A Village Dressmaker

THEY might have reminded one of the chorus of old voices in a Greek play, — the two old women in the last daylight, with but one thought between them; their interest was so impersonal. Life was to them a grave affair; they regarded its slow unfolding with serious, apprehensive eyes. Its tone was that of the dull russet of the long fields and round-backed hills that made their dreary outlook most of the year. They expected nothing fortunate. Their dead level of monotony was disturbed by only one ray of sunshine, — the going and coming of Susanne.

“I do’no’ but it makes me feel real young again, ter see Susanne come along,” said one of them, her needle in the air. “She rises the hill like a bird. There’s a color in that face, and a touch and go in them feet, thet puts me in mind o’ myself fifty years sence. It’s a gret while ago. Oh, I’d liketer be young again. But there, what’s the use!”

“No use at all,” sighed the other, holding at a new angle her needle’s impossible flower. “ No more ’n ter run ef ye see the sky a-fallin’. I’d ’a’ made thin’s diffrunt, seems ter me. Leastwise so fur’s a woman’s growin’ old comes to.”

“ There would n’t be gran’mothers an’ gret-aunts, ef they did n’t grow old.”

“I guess the gran’mothers an’ gretaunts might be considered. You better believe they don’t like it. I guess the children can go ’thout gran’mothers better ’n the gran’mothers can go ’thout youth.”

“I think it would be good to be a gran’mother.”

“I’m ’shamed on ye, Cely! I’d liketer be Susanne’s age forever!”

“That’s askin’ tew much, Ann. I do’no’ but w’at I’d liketer stayed — say forty, a hunderd year, W’en yer forty, ef you was pretty you ’re pretty still, and ef you was n’t you’re jes’ beginnin’ ter be; an’you’ve got real common-sense fer the fust time. Yes; I’d liketer’ve stayed forty a hunderd year, an’ then be blowed away.”

“You’d be dreadin’ the blow dretfle, come the ninety-ninth,” said Miss Ann, with an absent look.

“I’d feel I’d hed my sheer. As ’t is, you don’t no sooner sense thin’s, ’n puff, they’ve gone by!”

“Wal, I’m glad Susanne’s young, any way. It makes me ache sometimes ter think on her growin’ old like us.”

“ She won’t grow old like us,” said Miss Celia, bringing her gaze back from outdoors. “Don’t ye see w’at makes thet step so light ? Her heart jes’ lifts her feet. He ain’t wuth it, ef he is Squire’s son. Lor,’ I knowed his mother! But gels will be gels to the eend o’ the chapter.”

“To the eend o’ the chapter,” sighed Miss Ann again. And she threaded her needle and went back to her tambourwork. “Don Davison’s a takin’ feller,” she said. “His father was afore him. Seems ter me my spettacles ain’t no kind o’ good!” And she glanced furtively at her sister.

“Any how,” said Miss Celia, “I s’pose we’ve gotter be content ’ith thin’s as they’re ordered.”

“Content’s one thin’, an’ happiness is another,” said Miss Ann, snipping her thread.

“Then, ef we can’t hev happiness of our own, we’ve gotter git it makin’ the happiness of others. An’ for my part I’m happy w’en I see Susanne happy.”

“So be I, so be I! There she is now; ” as Susanne came in with her arms full of parcels.

The eyes were bright, large soft hazel eyes. But the seashell color on the cheek was the work of the wind, and already fading. The smile, however, made the face luminous. If they had not loved the girl neither of the old sisters would have liked that madonna type; but a painter might have called her beautiful. A certain serenity of nature, apparent in the quiet face, made you think of the shrine where a lamp burns on a windless night.

Don Davison himself thought Susanne only pleasant-looking. But he had known her since childhood; and at last he had decided that, in default of better, her companionship for life was his desire. And Susanne, whose emotions had revolved around him silently for years, went walking on air.

It was agreed that nothing should be said of the affair at present, except to the old aunts. Her happiness was so great, Susanne would keep it to herself a while before the village picked it to pieces. The village would think Susanne was doing veiy well for herself, — she the dressmaker of the region, he the son of Squire Davison, but lately come into his inheritance.

