Читать книгу According to the Pattern (Romance Classic) - Grace Livingston Hill - Страница 6

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That night she dreamed a single dream the whole night through. The scene reminded her of the background of some posters. There was a sky of clearly defined blotches of inky blue and dead white, with strange angels outlined against it. They seemed to be constantly warning her against something, at command of heavenly music that floated above, now soft, now clearer, as the need became greater. And she below, was striving to obey, with anguish in her soul. Gradually the face of her husband appeared a little way off, glad, gay. He was talking with a throng of beautiful women and evil men. Then it became clear that the danger was to him, and the angels were bidding her save him.

With all her soul dragging her down in heaviness she sought to get nearer to him and to attract his attention, but his expressive eyes rested on all faces but hers. He did not see, or would not recognize her. Her soul longed for one loving smile such as he used to give her in the old days when they were in a company of friends and could not speak save with their eyes. But now he would not look. He seemed to be another being and yet the same. At last she could lay her hand upon his and then she thought he surely would look, and she poured out pleading words into his ear of warning and entreaty. But he shook her off with anger, passed on from her grasp, and with a cry which seemed to rend her heart she awoke to live the whole scene over again.

Out from a night thus spent she went to her task, with white face and set lips. That gray dress should be bought to-day and begun.

She wasted no time in looking that morning. But as she sat waiting at the counter for a package which she wished to take home with her, a woman, tall and elegantly gowned, moved slowly down the aisle and stopped close beside her to examine an exquisite piece of lace that was being displayed.

Some sudden memory made Mrs. Winthrop look up at her face, and there she saw before her the one who had sat beside her husband in the park but a few days before.

Her heart fairly stood still to think that that woman was beside her. A great wave of hate and horror rolled over her and threatened for a moment to take away her consciousness, but her self-control that morning was tremendous, and she compelled her eyes to look steadily at the one who had won her husband from her, perhaps, but who, after all, was but a woman, another like herself. She would see what it was that had attracted. Oh, if she could but find out who she was!

And as if in answer to her wish came a smiling saleswoman, saying: “Good morning, Mrs. Sylvester. Is anyone waiting upon you?”

Miriam, quietly waiting for her package, sat watching her supposed rival as she tumbled the laces about ruthlessly as though their yards were priced in pennies instead of dollars, and at last ordered home two pieces that she might the better decide which suited her. As she moved away the smiling saleswoman said, “Let me see; the number is 1820 is it not? I cannot remember anything this morning,” and the proud lady bent her head and smiled condescendingly in reply and then swept by and was gone.

Mrs. Winthrop turned feverish eyes to the busy pencil that was rapidly writing down the address and noted carefully the name of the fashionable square where Mrs. Sylvester lived. Then she gathered up her packages and started home, her knees trembling under her as she walked and a quiver ran through her as if she had faced her worst foe.

Suddenly she stopped in the street and a light broke over her face. There was a rift, just a little rift in the dark clouds over her head. And now she knew that down deep in her heart she had harbored a fear which she would not let be put into thoughts even, that this woman, this enemy of hers, this Mrs. Sylvester, was on the wide ocean. Nay, even that she might be in the same ship with her own husband, Claude. Now that she knew she was not she saw the absurdity of the idea. That a woman who calmly purchased such costly lace would give up her great orbit for the sake of a comparatively poor man was ridiculous. Still, there were women who liked to play with hearts, and who took care never to play the game too long with anyone. And after all, what mattered it whether she played it well or ill, so long as the other player had been willing. Ah! That was the hard part. Her Claude was hers no longer. He had given another woman the light of his eyes, and his wife’s heart was breaking. The tiny gleam of light in the clouds above closed blank and dull once more and she went on her way with a tumult of feelings running riot in her breast.

An idea came to her as she took her way home which startled her with its daring. What if she should try to use this very woman to help against herself? How could she do it? What sort of woman was she? What if she should invite her to one of these little teas for which she was preparing? What if she should? What if she should? Then would she not be going forth to meet Goliath the Great with her little sling and stones?

But the thought could not be got rid of. Thereafter every gown she planned, every fabric she bought or fashioned, every arrangement of the little home was done as under the surveillance of the haughty, beautiful woman with the scornful mouth and unscrupulous eyes.

The days that followed were weary ones, scarce begun ere ended, it seemed to the poor woman who was toiling to achieve a multiplicity of works before a certain time. She worked with breathless energy, never daring to stop and rest lest she should give up and faint beneath the load, or lest the tragedy of her life should wreck her mind.

Letters came from her husband as he went from place to place. A few directions were given her about matters of business, but they always seemed to be written in haste. Her fingers trembled when she opened them and her heart grew colder at each one she read. He complained of not receiving her letters and she set her lips grimly, which ill became the softly rounded lines of mouth and chin. She had written none, nor would she. The questions he asked might be answered when he came. They seemed to be of moment to him, to her they were as trifles. The questions he did not ask were a whole volume of the tragedy she was living. The fact that he did not think or care to ask them made her excuse for not writing; though her heart was sometimes bursting with the words she would send him, still she retrained herself. It was not time yet. She must bide and work and be ready when the moment came.

A goodly array of “soft apparel” was gathering in her wardrobe. Under constant supervision the housemaid was growing silent and dextrous in the matter of waiting upon doors and tables. She wondered in her heart why her mistress had suddenly grown so punctilious about the wearing of caps and aprons and a silver tray for the cards.

