening Molly begged off from doing her share with the dishes, and
went to play on her newly tuned piano. She loved music dearly, and had
genuine talent; but it seemed as if she had never realized half so keenly
before how little she knew about it, and how much she needed help and
instruction. A particularly unsuccessful struggle with a difficult
passage finally proved too much for her courage, and shutting the piano
with a bang, she leaned her head on it and burst out crying.

A moment later she sat up with a sudden jerk, realizing that the parlor
door had opened and closed, and tried to wipe away the tears before any
one saw them; then a hot blush of embarrassment and shame flooded her wet
cheeks, as she realized that the intruder was not one of her sisters, but
Mrs. Cary.

"What a good touch you have!" she said, sitting down by the piano, and
apparently quite unaware of the storm. "I love music dearly, and I
thought perhaps you'd let me come and listen to your playing for a little
while. The fingering of that 'Serenade' is awfully hard, isn't it? I
thought I should never get it, myself--never did, really well, in fact!
Do you like your teacher?"

"I never had a lesson in my life," replied Molly, the sobs rising in her
throat again; "there are two good ones in Wallacetown, but, you see, we
never could af--"

"Well, some teachers do more harm than good," interrupted her visitor,
"probably you've escaped a great deal. Play something else, won't you? Do
you mind this dim light? I like it so much."

So Molly opened the piano and began again, doing her very best. She chose
the simple things she knew by heart, and put all her will-power as well
as all her skill into playing them well. It was only when she stopped,
confessing that she knew no more, that Mrs. Gary stirred.

"I used to play a good deal myself," she said, speaking very low;
"perhaps I could take it up again. Do you think you could help me,
Molly?"

"_I_! help _you_! However in the world--"

"By letting _me_ be your teacher! I'm getting rested now, and I find I've
a lot of superfluous energy at my disposal--your brother had a dose of it
this morning! I want something to do--something to keep me
busy--something to keep me from thinking. I haven't half as much talent
as you, but I've had more chances to learn. Listen! This is the way that
'Serenade' ought to go"--and Mrs. Cary began to play. The dusk turned to
moonlight around them, and the Grays sat in the dining-room, hesitating
to intrude, and listening with all their ears; and still she sat,
talking, explaining, illustrating to Molly, and finally ended by playing,
one after another, the old familiar hymns which they all loved.

"It's settled, then--I'll give you your first real lesson to-morrow, and
send to New York at once for music. You'll have to do lots of scales and
finger-exercises, I warn you! Now come into _my_ parlor--there's
something else I wanted to talk to you about."

"Do you see that great trunk?" she went on, after she had drawn Molly in
after her and lighted the lamp; "I sent for it a week ago, but it only
got here yesterday. It's full of all my--all the clothes I had to stop
wearing a little while ago."

Molly's heart began to thump with excitement.

"You and Edith are little, like me," whispered Mrs. Cary. "If you would
take the dresses and use them, it would be--be such a _favor_ to me! Some
of them are brand-new! Some of them wouldn't be useful or suitable for
you, but there are firms in every big city that buy such things, so you
could sell those, if you care to; and, besides the made-up clothes there
are several dress-lengths--a piece of pink silk that would be sweet for
Sally, and some embroidered linens, and--and so on. I'm going to bed
now--I've had so much exercise to-day, and you've given me such a
pleasant evening that I shan't have to read myself to sleep to-night, and
when I've shut my bedroom door, if you truly would like the trunk, have
your brothers come in and carry it off, and promise me never--never to
speak about it again."

Monday and Tuesday passed by without further excitement; but Wednesday
morning, while Mr. Gray was planting his newly ploughed vegetable-garden,
Mrs. Cary sauntered out, and sat down beside the place where he was
working, apparently oblivious of the fact that damp ground is supposed
to be as detrimental to feminine wearing apparel as it is to feminine
constitutions.