“Wal, Susanne,” said the old aunts in chorus, “Mis’ Pinckney satersfied ? Pay ye?”

“Yes, indeed, Aunt Ann. More than I expected, Aunt Celia. She said she’d never had one set so since the gown she stood up to be merried in!”

“Sho!”

“And that put me in mind — and what do you guess I did? I’m most ’shamed to tell! I walked clear ’way over to Riverport, so’t the store-folks here would n’t know.” And the blush mantled her face again as she unrolled first a piece of sheer muslin, and then a roll of net, and then a cloud of tulle.

“For the land’s sake, Susanne!” cried Miss Ann.

“A wedding-veil!” cried Miss Celia.

“Yes. It warn’t dear, either. The other thin’s were cheap. I’d always thought they cost lots more. I’ll embroider the musling,” fluffing it over her hands, “ and let in the net in sprays an’ branches, and it’ll look like frost on the pane —”

“ ’T will be reel lace,” said Miss Celia.

“But, my gracious, child, the time it’ll take!” said Miss Ann.

“I shall do it in the odd minutes. I would n’t think of it, only — you know, — his — his wife” — and the blush followed the word again, — “ ought to come to him in the best.” In the fullness of her heart she must speak to some one — and the old chorus was, after all, a part of herself. And then, to take their eager eyes from her face, she threw net and tulle over them, as they held their heads together, till they looked as if a snowstorm had fallen on two gnarled and withered trees. And she lifted a corner, and fell upon them with kisses, and gathered it all about herself in surprise, as Don came in and stared at her, having no idea Susanne could ever look like that!

She hurried her finery away before she went out into the orchard with Don. But when later she took it up to the spare room, where she did her sewing, and planned the way she would cut and let in the lace for the garlands of flowers, she was in such an ecstasy as painter or sculptor knows over the dream of his ideal, and it seemed to her that beauty could do no more.

The orchard was always a treasurehouse to Susanne. After long wintry weather the first swelling of its buds was like the promise of a friend; and when the twisted boughs were wreathed in bloom, she felt the presence of sweet unknown force, and walking under the fragrant boughs she often impulsively and unconsciously lifted hand and face to caress them. “I shall work apple-blossoms,” she said. “I owe it to them. The dear appletree stands by the door, and is a part of home, and stretches its boughs like a great brooding mother-bird. There could n’t be anything better for a wedding-gown.”

It was very inexpensive stuff, the muslin, the bobbinet; but the art of her fancy and her fingers would make it something fine, as the woman marrying Don ought to wear. She knew nothing of mighty Chapman’s Helen of Troy, “shadowing her beauty in white veils,” but the picture she had of herself when Don should see her arrayed in this snowy cloud, — no, the picture she had of Don, at that future moment, made her heart stand still with joy.

How long she had loved him, — with what worship! And no one had ever guessed it. He had never known it till now. She had never let her thoughts dwell on it an instant, till its compressed intensity startled her into blushes whenever Don was near; blushes that made her all at once so radiant that he wondered at himself for dallying, — and dallied then no longer.

Susanne would have plenty of time for the work she planned; her aunts, who added to their little income by transferring the French embroidery on old capes and collars and kerchiefs to new ones, having long ago taught her all their pretty open and closed stitches. Don was starting for the West, where were some doubtful mortgages of his father’s, and it would take time to adjust affairs there. And although Susanne would cut and baste most of the summer and fall gowns for the upper and lower parishes, she would have this also done by October. And it was then that she would go to the old place under the sycamores where Don was born and where she meant to make his life as happy as a fortunate dream. What hopes, what prayers, what tenderness, what faith went into those odd moments of her weaving flower and leaf and stem, while her flying needle left the trail of snowy bud and bloom behind it! You, who have ordered your wedding splendor from afar, can guess of it. You who have wrought with your own hand, counting the threads, can feel the old thrill in thinking of it. And neither of you can have had anything much lovelier than the mimic frost-work fallen on all the folds when the task was finished.

Don wrote from the West, of course. If the tone of quiet affection in the first letter touched her passionate adoration with a chill, she rebuked herself. She said that was Don’s way; he had always found it difficult to express himself fully. She knew he loved her; he had said so. That was enough. She read and re-read what he did say, and carried the letter next her heart till another came. But she answered it in the same tranquil phrase; anything else she felt indelicate.

