_ Chapter XX
The next evening Maria, as usual, went to church with her two aunts. Henry Stillman remained at home reading the Sunday paper. He took a certain delight in so doing, although he knew, in the depths of his soul, that his delight was absurd. He knew perfectly well that it did not make a feather's weight of difference in the universal scheme of things that he, Henry Stillman, should remain at home and read the columns of scandal and politics in that paper, instead of going to church, and yet he liked to think that his small individuality and its revolt because of its injuries at the hands of fate had its weight, and was at least a small sting of revenge.
He watched his wife adjust her bonnet before the looking-glass in the sitting-room, and arrange carefully the bow beneath her withered chin, and a great pity for her, because she was no longer as she had been, but was so heavily marked by time, and a great jealousy that she should not lose the greatest of all things, which he himself had lost, came over him. As she--a little, prim, mild woman, in her old-fashioned winter cape and her bonnet, with its stiff tuft of velvet pansies--passed him, he caught her thin, black-gloved hand and drew her close to him.
"I'm glad you are going to church, Eunice," he said.
Eunice colored, and regarded him with a kind of abashed wonder.
"Why don't you come, too, Henry?" she said, timidly.
"No, I've quit," replied Henry. "I've quit begging where I don't get any alms; but as for you, if you get anything that satisfies your soul, for God's sake hold on to it, Eunice, and don't let it go." Then he pulled her bonneted head down and kissed her thin lips, with a kind of tenderness which was surprising. "You've been a good wife, Eunice," he said.
Eunice laid her hand on his shoulder and looked at him a second. She was almost frightened. Outward evidences of affection had not been frequent between them of late years, or indeed ever. They were New-Englanders to the marrow of their bones. Anything like an outburst of feeling or sentiment, unless in case of death or disaster, seemed abnormal. Henry realized his wife's feeling, and he smiled up at her.
"We are getting to be old folks," he said, "and we've had more bitter than sweet in life, and we have neither of us ever said much as to how we felt to each other, but--I never loved you as much as I love you now, Eunice, and I've taken it into my head to say it."
Eunice's lips quivered a little and her eyes reddened. "There ain't a woman in Amity who has had so good a husband as I have all these years, if you don't go to meeting," she replied. Then she added, after a second's pause: "I didn't know as you did feel just as you used to, Henry. I didn't know as any man did. I know I've lost my looks, and--"
"I can seem to see your looks, brighter than ever they were, in your heart," said Henry. He colored himself a little at his own sentiment. Then he pulled her face down to his again and gave her a second kiss. "Now run along to your meeting," he said. "Have you got enough on? The wind sounds cold."
"Yes," replied Eunice. "This cape's real thick. I put a new lining in it this winter, you know, and, besides, I've got my crocheted jacket under it. I'm as warm as toast."
Eunice, after she had gone out in the keen night air with her sister-in-law and her niece, reflected with more uneasiness than pleasure upon her husband's unwonted behavior.
"Does it seem to you that Henry looks well lately?" she asked the elder Maria, as they hurried along.
"Yes; why not?" returned Maria.
"I don't know. It seems to me he's been losing flesh."
"Nonsense!" said Maria. "I never saw him looking better than he does now. I was thinking only this morning that he was making a better, healthier old man than he was as a young man. But I do wish he would go to meeting. I don't think his mind is right about some things. Suppose folks do have troubles. They ought to be led to the Lord by them, instead of pulling back. Henry hasn't had anything more to worry him, nor half as much, as most men. He don't take things right. He ought to go to meeting."
"I guess he's just as good as a good many who do go to meeting," returned Eunice, with unwonted spirit.
"I don't feel competent to judge as to that," replied Maria, with a tone of aggravating superiority. Then she added, "'By their works ye shall know them.'"
"I would give full as much for Henry's chances as for some who go to meeting every Sunday of their lives," said Eunice, with still more spirit. "And as for trials, they weigh heavier on some than on others."
Then young Maria, who had been listening uneasily, broke in. She felt herself a strong partisan of her Aunt Eunice, for she adored her uncle, but she merely said that she thought Uncle Henry did look a little thin, and she supposed he was tired Sunday, and it was the only day he had to rest; then she abruptly changed the whole subject by wondering if the Ramseys across the river would let Jessy go to church if she trimmed a hat for her with some red velvet and a feather which she had in her possession.