There were various changes made in the house. The amount of money spent was not large but the changes were an improvement. A carpenter and an upholsterer for a few hours, with some yards of effective material, a good supply of paint and an artistic eye had really metamorphosed the home into a charming spot. Mrs. Winthrop visited noted decorators, and wandered with attentive eye through the model rooms in house-furnishing establishments until she was well versed in the effects aimed at by the highest artists in that line. She had faithfully followed the advice of her magazine to study her rooms from different points of view and make them express something beautiful from every one, and the effect was really lovely, although to her it spoke of but one thing—her great sorrow. There was nothing gaudy or imposing about the pleasant little house. All was in keeping with its surroundings, but there was not a spot that did not suggest restfulness, brightness, a cheery place in which to chat, an inviting nook to read a book. She certainly had succeeded beyond her highest hopes in making her home an attractive one to the guests she proposed to bring there, but the wonder was that she had succeeded when the real feelings in her heart had been anything but restfulness and peace and joy, the elements of a true home.

And then came the question of the guests. Ah, those guests. Who were they to be? It had seemed easy to get into society by the purchase of a few gowns and the arrangement of her house, with the sending out of the mysterious bits of white pasteboard which meant so much in society. But first, who was society, the society into which she must get to win her point? And how was she to find out? Her husband could tell her. Of course he knew all about it, but it would not do to ask him. If she had done as he wished when they were first married and gone hither and yon and entertained, all might have been different. Perhaps she would have held her own with him if she had done so. Doubtless their money would have been inadequate for such a life, but then too, doubtless many things would have been different. It was too late to think of what might have been. It was too late to go to her husband for help to undo her past. She must accomplish her task alone.

Then she sat down with determined mien to surmount this new difficulty in her path. She thought over the list of her acquaintances. There was just one person, and she could scarce be called an acquaintance, upon whose presence she was determined, if it was possible to compass it, and that person was Mrs. Sylvester. What sort of a woman she was, how she would accept society— such society as Mrs. Claude Winthrop could offer her— and how society--the kind of society that was Mrs. Winthrop’s ideal—would accept Mrs. Sylvester, were questions that forced themselves upon her thoughts continually and which she compelled herself to put away. She could not answer them. It was better for her that they were not answered, for have Mrs. Sylvester she would, and after all, when danger and chance of mistake were on every hand in this unknown way, what mattered a few little questions like that? She had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Therefore Mrs. Sylvester’s name and address, carefully remembered, headed the list when she set herself to make it out.

Then there were her neighbors. She thought them carefully over. Not one of them was what she would call a society woman, for theirs was not a fashionable street. There was the woman across the way who slapped her baby and the woman on her right who wore such a horrible bonnet and the one on her left who borrowed butter and sugar and eggs over the back fence and talked bad English and called her husband always “He.” The would-be hostess shivered and let her mind travel rapidly up the street and down again on the other side, and decided that there was only one eligible neighbor on it and she a quiet, sweet-faced, elderly woman, who dressed plainly and lived alone with a niece, a pretty girl who tasteful fingers allowed her always to be dressed well. With a defiant thought toward Mrs. Sylvester and a remembrance that her husband hid once said they were the only really intellectual people on the street, she wrote down the name of the Winslows.

Then she bit her pencil and thought again. There were the ladies of the church who had called upon her when she first moved to that place several years ago, and who had continued to call at long intervals apparently from a sense of duty. They were not society people, but were wealthy and dressed well and would do her no discredit. She certainly owed them a social debt if she owed it to anyone in the whole city. One after another she wrote their names hesitatingly, her face troubled meanwhile. These were not the kind of people who could help her much in what she had to do. There were others in the church where they had gone, regularly at first and then more seldom, till now they scarcely went at all. It was a large church and fashionable. Yes, and there were society people in it. Religion was fashionable sometimes. She had met a few, but would she dare invite such people on so slight acquaintance? Mrs. Sylvester was different. She was to be invited anyway. But these others. There were the Lymans and the Whartons and the Bidwells and a dozen other families. Stay, did not her magazine help her there? It suggested that she attend some of the charities of her church. Perhaps there she would become better acquainted. But what were they and how was she to find out? She must go to church and discover.

She leaned wearily back in her chair and drew her hands nervously across her eyes. It was Saturday evening, and she had been feeling thankful that it was a disgrace to sew on the Sabbath and she could have a little time to rest, but here came another duty looming up for that day also. There was no help for it, however. She saw that she must go and begin to get acquainted.

Back flew her pencil to her paper and down went the names of the best families in her church, with an inward resolve to come home from the service the next day with an introduction to some of them, if it were a possible thing, and a list of all the meetings of the church at which she would be likely to meet them. Poor little woman. She did not know how few, how pitifully few, of these best families attended the different meetings of the church. Well for her that she did not, for she counted much on those “charities” that she was to take up for bringing her friends, and one more straw that night might have broken her down, she was so near to discouragement.

There came a memory now of men her husband called great, men he had met and some he wished. to meet. She wrote their names all down, wondering gravely if there was any way in which she could get to know them well enough to invite them to her home.

One in particular, a man well known in political circles and whose speeches in the United States House of Representatives had become famous. She suddenly remembered a much neglected cousin of her mother’s living in another part of the city who had an intimate acquaintance with this great man, being an old schoolmate of his sister. Perhaps she could help. At any rate she must be invited. Her cheek crimsoned at the thought that she had been forgotten, and she drew her breath quickly as she wondered what Aunt Katharine would think of Mrs. Sylvester.

Then there were a few literary people well known to Aunt Katharine. Down went their names and up came Aunt Katharine in her niece’s estimation as her heart began to lighten. Counting up, she saw she had a goodly list if—that great if—if they all came.

The little cuckoo clock that had been a cherished wedding gift came out and sang twelve times in the hallway, and Mrs. Winthrop, remembering with a sigh the hour of church and that morning was already upon her, put the list in her desk and went to bed, wondering as she closed her aching eyes if the days would ever be over when all this horror would be a thing of the past and she could lie down in quietness and peace and truly rest.