"I've been watching you from the window as long as I could stand it," she
said, "now I've come to beg. I want a garden, too, a flower-garden. Do
you mind if I dig up your front yard?"

He laughed, supposing that she was joking. "Dig all you want to," he
said; "I don't believe you'll do much harm."

"Thanks. I'll try not to. Have I your full permission to try my
hand and see?"

"You certainly have."

"Is there some boy in the village I could hire to do the first heavy
work and the mowing, and pull up the weeds from time to time if they get
ahead of me?"

Howard Gray leaned on his hoe. "You don't need to hire a boy," he said
gravely; "we'll be only too glad to help you all you need."

"Thank you. But, you see, you've got too much to do already, and I can't
add to your burdens, or feel free to ask favors, unless you'll let me do
it in a business way."

Mr. Gray turned his hoe over, and began to hack at the ground. "I see how
you feel," he began, "but--"

"If Thomas could do it evenings, at whatever the rate is around here by
the hour, I should be very glad. If not, please find me a boy."

"She has a way of saying things," explained Howard Gray, who had
faltered along in a state of dreary indecision for nearly sixty years, in
telling his wife about it afterwards,--"as if they were all settled
already. What could I say, but 'Yes, Mrs. Cary'? And then she went on, as
cool as a cucumber, 'As long as you've got an extra stall, may I send for
one of my horses? The usual board around here is five dollars a week,
isn't it?' And what could I say again but 'Yes, Mrs. Cary'? though you
may believe I fairly itched to ask, 'Send _where_?' and, 'For the love of
Heaven, how _many_ horses have you?'"

"I could stand her actin' as if things was all settled," replied his
wife; "I like to see folks up an' comin', even if I ain't made that way
myself, an' it's a satisfaction to me to see the poor child kinder
pickin' up an' takin' notice again; but what beats me is, she acts as if
all these things were special favors to _her_! The garden an' the horse
is all very well, but what do you think she lit into me to-day for?
'You'll let me stay all summer, won't you, Mrs. Gray?' she said, comin'
into the kitchen, where I was ironin' away for dear life, liftin' a pile
of sheets off a chair, an' settlin' down, comfortable-like. 'Bless your
heart, you can stay forever, as far as I'm concerned,' says I. 'Well,
perhaps I will,' says she, leanin' back an' laughin'--she's got a
sweet-pretty laugh, hev you noticed, Howard?--'and so you won't think I'm
fault-findin' or discontented if I suggest a few little changes I'd like
to make around, will you? I know it's awfully bold, in another person's
house--an' such a _lovely_ house, too, but--'"

"Well?" demanded her husband, as she paused for breath.

"Well, Howard Gray, the first of them little changes is to be a great big
piazza, to go across the whole front of the house! 'The kitchen porch is
so small an' crowded,' says she, 'an' you can't see the river from there;
I want a place to sit out evenings. Can't I have the fireplaces in my
rooms unbricked,' she went on, 'an' the rooms re-papered an' painted?
An', oh,--I've never lived in a house where there wasn't a bathroom
before, an' I want to make that big closet with a window off my bedroom
into one. We'll have a door cut through it into the hall, too,' says she,
'an' isn't there a closet just like it overhead? If we can get a plumber
here--they're such slippery customers--he might as well put in two
bathrooms as one, while he's about it, an' you shan't do my great
washin's any more without some good set-tubs. An' Mrs. Gray, kerosene
lamps do heat up the rooms so in summer,--if there's an electrician
anywhere around here--' 'Mrs. Cary,' says I, 'you're an angel right out
of Heaven, but we can't accept all this from you. It means two thousand
dollars, straight.' 'About what I should pay in two months for my living
expenses anywhere else,' says she. 'Favors! It's you who are kind to let
me stay here, an' not mind my tearin' your house all to pieces. Thomas is
goin' to drive me up to Wallacetown this evenin' to see if we can find
some mechanics'; an' she got up, an' kissed me, an' strolled off."

"Thomas thinks she's the eighth wonder of the world," said his father;
"she can just wind him around her little finger."