As time went on. to be sure, another was slow to arrive. But what of that ? He trusted her to understand; it was all the more welcome when it did come, even if brief, and, as she might have thought, a trifle cool.

It was long past the promised date when Don himself arrived. Being in the West it had seemed worth while to see it and have its experiences. At last he wrote that all was done for the present; but he would have to go out again some day, and then he would be taking his wife with him. The phrase made Susanne’s face burn and ripple with smiles, and tears of pure happiness overflowed her eyes like live crystals.

She could not help showing that letter to her aunts; and the old chorus trembled and fluttered and exclaimed together, and felt the action of the drama, and went secretly to break off a fragment of the remnant of the wedding-cake, baked in a saucer, and taste it with deliberation and chirping, and pronounce it as good as that of Susanne’s mother, — “at least, if there had been just one drop more of the O-bejoyful in it!”

And while they were doing that, Susanne went and looked at the wedding-gown overlaid with the veil, finished and put away in one of the deep drawers of the old armoire, with a reverent joy. It was the outward and visible token of Don’s love and of all her blest future.

And after that a week passed, and other weeks. There was a light then in Don’s room in the old mansion; a light in the dining-room there, too. Don would be with her presently. She kindled a fire on the hearth of the keeping-room, and waited. The clock in the other room struck nine; a long hour, and it struck again. She heard her aunts make ready for the night, and go creaking up-stairs, glad in what they thought her gladness. And still Don did not come. The fire threw strange shadows about the dim place, — disquieting shadows; they seemed to threaten her. An owl in the beechwood thicket at the foot of the orchard began to shrill his unearthly laughter as if he were mocking her.

There were no lights now in the Squire’s house. It must have been a mistake; probably the housekeeper had been arranging the rooms for him. She went to the door and looked out at the night, the soft purple starry night across whose deep a meteor slipped. It gave her a strange sensation of change, — how soon gladness and grief would be gone, — and the stars above still there! She could not have told why it impressed her with foreboding and dull terror.

But the next day she knew that without doubt Don was at home. The postmaster had seen him going into Captain Mayhew’s. Then he would certainly be with her before night, she said. It was impossible to sew. She went joyously down the orchard, that he might come after her there in all the spicy odors of the apple heaps; and she sat looking out at the champaign country that stretched below and beyond till lost in violet vapors. But although she lingered till the red sunset burned like a coal in the ashes of the mists, and the smoke of burning woods and stubble was heavy and pungent on the air whose evening chill wrapped her like a cold cloak, Don did not come.

Susanne rose with a heavy heart in the morning. The bright blue garish day made her dizzy. She knew she had no right to feel so, but something told her Don would never come again. She assorted her patterns, and sharpened her scissors, and went to work.

“Cely,” whispered Miss Ann, her eyes looking as if they had seen a ghost, “did you know Don Davison was to home?”

“I seen him ten days ago,” said Miss Celia. “He was along ’ith that Mayhew gel, — the one thet’s jes’ home fum the ’Cademy. An’ he was lookin’s ef he never see blue eyes an’ yaller hair afore.”

“Rony Mayhew is kind o’ pretty, — peaches an’ cream sort. Should n’t you ’a’ thought he’d ’a’ ben ter see Susanne fust thin’?”

“Certain.”

“S’pose she knows he’s back?”

“Look an’ see,” said Miss Celia.

“Oh, Cely! Oh, Ann!” sighed the old chorus, as at some remembrance too remote for tears. “You rekerlek his father!”

Yes, Susanne knew. She was going about in a half bewildered way. Her face had grown pallid, her features sharp, her wide-open eyes had the gloom of eyes that look into a bottomless abyss.

“She’s thinner ’n her own shadder,” said Miss Ann.

“Don Davison don’t desarve no sech feelin’.”

“An’ his father did n’t afore him.” they sighed together again in chorus.

