Chapter IV: From Dawn to Daylight

IT was by the light of the blinking tallow candle that they made their toilets next morning. Louise roused suddenly, not a little startled at what she supposed were unusual sounds, issuing from all portions of the house, in the middle of the night.

"Do you suppose any one is sick?" she asked her husband. "There has been a banging of doors and a good deal of hurrying around for some minutes."

"Oh no," he said, reassuringly. "It is getting-up time. John is a noisy fellow, and Dorothy can make considerable noise when she undertakes. I suspect they are trying to rouse us."

"Getting-up time! why, it must be in the middle of the night."

"That depends on whether one lives in town or in the country. I shouldn't be greatly surprised if breakfast were waiting for us."

"Then let us hurry," said Louise, making a motion to do so; but her husband remanded her back to her pillow, while he made vigorous efforts to conquer the old-fashioned stove, and secure some warmth.

"But we ought not to keep them waiting breakfast," Louise said in dismay. "That is very disagreeable when everything is ready to serve. We have been annoyed in that way ourselves. Lewis, why didn't you waken me before? Haven't you heard the sounds of life for a good while?"

"Yes," said Lewis, "longer than I wanted to hear them. If they don't want breakfast to wait they shouldn't get it ready at such an unearthly hour. There is no sense in rousing up the household in the night. During the busy season it is a sort of necessity, and I always succumb to it meekly. But at this date it is just the outgrowth of a notion, and I have waged a sort of silent war on it for some time. I suppose I have eaten cold breakfasts about half the time this autumn."

"Cold breakfasts! Didn't your mother keep something warm for you?"

"Not by any manner of means did she. My mother would not consider that she was doing her duty to her son by winking at his indolent habits in any such fashion; she believes that it is his sacred duty to eat his breakfast by early candle-light, and if he sins in that direction it is not for her to smooth the punishment of the transgressor."

Louise laughed over the serio-comic tone in which this was said, albeit there was a little feeling of dismay in her heart; these things sounded so new, and strange, and unmotherly!

"Louise dear, I don't want to dictate the least in the world, and I don't want to pretend to know more than I do; but isn't that dress just a trifle too stylish for the country—in the morning, you know?"

This hesitating, doubtful sort of question was put to Mrs. Morgan somewhat later, after a rapid and apparently unpremeditated toilet.

She gave the speaker the benefit of a flash from a pair of roguish eyes as she said—

"Part of that sentence is very opportune, Lewis. You are evidently 'pretending to know more than you do.' This dress was prepared especially for a morning toilet in the country, and cost just fivepence a yard."

"Is it possible!" he answered, surveying her from head to foot with a comic air of bewilderment. "Then, Louise, what is it that you do to your dresses?"

"Wear them," she answered demurely. "And I shall surely wear this this morning; it fits precisely."

Did it? Her husband was in great doubt. He would not have liked to own it; he did not own it even to himself; but the truth was, he lived in a sort of terror of his mother's opinions. She was easily shocked, easily disgusted; the whole subject of dress shocked her, perhaps, more than any other. She was almost eloquent over the extravagance, the lavish display, the waste of time as well as money exhibited in these degenerate days in the decorations of the body. She even sternly hinted that occasionally Dorothy "prinked" altogether too much for a girl with brains. What would she think of Mrs. Lewis Morgan? The dress which troubled him was one of those soft neutral-tinted cottons so common in these days, so entirely unfashionable in the fashionable world that Louise had already horrified her mother, and vexed Estelle, by persisting in her determination to have several of them. Once purchased, she had exercised her taste in the making, and her selections of patterns and trimming "fitted the material perfectly," so Estelle had told her, meaning anything but a compliment thereby.

It was simplicity itself in its finishings; yet the pattern was graceful in its folds and draperies, and fitted her form to perfection. The suit was finished at the throat with a rolling collar, inside of which Louise had basted a very narrow frill of soft yellowish lace. The close-fitting sleeves were finished in the same way. A very tiny scarlet knot of narrow ribbon at the throat completed the costume, and the whole effect was such that her husband, surveying her, believed he had never seen her better dressed, and was sure his mother would be shocked. The bewilderment on his face seemed to strike his wife as ludicrous.