"She's windin' us all," replied his wife, "an' we're standin'
grateful-like, waitin' to be wound."

"That's so--all except Austin. Austin's mad as a hatter at what she got
him to do Sunday morning; he doesn't like her, Mary."

"Humph!" said his wife.

CHAPTER III

"Good-bye, Mrs. Gray, I'm going for a ride."

"Good-bye, dearie; sure it ain't too hot?"

"Not a bit; it's rained so hard all this week that I haven't had a bit of
exercise, and I'm getting cross."

"Cross! I'd like to see you once! It still looks kinder thunderous to me
off in the West, so don't go far."

"I won't, I promise; I'll be back by supper-time. There's Austin, just up
from the hayfield--I'll get him to saddle for me." And Sylvia ran quickly
towards the barn.

"You don't mean to say you're going out this torrid day?" he demanded,
lifting his head from the tin bucket in which he had submerged it as she
voiced her request, and eyeing her black linen habit with disfavor.

"It's no hotter on the highroad than in the hayfield."

"Very true; but I have to go, and you don't. Being one of the favored few
of this earth, there's no reason why you shouldn't sit on a shady porch
all day, dressed in cool, pale-green muslin, and sipping iced drinks."

"Did you ever see me in a green muslin? I'll saddle Dolly myself, if you
don't feel like it."

She spoke very quietly, but the immediate consciousness of his stupid
break did not improve Austin's bad temper.

"Oh, I'll saddle for you, but the heat aside, I think you ought to
understand that it isn't best for a woman to ride about on these lonely
roads by herself. It was different a few years ago; but now, with all
these Italian and Portuguese laborers around, it's a different story. I
think you'd better stay at home."

The unwarranted and dictatorial tone of the last sentence spoiled the
speech, which might otherwise, in spite of the surly manner in which it
was uttered, have passed for an expression of solicitude. Sylvia, who was
as headstrong as she was amiable, gathered up her reins quickly.

"By what right do you consider yourself in a position to dictate to me?"
she demanded.

"By none at all; but it's only decent to tell you the risk you're
running; now if you come to grief, I certainly shan't feel sorry."

"From your usual behavior, I shouldn't have supposed you would, anyway.
Good-bye, Austin."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Cary."

"Why don't you call me Sylvia, as all the rest do?"

"It's not fitting."

"More dictation as to propriety! Well, as you please."

He watched her ride up the hill, almost with a feeling of satisfaction at
having antagonized and hurt her, then turned to unharness and water his
horses. He knew very well that his own behavior was the only blot on a
summer, which but for that would have been almost perfect for every other
member of the family, and yet he made no effort to alter it. In fact,
only a few days before, his sullen resentment of the manner in which
their long-prayed-for change of fortune had come had very nearly resulted
disastrously for them all, and the more he brooded over it, the more sore
and bitter he became.

* * * * *

By the first of August, the "Gray Homestead" had regained the proud
distinction, which it had enjoyed in the days of its builder, of being
one of the finest in the county. The house, with its wide and hospitable
piazza, shone with white paint; the disorderly yard had become a smooth
lawn; a flower-garden, riotous with color, stretched out towards the
river, and the "back porch" was concealed with growing vines. Only the
barns, which afforded Sylvia no reasonable excuse for meddling, remained
as before, unsightly and dilapidated. Thomas, the practical farmer, had
lamented this as he and Austin sat smoking their pipes one sultry evening
after supper.

"Perhaps our credit has improved enough now so that we could borrow some
money at the Wallacetown Bank," he said earnestly, "and if you and father
weren't so averse to taking that good offer Weston made you last week for
the south meadow, we'd have almost enough to rebuild, anyway. It's all
very well to have this pride in 'keeping the whole farm just as
grandfather left it to us,' but if we could sell part and take care of
the rest properly, it would be a darned sight better business."