One day came a last letter to Susanne. Don told her that it was best he should be frank. That he had thought she was the one he would take home, and with whom he should live his life. If she held him to the bond, it should be so now, and no more said. But when he made the bond he had not seen Rowena Mayhew. Now, life would hardly be worth living without Rowena. Of course he was not sure; but he thought Rowena felt as he did. He was glad no one had been told of their past relations. He would never speak of them, — not even to Rowena. He was fond of Susanne; but he hoped she would see there had been a mistake, and remain his friend, as he was always hers.

His friend! The great tide of love surged back upon her heart, a frozen flood. To be thrown away like a leaf withered in one’s hand! To suppose she could hold him to his bond! And for that child! She walked the room as if driven by a whirlwind; and then she sat among her threads and thrums and patterns, turned to stone. But at last the drop of angry blood fired all the rest; she tore the letter, whose only warmth was that she had given it, from its resting-place, put it with this and with the others, with the pencil case he had given her, with the slender gold chain that had been his mother’s, and that she had taken with a double love, his dead mother having to her a certain religious sanctity. And she took the ring, that she had worn on a ribbon round her neck, the little plain band that was to have been her wedding-ring, and to be buried with her that she might rise with it on her hand the last day; and she made a parcel and went out after dark, her head wrapped in a shawl, and left it in the hands of the old woman who opened the Davison door and peered after her. “Looks like Susanne,” muttered the old housekeeper. “But can’t be. ’T aint jes’ her size, neither. Can’t be thet Mayhew gal, mebbe? They’re about of a talth.” And her old heart leaped with hope; if the Mayhew girl had brought back Don’s presents, she, who had grown gray in the place, would not be leaving it.

And Susanne, hurrying home in the black night, with the wind blowing up storm, wished that the darkness might swallow her, and annihilate her, and hinder her forever from all knowing and feeling. Storm and darkness had always terrified Susanne; she had felt like a straw, a mote, in the grasp of the strong unseen wind. But now they were a part of her, — if they could but take her to themselves!

Susanne sat down in her ashes. And the old aunts sat in ashes, too.

“It’s too bad, dears, to make you so gloomy,” said Susanne at last, one morning when the world seemed wrapped in a gray veil. “You must n’t think I care. Much, that is. Only it is in gettin’ used to the change.” And by and by, when her aunts heard her singing over her work, a gay song she had many a time sung with Don, they looked at each other in consternation, and then looked out of the window to see if the snow were really falling, or if it were only the drift of the cherry-petals of last spring, when the bees were swarming, and before any of this coil came about.

“ Land sakes, how can she! ” said Miss Ann.

“I’d ’a’ thought she’d ben more tenacious,” said Miss Celia. “But he’s ben gone this some time, and absence is like hangin’ suthin’ on the line to fade.”

Susanne had carried to the minister’s wife the new alpaca she had cut and basted for her. It had stopped snowing; and the wide country-side, in its soft folds of white under the pale purpling sky, that a month ago would have made it seem as if the round earth were taking wings, now stretched like the desert of her forsaken life before her. Nothing mattered any more.

“Massy sakes, Susanne!” her Aunt Ann exclaimed, as she came in, staying the pruning of her red geraniums, “who do you guess hes ben here?”

“You’ll have ter know. It’s Rowena Mayhew,” said her Aunt Celia, before Susanne had time to guess. “She’s brought her trousser, she says. She wants you to make her dresses.”

“Make her dresses!”

“ Wal, I thought so, too, the little tyke! But then again you might n’t wanter lose the job; an’ set folks ter talkin’, tew. And I told her ter leave the thin’s” —

“ Oh, that’s all right. I ’ll make them,” said Susanne unconcernedly. “ How good that gingerbread smells! I’ll have a piece.”

“Dear me, dear me!” said the old chorus again, when she had gone. “How can she!”

But Susanne did not let herself think. What difference did anything make ? It was all in the day’s work.

Rowena came to the village dressmaker the next day; and Susanne took her up to the sewing-room. It was impossible not to see how pretty the girl was, as she hovered over and undid the parcels. What jewel eyes under their long curling lashes, what rose-leaf skin, what sweetness in the smile! How innocent the little thing was, — perhaps how ignorant, — but what a childish grace and charm! No wonder, no wonder — Not that Susanne thought any of this; it was only the instant’s impression.