"No, they wouldn't!" replied her aunt Maria, sharply, at once diverted. "I can tell you just exactly what they would do, if you were to trim up a hat with that red velvet and that feather and give it to that young one. Her good-for-nothing mother would have it on her own head in no time, and go flaunting out in it with that man that boards there."
Nothing could excel the acrimonious accent with which Aunt Maria weighed down the "man who boards there," and the acrimony was heightened by the hoarseness of her voice. Her cold was still far from well, but Aunt Maria stayed at home from church for nothing short of pneumonia.
The church was about half a mile distant. The meeting was held in a little chapel built out like an architectural excrescence at the side of the great, oblong, wooden structure, with its piercing steeple. The chapel windows blazed with light. People were flocking in. As they entered, a young lady began to play on an out-of-tune piano, which Judge Josiah Saunders had presented to the church. She played a Moody-and-Sankey hymn as a sort of prologue, although nobody sang it. It was a curious custom which prevailed in the Amity church. A Moody-and-Sankey hymn was always played in evening meetings instead of the morning voluntary on the great organ.
Maria and her two aunts moved forward and seated themselves. Maria looked absently at the smooth expanse of hair which showed below the hat of the girl who was playing. The air was played very slowly, otherwise the little audience might have danced a jig to it. Maria thought of the meetings which she used to attend in Edgham, and how she used to listen to the plaint of the whippoorwill on the river-bank while the little organ gave out its rich, husky drone. This, somehow, did not seem so religious to her. She remembered how she had used to be conscious of Wollaston Lee's presence, and how she had hoped he would walk home with her, and she reflected with what shame and vague terror she now held him constantly in mind. Then she thought of George Ramsey, and directly, without seeing him, she became aware that he was seated on her right and was furtively glancing at her. A wild despair seized her at the thought that he might offer to accompany her home, and how she must not allow it, and how she wanted him to do so. She kept her head steadfastly averted. The meeting dragged on. Men rose and spoke and prayed, at intervals the out-of-tune piano was invoked. A woman behind Maria sang contralto with a curious effect, as if her head were in a tin-pail. There were odd, dull, metallic echoes about it which filled the whole chapel. The woman's daughter had some cheap perfume on her handkerchief, and she was incessantly removing it from her muff. A man at the left coughed a good deal. Maria saw in front of her Lily Merrill's graceful brown head, in a charming hat with red roses under the brim, and a long, soft, brown feather. Lily's mother was not with her. Dr. Ellridge did not attend evening meetings, and Mrs. Merrill always remained at home in the hope that he might call.
After church was over, Maria stuck closely to her aunts. She even pushed herself between them, but they did not abet her. Both Eunice and Aunt Maria had seen George Ramsey, and they had their own views. Maria could not tell how it happened, but at the door of the chapel she found herself separated from both her aunts, and George Ramsey was asking if he might accompany her home. Maria obeyed her instincts, although the next moment she could have killed herself for it. She smiled, and bowed, and tucked her little hand into the crook of the young man's offered arm. She did not see her aunts exchanging glances of satisfaction.
"It will be a real good chance for her," said Eunice.
"Hush, or somebody will hear you," said Maria, in a sharp, pleased tone, as she and her sister-in-law walked together down the moonlit street.
Maria did not see Lily Merrill's start and look of piteous despair as she took George's arm. Lily was just behind her. Maria, in fact, saw nothing. She might have been walking in a vacuum of emotion.
"It is a beautiful evening," said George Ramsey, and his voice trembled a little.
"Yes, beautiful," replied Maria.
Afterwards, thinking over their conversation, she could not remember that they had talked about anything else except the beauty of the evening, but had dwelt incessantly upon it, like the theme of a song.
The aunts lagged behind purposely, and Maria went in Eunice's door. She thought that her niece would ask George to come in and she would not be in the way. Henry looked inquiringly at the two women, who had an air of mystery, and Maria responded at once to his unspoken question.
"George Ramsey is seeing her home," she said, "and the front-door key is under the mat, and I thought Maria could ask him in, and I would go home through the cellar, and not be in the way. Three is a company." Maria said the last platitude with a silly simper.