"Why don't you ask your precious Mrs. Cary for the money? She'd probably
give it to you outright, same as she has for the house, and save you all
that bother."

"Look here!" Thomas swung around sharply, laying a heavy hand on his
brother's arm; "when you talk about her, you won't use that tone, if
I know it."

Austin shrugged his shoulders. "Why shouldn't I? What do you know about
her that justifies you in resenting it? Nothing, absolutely nothing!
She's been here four months, and none of us have any idea to this day
where she comes from, or where all this money comes from. Ask her, if
you dare to."

He got no further, for Thomas, always the mildest of lads, struck him on
the mouth so violently that he tottered backwards, and in doing so, fell
straight under the feet of Sylvia, who stood in the doorway watching
them, as if rooted to the spot, her blue eyes full of tears, and her face
as white as when she had first come to them.

"Thomas, how _could_ you?" she cried. "Can't you understand Austin
at all, and make allowances? And, oh, Austin, how could _you_? Both
of you? please forgive me for overhearing--I couldn't help it!" And
she was gone.

Thomas was on his feet and after her in a second, but the was too quick
for him; her sitting-room door was locked before he reached it, and
repeated knocking and calling brought no answer. Mr. and Mrs. Gray, who
slept in the chamber opening from the dining-room, and back of Sylvia's,
reported the next morning that something must be troubling the "blessed
girl," for they had heard soft sobbing far into the night; but, after
all, that had happened before, and was to be expected from one "whose
heart was buried in the grave." Their sons made no comment, but both were
immeasurably relieved when, after an entire day spent in her room, during
which each, in his own way, had suffered intensely, she reappeared at
supper as if nothing had happened. It was a glorious night, and she
suggested, as she left the table, that Thomas might take her for a short
paddle, a canoe being among the many things which had been gradually
arriving for her all summer. Molly and Edith went with them, and Austin
smoked alone with his bitter reflections.

* * * * *

The thunder was rumbling in good earnest when Howard Gray and Thomas came
clattering up with their last load of hay for the night, and the three
men pitched it hastily into place together, and hurried into the house.
Mrs. Gray was bustling about slamming windows, and the girls were
bringing in the red-cushioned hammocks and piazza, chairs, but the first
great drops began to fall before they had finished, and the wind, seldom
roused in the quiet valley, was blowing violently; Edith, stopping too
long for a last pillow and a precious book, was drenched to the skin in
an instant; the house was pitch dark before there was time to grope for
lights, but was almost immediately illumined by a brilliant flash of
lightning, followed by a loud report.

"My, but this storm is near! Usually, I don't mind 'em a bit, but, I
declare, this is a regular rip-snorter! Edith, bring me--"

But Mrs. Gray was interrupted by the elements, and for fifteen minutes
no one made any further effort to talk; the rain fell in sheets, the
wind gathered greater and greater force, the lightning became constant
and blinding, while each clap of thunder seemed nearer and more
terrific than the one before it, when finally a deafening roar brought
them all suddenly together, shouting frantically, "That certainly has
struck here!"

It was true; before they could even reach it, the great north barn was in
flames. There was no way of summoning outside help, even if any one could
have reached them in such a storm, and the wind was blowing the fire
straight in the direction of the house; in less than an hour, most of
the old and rotten outbuildings had burnt like tinder, and the rest had
collapsed under the fury of the sweeping gale; but by eight o'clock the
stricken Grays, almost too exhausted and overcome to speak, were
beginning to realize that though all their hay and most of their stock
were destroyed, a change of wind, combined with their own mighty efforts,
had saved the beloved old house; its window-panes were shattered, and its
blinds were torn off, and its fresh paint smoked and defaced with
wind-blown sand; but it was essentially unharmed. The hurricane changed
to a steady downpour, the lightning grew dimmer and more distant, and
vanished altogether; and Mrs. Gray, with a firm expression of
countenance, in spite of the tears rolling down her cheeks, set about to
finish the preparations for supper which the storm had so rudely
interrupted three hours earlier.