“There’s two prints, and a white piqué, and a cashmere, and an organdie, and a silk, and a blue flannel wrapper. And I think that’s doing pretty well, don’t you?” said Rowena. “I did think of goin’ to the city. Father said I might. But you made Mis’ Pinkney’s thin’s so stylish ” —

“You’re real kind,” said Susanne, as she was expected to say, leaning on the tip of her scissors.

“No,” said Rowena, “you’re the kind one, to make ’em with all you have to do, and me in such a hurry. And then, you know it’s a savin’ to me, the difference in price, and I’ll have that much more to spend on the parlor. I want a parlor all my own, and not his mother’s an’ gran’mother’s old thin’s!” Susanne caught her breath; they would have been so sacred to her! “Of course, Mr. Davison says he’ll git everythin’ I want,” continued Rowena. “But you know I don’t want him to get everythin’!”

“No,” said Susanne. “How you goin’ ter have them made?”

“I don’t know. How would you?”

“They’re nice colors,” said Susanne.

“Oh, I see you love pretty thin’s, an’ so do I,”cried Rowena. “I know you ’ll make them up elegant!” And she threw off her wraps and began to rummage among Susanne’s poor fashion-plates. “Oh, it don’t seem true, it don’t seem possible,” she said, looking up, — the large, liquid eyes like blue flowers full of dew in the morning, — “ that it’s me, that I’m goin’ to be married, — and to him! You’ve known him this ever so long — don’t you think he’s — he’s” —

“ He’ll make you a real good husband,” said Susanne. “This cashmere would go well with terra-cotta bands.”

“And is n’t this organdie lovely ? I’ll have it flounced,” and she threw an end of it round her face and ran to the glass. “ Won’t I look like a rose in it ? Don says I will.”

“Now I’ll take your measures,” said Susanne. “You can come this day next week,”—when she had set down the last number.

“Oh, can’t I come before that? You know there is n’t so very much time. Don’s in such a takin’ to have it soon.”

“I’ll put by Mis’ Green’s caliker, an’ you can come to-morrer,” said Susanne.

“You’re jest an angel!” cried Rowena. “I wonder Don didn’t take you instid o’ me! He’s known you so long — and you ’re so good. And you ’re reely so pretty, too! But love goes where it’s sent,” she added sagely. “My! You must be tired! You’ve gone all white. Why don’t you set down an’ rest ? He give me this watch,” — putting it on again. “ It was his sister’s. His sister and I would have ben reel good frien’s. How I am talkin’! There’s somethin’ about you makes me, — I don’t know why. You ’re jest the same’s you was at the Districk School when I was a tot an’ you useter take me into your seat an’ give me nice bits of your dinners an’ wash my face an’ han’s, an’ kiss me afterwards. You listen, — an’ your great, serious eyes — don’t you never smile? Oh, I haven’t had any one I could say thin’s to, and I’m so happy I can’t keep it to myself! I don’t suppose you can understand it as well as if you’d ever ben engaged yourself. It’s, — it’s like a new world. Don says he never was truly in love before, and I’m sure I never was! And I never dreamed of such good luck, — it is good luck, is n’t it, to marry a good man; and a man you — you care for; and a rich man, too, you know ! I shall be the great lady here. Won’t the Academy girls be surprised! Oh, I know you think I’m dretfle silly, runnin’ on so! I know I had n’t orter” —

“That’s all right,” said Susanne, taking the pins out of her mouth. “ Now you can go.”

“But can’t I stay and sew with you ?” asked Rowena wheedlingly, her pretty head on one side. “I’d love to!”

“No. I shouldn’t git along so fast. Here’s your jacket. Good-by.” And the little person found herself outside the door, without knowing exactly how she got there.

Susanne flung her scissors across the floor, and fell herself, with her arms outstretched and her face hidden from the light of day. She could not have endured it another moment. Her brain was burning; her heart was a lump of ice. If she could only die! Perhaps an hour passed before she lifted her head. Everything in the familiar room seemed strange. Something had happened; some shock had thrown her off her balance. Yes, she had been forsaken for this little creature who did not know when to speak and when to be silent, who wore her heart on her sleeve! Oh, to be sure, the gowns,— well, she would make them; she would make them so frivolous, so fit for a butterfly, that her husband should see and understand! She dragged herself up, and went across the narrow entry-way to her own room, and threw herself upon the bed, wishing she were never to leave it. And then a great sigh tore itself up to her lips, and she fell to crying bitterly, and in the midst of sobs and tears she was asleep.