"I never saw anything like you women," said Henry, with a look of incredulous amusement. "I suppose you both of you have been making her wedding-dress, and setting her up house-keeping, instead of listening to the meeting."
"I heard every word," returned Maria, with dignity, "and it was a very edifying meeting. It would have done some other folks good if they had gone, and as for Maria, she can't teach school all her days, and here is her father with a second wife."
"Well, you women do beat the Dutch," said her brother, with a tenderly indulgent air, as if he were addressing children.
Aunt Maria lingered in her brother's side of the house, talking about various topics. She hesitated even about her stealthy going through the cellar, lest she should disturb Maria and her possible lover. Now and then she listened. She stood close to the wall. Finally she said, with a puzzled look to Eunice, who was smoothing out her bonnet-strings, "It's queer, but I can't hear them talking."
"Maybe he didn't come in," said Eunice.
"If they are in the parlor, you couldn't hear them," said Henry, still with his half-quizzical, half-pitying air.
"She would have taken him in the parlor--I should think she would have known enough to," said Eunice; "and you can't always hear talking in the parlor in this room."
Maria made a move towards her brother's parlor, on the other side of the tiny hall.
"I guess you are right," said she, "and I know she would have taken him in there. I started a fire in there on purpose before I went to meeting. It was borne in upon me that somebody might come home with her."
Maria tiptoed into the parlor, with Eunice, still smoothing her bonnet-strings, at her heels. Both women stood close to the wall, papered with white-and-gold paper, and listened.
"I can't hear a single thing," said Maria.
"I can't either," said Eunice. "I don't believe he did come in."
"It's dreadful queer, if he didn't," said Maria, "after the way he eyed her in meeting."
"Suppose you go home through the cellar, and see," said Eunice.
"I guess I will," said Maria. "I'll knock low on the wall when I get home, if he isn't there."
The cellar stairs connected with the kitchen on either side of the Stillman house. Both women flew out into the kitchen, and Maria disappeared down the cellar stairs, with a little lamp which Eunice lit for her. Then Eunice waited. Presently there came a muffled knock on the wall.
"No, he didn't come in," Eunice said to her husband, as she re-entered the sitting-room.
Suddenly Eunice pressed her ear close to the sitting-room wall. Two treble voices were audible on the other side, but not a word of their conversation. "Maria and she are talking," said Eunice.
What Aunt Maria was saying was this, in a tone of sharp wonder:
"Where is he?"
"Who?" responded Maria.
"Why, you know as well as I do--George Ramsey." Aunt Maria looked sharply at her niece. "I hope you asked him in, Maria Edgham?" said she.
"No, I didn't," said Maria.
"Why didn't you?"
"I was tired, and I wanted to go to bed."
"Wanted to go to bed? Why, it's only a little after nine o'clock!"
"Well, I can't help it, I'm tired." Maria spoke with a weariness which was unmistakable. She looked away from her aunt with a sort of blank despair.
Aunt Maria continued to regard her. "You do act the queerest of any girl I ever saw," said she. "There was a nice fire in the parlor, and I thought you could offer him some refreshments. There is some of that nice cake, and some oranges, and I would have made some cocoa."
"I didn't feel as if I could sit up," Maria said again, in her weary, hopeless voice. She went out into the kitchen, got a little lamp, and returned. "Good-night," she said to her aunt.
"Good-night," replied Aunt Maria. "You are a queer girl. I don't see what you think."
Maria went up-stairs, undressed, and went to bed. After she was in bed she could see the reflection of her aunt's sitting-room lamp on the ground outside, in a slanting shaft of light. Then it went out, and Maria knew that her aunt was also in bed in her little room out of the sitting-room. Maria could not go to sleep. She heard the clock strike ten, then eleven. Shortly after eleven she heard a queer sound, as of small stones or gravel thrown on her window. Maria was a brave girl. Her first sensation was one of anger.
"What is any one doing such a thing as that for?" she asked herself. She rose, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and went straight to the window next the Merrill house, whence the sound had come. She opened it cautiously and peered out. Down on the ground below stood a long, triangle-shaped figure, like a night-moth.