"Eat an' keep up your strength, an' that'll help to keep up your
courage," she said, patting her husband on the shoulder as she passed
him. "Here, Katherine, take them biscuits out of the oven; an' Molly, go
an' call the boys in; there ain't a mite of use in their stayin' out
there any longer."

Austin was the last to appear; he opened the kitchen door, and stood for
a moment leaning against the frame, a huge, gaunt figure, blackened with
dirt and smoke, and so wet that the water dropped in little pools all
about him. He glanced up and down the room, and gave a sharp exclamation.

"What's the matter, Austin?" asked his mother, stopping in the act of
pouring out a steaming cup of tea. "Come an' get some supper; you'll feel
better directly. It ain't so bad but what it might be a sight worse."

"_Come and get some supper_!" he cried, striding towards her, and once
more looking wildly around. "The thunderstorm has been over nearly two
hours, plenty of time for her to get home--she never minds rain--or to
telephone if she had taken shelter anywhere; and can any one tell
me--has any one even thought--I didn't, till five minutes ago--_where
is Sylvia_?"

CHAPTER IV

"Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!"

The musical name echoed and reechoed through the silent woods, but there
was no other answer. Austin lighted a match, shielded it from the rain
with his hand, and looked at his watch; it was just past midnight.

"Oh," he groaned, "where _can_ she be? What has happened to her? If I
only knew she was found, and unharmed, and safe at home again, I'd never
ask for anything else as long as I lived."

He had knocked his lantern against a tree some time before, and broken
it, and there was nothing to do but stumble blindly along in the
darkness, hoping against hope. Howard Gray had gone north, Thomas east,
and Austin south; before starting out, they had endeavored to telephone,
but the storm had destroyed the wires in every direction. After
travelling almost ten miles, Austin went home, thinking that by that time
either his father or his brother must have been successful in his search,
to be met only by the anxious despair of his mother and sisters.

"Don't you worry," he forced himself to say with a cheerfulness he was
very far from feeling; "she may have gone down that old wood-road that
leads out of the Elliotts' pasture. I heard her telling Thomas once that
she loved to explore, that they must walk down there some Sunday
afternoon; maybe she decided to go alone. I'll stop at the house, and see
if Fred happened to see her pass."

Fred had not; but Mrs. Elliott had; there was little that escaped her
eager eyes.

"My, yes, I see her go tearin' past before the storm so much as begun;
she's sure the queerest actin' widow-woman I ever heard of; Sally says
she goes swimmin' in a bathin'-suit just like a boy's, an' floats an'
dives like a fish--nice actions for a grievin' lady, if you ask me! Do
set a moment, Austin; set down an' tell me about the fire; I ain't had no
details at all, an' I'm feelin' real bad--" But the door had already
slammed behind Austin's hurrying figure.

"Sylvia, Sylvia, where are you?"

He ploughed along for what seemed like endless miles, calling as he went,
and hearing his own voice come back to him, over and over again, like a
mocking spirit. The wind, the rain, and the darkness conspired together
to make what was rough travelling in the daytime almost impassable;
strong as he was, Austin sank down more than once for a few minutes on
some fallen log over which he stumbled. At these times the vision of
Sylvia standing in the midst of the still-smoking ruins of the
buildings, which had been, in spite of their wretched condition, dear to
him because they were almost all he had in the world, seemed to rise
before him with horrible reality: Sylvia, dressed in her black, black
clothes, with her soft dark hair, and her deep-blue eyes, and her vivid
red lips which so seldom either drooped or smiled but lay tightly closed
together, a crimson line in her white face, which was no more sorrowful
than it was mask-like. The expression was as pure and as sad and as
gentle as that of a Mater Dolorosa he had chanced to see in a collection
of prints at the Wallacetown Library, and yet--and yet--Austin knew
instinctively that the dead husband, whoever he might have been, and his
own brother Thomas were not the only men besides himself who had found it
irresistibly alluring.

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