When Susanne awoke, it was with the prosaic and practical assurance that she was wasting time shockingly. She bathed her face and smoothed her hair, and put on a fresh neck-ribbon; but her hands trembled so — not with cold, for the room was warmed by the pipe from the kitchen below — as she replaced the box, that she knocked the cover off another, the one where her little treasures were kept, her mother’s bosom-pin and yellow old marriage-certificate, certain bits of lace and dried flowers, and the small photograph of Don that she had not had the strength to return. There he looked back at her with grave, unsmiling eyes that made her heart shake as she gazed. She went to the old armoire and opened the deep drawer, and hung over the lovely whiteness lying there in the dusk, with its half-guessed wreaths of snowy bloom shining under the veil. So white, so still, so fair, — it was her dead happiness laid out there. How peaceful, how beautiful! Oh, she had said the best was not too good for Don’s wife! What matter who the wife might be? “No, no, no, Don!” she cried. “I will do my best. I will, I will do my best! ” And she went back to the other room and picked up her scissors.

She would do the organdie first. She would make the fine pink tissue all ruffles; the girl should look, as she had said, like a little rose in it, a hundred-leafed rose, the pretty thing! Small marvel that Don had dropped a gray stalk of rosemary for such a flower as that! Small marvel that he loved her. Who would n’t ? As she began to snip and sew, it almost seemed to Susanne then that she loved the girl herself. It was not her fault that Don had chosen one and flung another away; it was her good fortune. As for Susanne herself, was there anything in the world Don wanted that she would not give him ? He wanted this pretty dear for his wife. She ought to be glad, — she was glad! — that he could have her. She should go to him as his wife ought to go, dressed as if the wand of a fairy godmother had touched her!

Before the other gowns were quite finished, Rowena brought in the stuff for the gown in which she was to be married. It was a dazzling day of blue sky, with great clefts of ultramarine in the snow, whose sheets made a rosy glow in the blinded eyes; but suddenly it grew gray to Susanne.

“I wanted white satin,” said Rowena. “But mother said there’d be no use for it afterwards. I like a bride in white satin, — don’t you ? All shining and angel-like in her veil. I could have had it dyed, too, and worn it a lot. But mother thinks this nun’s-veiling’s good enough, — and what mother says goes. And I know you can dress it up with lots of little white satin ribbons. Somehow, white woolen stuff does look dreadful like a shroud. My goodness, you don’t suppose that’s ominous? I’m awful superstitious. If anything happened to me it would break Don’s heart. And, oh, I want to live, I’m so happy!” And the tears overflowing her limpid eyes made them now like stars shining in the dew of violets.

But the nun’s-veiling lay in its papers a good many days before Susanne opened them. “Why, you have n’t touched it!” exclaimed Rowena in dismay.

“There’s plenty of time,” said Susanne, not looking up.

“Why, no, there is n’t. There’s hardly any time at all. I thought you’d have it ready to try on. I’ve ben lookin’ forward to it. I’m reel disappointed,” — rolling the head of her hat-pin in her mouth as she spoke.

“I had ter finish Mis’ Lawyer Jones’s skirt. She’s goin’ away an’ could n’t wait.”

“I’d ’a’ come an’ helped you. You’d only had to send. Won’t you begin this now ?”

“ I ’ll see,” said Susanne. “ To-morrer, mebbe. I’ll send for you w’en it’s ready to try on.”

But days passed; and Susanne had not sent for Rowena. She said to herself she did not know what possessed her. It seemed impossible to touch the stuff. How could she make the gown for another woman to wear when marrying Don! The alternations of feeling, of determining and of hesitating, so wore upon her nerves that she went to bed with a headache that made her hands useless for anything but wringing.

“I suppose you’re all ready for me?” said Rowena, coming in eagerly, a tinge of anxiety on her joyousness.

“I will be to-morrer, shore,” said Susanne.