"Who is it?" Maria called, in a soft voice. She was afraid, for some reason which she could not define, of awakening her aunt. She was more afraid of that than anything else.
A little moan answered her; the figure moved as if in distress.
"Who is it? What do you want?" Maria asked again.
A weak voice answered her then, "It's I."
"Who's I? Lily?"
"Yes. Oh, do let me in, Maria." Lily's voice ended in a little, hysterical sob.
"Hush," said Maria, "or Aunt Maria will hear you. Wait a minute." Maria unlocked her door with the greatest caution, opened it, and crept down-stairs. Then she unlocked and opened the front door. Luckily Aunt Maria's room was some feet in the rear. "Come quick," Maria whispered, and Lily came running up to her. Then Maria closed and locked the front door, while Lily stood trembling and waiting. Then she led her up-stairs in the dark. Lily's slender fingers closed upon her with a grasp of ice. When they were once in Maria's room, with the door closed and locked, Maria took hold of Lily violently by the shoulders. She felt at once rage and pity for her.
"What on earth is the matter, Lily Merrill, that you come over here this time of night?" she asked. Then she added, in a tone of horror, "Lily Merrill, you haven't a thing on but a skirt and your night-gown under your shawl. Have you got anything on your feet?"
"Slippers," answered Lily, meekly. Then she clung to Maria and began to sob hysterically.
"Come, Lily Merrill, you just stop this and get into bed," said Maria. She unwound Lily's shawl, pulled off her skirt, and fairly forced her into bed. Then she got in beside her. "What on earth is the matter?" she asked again.
Lily's arm came stealing around her and Lily's cold, wet cheek touched her face. "Oh, Maria!" she sobbed, under her breath.
"Well, what is it all about?"
"Oh, Maria, are--are you--"
"Am I what?"
"Are you going with him?"
"With whom?"
"With George--with George Ramsey?" A long, trembling sob shook Lily.
"I am going with nobody," answered Maria, in a hard voice.
"But he came home with you. I saw him; I did, Maria." Lily sobbed again.
"Well, what of it?" asked Maria, impatiently. "I didn't care anything about his going home with me."
"Didn't he come in?"
"No, he didn't."
"Didn't you--ask him?"
"No, I didn't."
"Maria."
"Well, what?"
"Maria, aren't you going to marry him if he asks you?"
"No," said Maria, "I am never going to marry him, if that is what you want to know. I am never going to marry George Ramsey."
Lily sobbed.
"I should think you would be ashamed of yourself. I should think any girl would, acting so," said Maria. Her voice was a mere whisper, but it was cruel. She felt that she hated Lily. Then she realized how icy cold the girl was and how she trembled from head to feet in a nervous chill. "You'll catch your death," she said.
"Oh, I don't care if I do!" Lily said, in her hysterical voice, which had now a certain tone of comfort.
Maria considered again how much she despised and hated her, and again Lily shook with a long tremor. Maria got up and tiptoed over to her closet, where she kept a little bottle of wine which the doctor had ordered when she first came to Amity. It was not half emptied. A wineglass stood on the mantel-shelf, and Maria filled it with the wine by the light of the moon. Then she returned to Lily.
"Here," she said, still in the same cruel voice. "Sit up and drink this."
"What is it?" moaned Lily.
"Never mind what it is. Sit up and drink it."
Lily sat up and obediently drank the wine, every drop.
"Now lie down and keep still, and go to sleep, and behave yourself," said Maria.
Lily tried to say something, but Maria would not listen to her.
"Don't you speak another word," said she. "Keep still, or Aunt Maria will be up. Lie still and go to sleep."
It was not long before, warmed by the wine and comforted by Maria's assertion that she was never going to marry George Ramsey, that Lily fell asleep. Maria lay awake hearing her long, even breaths, and she felt how she hated her, how she hated herself, how she hated life. There was no sleep for her. Just before dawn she woke Lily, bundled her up in some extra clothing, and went with her across the yard, home.
"Now go up to your own room just as still as you can," said she, and her voice sounded terrible even in her own ears. She waited until she heard the key softly turn in the door of the Merrill house. Then she sped home and up to her own room. Then she lay down in bed again and waited for broad daylight. _