II
It was Christmas Eve, and Kate Dayton, one of Pomford's pretty girls,had found the Little Gray Lady sitting alone before the fire gazing intothe ashes, her small frame almost hidden in the roomy chair. The wintertwilight had long since settled and only the flickering blaze of thelogs and the dim glow from one lone candle illumined the room. This,strange to say, was placed on a table in a corner where its rays shedbut little light in the room.
"Oh! Cousin Annie," moaned Kate (everybody in Pomford who got closeenough to touch the Little Gray Lady's hand called her "CousinAnnie"--it was only the outside world who knew her by her othersobriquet), "I didn't mean anything. Mark came in just at the wrongminute, and--and--" The poor girl's tears smothered the rest.
"Don't let him go, dearie," came the answer, when she had heard thewhole story, the girl on her knees, her head in her lap, the wee handstroking the fluff of golden hair dishevelled in her grief.
"Oh, but he won't stay!" moaned Kate. "He says he is going to Rio--wayout to South America to join his Uncle Harry."
"He won't go, dearie--not if you tell him the truth and make him tellyou the truth. Don't let your pride come in; don't beat around the bushor make believe you are hurt or misunderstood, or that you don't care.You do care. Better be a little humble now than humble all your life. Itonly takes a word. Hold out your hand and say: 'I'm sorry, Mark--pleaseforgive me.' If he loves you--and he does--"
The girl raised her head: "Oh! Cousin Annie! How do you know?"
She laughed gently. "Because he was here, dearie, half an hour agoand told me so. He thought you owed him the dance, and he was a littlejealous of Tom."
"But Tom had asked me--"
"Yes--and so had Mark--"
"Yes--but he had no right--" She was up in arms again: she wouldn't--shecouldn't--and again an outburst of tears choked her words.
The Little Gray Lady had known Kate's mother, now dead, and what mighthave happened but for a timely word--and she knew to her own sorrowwhat had happened for want of one. Kate and Mark should not repeat thatexperience if she could help it. She had saved the mother in the olddays by just such a word. She would save the daughter in the same way.And the two were much alike--same slight, girlish figure; same blondhair and blue eyes; same expression, and the same impetuous, high-strungtemperament. "If that child's own mother walked in this minute Icouldn't tell 'em apart, they do favor one another so," old Margarethad told her mistress when she opened the door for the girl, and shewas right. Pomford village was full of these hereditary likenesses. MarkDab-ney, whom all the present trouble was about, was so like his fatherat his age that his Uncle Harry had picked Mark out on a crowded dockwhen the lad had visited him in Rio the year before, although he hadnot seen the boy's father for twenty years--so strong was the familylikeness.
If there was to be a quarrel it must not be between the Dabneys and theDaytons, of all families. There had been suffering enough in the olddays.
"Listen, dearie," she said in her gentle, crooning tone, patting thegirl's cheek as she talked. "A quarrel where there is no love is soonforgotten, but a difference when both love may, if not quickly healed,leave a scar that will last through life."
"There are as good fish in the sea as were ever caught," cried the girlin sheer bravado, brushing away her tears.
"Don't believe it, dearie--and don't ever say it. That has wrecked morelives than you know. That is what I once knew a girl to say--a girl justabout your age--"
"But she found somebody else, and that's just what I'm going to do.I'm not going to have Mark read me a lecture every time I want to dosomething he doesn't like. Didn't your girl find somebody else?"
"No--never. She is still unmarried."
"Yes--but it wasn't her fault, was it?"
"Yes--although she did not know it at the time. She opened a doorsuddenly and found her lover alone with another girl. The two had stolenoff together where they would not be interrupted. He was pleading forhis college friend--straightening out just some such foolish quarrel asyou have had with Mark--but the girl would not understand; nor did sheknow the truth until a year afterward. Then it was too late."
The Little Gray Lady stopped, lifted her hand from the girl's head, andturned her face toward the now dying fire.
"And what became of him?" asked the girl in a hushed voice, as if shedared not awaken the memory.
"He went away and she has never seen him since."
For some minutes there was silence, then Kate said in a braver tone:
"And he married somebody else?"
"No."
"Well, then, she died?"
"No."
The Littie Lady had not moved, nor had she taken her eyes from theblaze. She seemed to be addressing some invisible body who could hearand understand. The girl felt its influence and a tremor ran throughher. The fitful blaze casting weird shadows helped this feeling. Atlast, with an effort, she asked:
"You say you know them both, Cousin Annie?"
"Yes--he was my dear friend. I was just thinking of him when you camein."
The charred logs broke into a heap of coals; the blaze flickered anddied. But for the lone candle in the corner the room would have been intotal darkness.
"Shall I light another candle, Cousin Annie?" shivered the girl, "orbring that one nearer?"
"No, it's Christmas Eve, and I only light one candle on Christmas Eve."
"But what's one candle! Why, father has the whole house as bright as dayand every fire blazing." The girl sprang to her feet and stepped nearerthe hearth. She would be less nervous, she thought, if she moved about,and then the warmth of the fire was somehow reassuring. "Please let melight them all, Cousin Annie," she pleaded, reaching out her hand towarda cluster in an old-fashioned candelabra--"and if there aren't enoughI'll get more from Margaret."
"No, no--one will do. It is an old custom of mine; I've done it fortwenty years."
"But don't you love Christmas?" Kate argued, her nervousness increasing.The ghostly light and the note of pain in her companion's voice werestrangely affecting.
The Little Gray Lady leaned forward in her chair and looked long andsteadily at the heap of smouldering ashes; then she answered slowly,each word vibrating with the memory of some hidden sorrow: "I've hadmine, dearie."
"But you can have some more," urged Kate.
"Not like those that have gone before, dearie--no, not like those."
Something in the tones of her voice and quick droop of the dear headstirred the girl to her depths. Sinking to her knees she hid her face inthe Little Lady's lap.
"And you sit here in the dark with only one candle?" she whispered.
"Yes, always," she answered, her fingers stroking the fair hair. "I cansee those I have loved better in the dark. Sometimes the room is full ofpeople; I have often to strain my eyes to assure myself that the door isreally shut. All sorts of people come--the girls and boys I knew when Iwas young. Some are dead; some are far away; some so near that should Iopen the window and shout their names many of them could hear. There arefewer above ground every year--but I welcome all who come. It's the oldmaid's hour, you know--this twilight hour. The wives are making readythe supper; the children are romping; lovers are together in the cornerwhere they can whisper and not be overheard. But none of this disturbsme--no big man bursts in, letting in the cold. I have my chair, mycandle, my thoughts, and my fire. When you get to be my age, Kate, andlive alone--and you might, dearie, if Mark should leave you--you willlove these twilight hours, too."
The girl reached up her hands and touched the Little Gray Lady's cheek,whispering:
"But aren't you very, _very_ lonely. Cousin Annie?"
"Yes, sometimes."
For a moment Kate remained silent, then she asked in a faltering voicethrough which ran a note almost of terror:
"Do you think I shall ever be like--like--that is--I shall ever be--allalone?"
"I don't know, dearie. No one can ever tell what will happen. I neverthought twenty years ago I shou
ld be all alone--but I am."
The girl raised her head, and with a cry of pain threw her arms aroundthe Little Gray Lady's neck:
"Oh, no!--no! I can't bear it!" she sobbed! "I'll tell Mark! I'll sendfor him--to-night-before I go to bed!"