“Oh, you said so before!”

“I’ve ben sick.”

“Yes. I’m reel sorry. You’re all right now ? I’d ’a’ come an’ rubbed your head; I’m good at helpin’ headaches. But the time’s mighty short, Susanne, dear. I don’t want to have to put off my weddin’,”— with a pout. “It’s terrible bad luck. An’ Mr. Davison’ll feel so bad!”

“Oh, well, you won’t have to. You come Tuesday.”

And Rowena came Tuesday. And there lay the white veiling still uncut.

“ I declare I could cry! ” she exclaimed. “ You ’re treatin’ me reel mean! I’m sure you’ve had it long enough. And you promised! You promised!” And the blue eyes shot fire.

“Look here! You take it to Mis’ McIvor, — she’ll do it.”

“Oh, she can’t do anything like you! She ain’t got a speck o’ style. Besides, they’ve got scarlet fever in the house. And there ain’t any one else.” And she looked out the window with eyes held wide open lest the tears spilled. “I’ve gotter go over to Meridian to see Aunt Stearns this week, too, — she’s goin’to give me a whole set of French chiny. And you see that leaves no time at all for fittin’ an’ alterin’. Oh, I don’t want to cry an’ make my eyes all red, — you did n’t useter treat me this way, Susanne. I do feel so worried!”

“You need n’t worry. Go over to Meridian. I can make it fit me. And if it fits me, it will you.”

“You truly will have it ready, Susanne ? Cross your heart ? Hope you may die ?”

“Hope I may die,” said Susanne solemnly. And she did hope so.

Rowena had returned from Meridian; and she ran in like a thing of sun and summer. It was nipping weather outside, with raw March winds; but as she saw her, Susanne thought of a breeze rioting among roses. She made a quick movement to throw something over the table, where the veiling lay, scattered in loose blocks, not even pinned together.

“I thought you’d keep your word!” cried Rowena accusingly.

“I had Mis’ Cap’n Symon’s mournin’,” said Susanne sullenly. “And everythin’ hes ter give way ter mournin’.”

“Oh, what am I goin’ to do!”

“Wear your organdie.”

“And look that way, when a bride should look all white an’ sweet an’ solemn!”

“You couldn’t look solemn,” biting off her thread.

“I’ll have to stand up in that gray travelin’ dress,” cried Rowena with a sob. “And there’ll be no white procession a-sweepin’ in. And I can’t wear a veil. An’ no goin’ upstairs to change my dress! And it’s your fault. Susanne, I’ll never forgive you till the longest day I live! You’ve just spoiled my weddin’! And I don’t believe Don’ll forgive you, either, when I tell him! He asked me why I came to you to have my dresses made, anyway.”

Susanne did not look at her. “I can’t help it if folks die,” she said. “Mournin’s mournin’. Gownds fer funerals are jest as needfle as gownds fer weddin’s.”

“ It’s awful for you to talk so! It throws a gloom over everythin’. Mournin’ an’ funerals! An’ me so superstitious. And I never heard of disappointin’ a bride of her weddin’ gownd. I would n’t ’a’ done it if I’d had to set up nights. It’ll hurt your business a lot. You don’t know how you’ve disappointed me. You can’t have a speck o’ feelin’. You don’t know how bad I feel! ” And she wiped her eyes with the only dry spot left on her poor scrap of a handkerchief, and went out like a bird drooping its feathers. And Susanne stood looking over the russet fields that the winter had laid waste and spring was repairing with a sort of rosy breath in reddening rose-stems and greening willows, and wondered what ailed her that she seemed to have no will, no wish, — to be beside herself. She moved from day to night in a cloud, and lay from night to day in a blank of consciousness. Only when she was with the old aunts was she able to play the part that let them think her unconcerned.

One day, in passing, it chanced that she looked in the glass. She had looked without seeing, before. Was it herself? Was it an apparition? Was it only two great eyes gazing out of a cloud? “It is shameless!” she said. “To have come to that for the sake of a man who, — who has forgot I am alive! Selfish wretch, I am! I’ll make that gown if it kills me!” But it was too late.

“The waters, the waters of Meribah!” sighed the old chorus. “Oh, we have all drunk of them!”

“They’ve got lights in ’most every winder down ter the Mayhews’,” said Miss Ann, one night. “ It’s tew bad you could n’t git her gownd fixed, Susanne. As long as you set out.”

“I wisht Cap’n Symons could hev made out ter live a week longer,” said Miss Celia. “But’s I told Mis’ Mayhew, a widder ’s gotter hev her mournin’ jest’s much’s a bride. I was down ter help set out the supper table. I thought’t would show there war n’t no feelin’. Rony’d ben cryin’. Her mother said ef it hed ben daytime she would n’t ’a’ minded so much; but ter be merried in a travelin’ gownd in the night-time did look so poverty-struck. They’re goin’s fur as Buffalo.”

“Wal, we’d better be gittin’ on our thin’s, sister,” said the other. “I guess I’ll wear the vandykes ’ith the darnin’ needle stitch. You goin’ ter wear your cap ’ith purple ribbins?”

“No, I ain’t,” said Miss Ann, rather shortly. “Every old woman in the parish wears purple. I put pink ones on a-purpose. You ain’t comin’, Susanne ? P’raps’t would look better ef you did. I do’ no’, though. I do’ no ’s I would ef I was you.”

Susanne went upstairs, and opened her window on the soft night of early spring. “I’ll jest stifie!” she said. The stars, the stars of Don’s wedding night, hung mistily silver in the purple sky. The smell of the upturned furrows lay fresh on the damp air. The lights were blazing in the Mayhew house, and in the old Davison house on the Knoll, — Don’s wedding lights! Suddenly she turned, her heart beating in her finger-tips, her eyes shining in the dark. This was what had possessed her! This was what she had been waiting for! This — far back in her unread, unspoken intention — was what had hindered her! She must have meant to do it all the time, but had not said so to herself! Whether that was true or not, she ran now to the armoire and its deep drawer; she lifted over her level arms the long, lovely muslins and the veil, adjusting them quickly and lightly; she ran, as if evil powers were after her to interfere, down the stairs, outdoors, no matter about the latch, into the dark, and along the road to the Mayhews’, swift and soundless and white as a ghost in the night, in at the back door, and up to Rowena’s room, some one telling her the way.

“Make haste!” she exclaimed breathlessly to Rowena. “It’s here! Lemme put it on you. Another white skirt. There. There. Gimme a pin. No, a big one. There. I see. Yes. It’s jest right. Guess it can be ketched over there, though. That’s good. A trifle long, — not much, though, ef you stan’ straight. Look in the glass! Now. I’ll fix the veil. I’ll shower it all round you. There! You look like a sperrit. You look the way you wanter look, — all white an’ sweet an’ solum! ”

“Oh, Susanne!” cried Rowena, shaking with excitement and joy. “You’ve taken my breath away! And you was meanin’ this all the time!”

“I guess so,” said Susanne. “And I ’m real glad you’re goin’ to make Don happy. Oh, Rony, you’ll try an’ make him happy ? And I hope you ’ll be happy, too. I’m givin’ you the fust kiss in your weddin’ gownd. Gownd an’ kiss are my present!” And then Susanne ran away as she had come, catching sight through an opening door of the start the old aunts gave as they saw her.

Perhaps, at the vision of his bride wrapped about in all that vaporous whiteness, Don Davison remembered the vision of Susanne with the snowy films floating about her. But it is to be doubted. Only Miss Ann and Miss Celia looked at each other with great eyes. “You was mistook, Cely,” said Miss Ann, as they walked home together in the starlight. “Susanne’s goin’ ter grow old like us. But it’s jest’s you say about happiness, — w’en your own’s dead an’ gone you must git your sheer out’n the happiness of others.”

“ Susanne looked reel happy, reel bright an’ happy, w’en I ketched sight of her comin’ downstairs there, Ann.”

“Jes’ so.”

“Wal! I think a woman’d orter be translated thet’s happy givin’ another woman her weddin’ gownd! ”

“Susanne is translated.”

“Ann, a cross is a cross your life long.”

“Cely,” said her sister, “you’ve heern the minister say thet there ain’t no cross w’en there ain’t no self to suffer under it!”