"Why, Lewis," she said gaily, "what would you have me wear?"

"I don't know, I am sure," he answered, joining her laugh. "Only, why should fivepence goods look like a tea-party dress on you?" Then they went down to breakfast.

Almost the first thought that the young wife had, as she surveyed the strange scene, was embodied in a wonderment as to what Estelle would say could she look in on them now.

That great, clean kitchen; the kettle steaming on the cook-stove, and the black "spider" still sizzling about the ham gravy that was left in it; the large-leaved table, spread; old-fashioned, blue earthenware dishes arranged on it, without regard to grace, certainly, whatever might be said of convenience. In the middle of the table sat the inevitable tallow candle, and another one blinked on the high mantlepiece, bringing out the shadows in a strange, weird way.

Seated at the foot of the table was John, in his shirt-sleeves, the mild winter morning having proved too trying for his coat. His father was still engaged in putting the finishing touches to his toilet by brushing his few spears of gray hair before the little glass in the further end of the room. Dorothy leaned against the window and waited, looking both distressed and cross.

"Come! Come! Come!" said the mother of this home, directly the stair-door had closed after the arrival of her new daughter. "Do let us get down to breakfast; it will be noon before we get the dishes out-of-the-way. Now, father, have we got to wait for you? I thought you were ready an hour ago. Come, Lewis; you must be hungry by this time."

The rich blood mounted to Lewis's cheeks. This was a trying greeting for his wife; he felt exactly as though he wanted to say that he thought so; but she brushed past him at that moment, laying a cool little hand for an instant on his. Was it a warning touch? Then she went over to the young man in the shirt-sleeves.

"Nobody introduces us," she said, in a tone of quiet brightness. "I suppose they think that brother and sister do not need introduction. I am Louise, and I am sure you must be John; let's shake hands on it." And the small, white hand was outstretched and waiting. What was to be done?

John, who was prepared to hate her, so well prepared that he already half did so—John (who never shook hands with anybody, least of all a woman; never came in contact with one if he could possibly help it) felt the flush in his face deepen until he knew he was the colour of a peony, but nevertheless slowly held forth his hard red hand, and touched the small white one, which instantly seized it in a cordial grasp. Then they sat down to breakfast.

Louise waited with bowed head, and was thrilled with a startled sense of unlikeness to home as she waited in vain. No voice expressed its thankfulness for many mercies; instead, the clatter of dishes immediately commenced. "Not one in the family save myself is a Christian." She remembered well that Lewis had told her so; but was he of so little moment in his father's house that the simple word of blessing would not have been received among them from his lips? It had not occurred to her that, because her husband was the only Christian in the household, therefore he sat at a prayer-less table.

Other experiences connected with that first meal in her new home were, to say the least, novel. Curiously enough, her imaginings concerning them all connected themselves with Estelle. What would Estelle think of a young lady who came collarless to the breakfast table; nay, more than that, who sat down to eat, in her father's and mother's presence, with uncombed hair, gathered into a frowzly knot in the back of her neck? What would Estelle have thought of Mrs. Morgan's fashion of dipping her own spoon into the bowl of sugar and then back again into her coffee? How would she have liked to help herself with her own knife to butter, having seen the others of the family do the same with theirs? How would she manage in the absence of napkins and would the steel forks spoil her breakfast? And how would she like fried ham, and potatoes boiled in the skin, for breakfast anyway?

The new-comer remembered that she had but three weeks ago assured Estelle that farmhouses were delightful places in which to spend summers. Was she so sure of that, even with this little inch of experience? To learn to appreciate the force of contrasts, one would only need a picture of the two breakfast tables which presented themselves to the mind of this young wife.

Aside from all these minor contrasts, there were others which troubled her more. She had resolved to be very social and informal with each member of this family; but the formidable question arose, what was she to be social about? Conversation there was none, unless Farmer Morgan's directions to John concerning details of farm work, and his answers to Lewis's questions as to what had transpired on the farm during his absence, could be called conversation.

Mrs. Morgan, it is true, contributed by assuring Dorothy that if she did not clean out the back kitchen this day she would do it herself, and that the shelves in the cellar needed washing off this very morning. Whatever it was that had occurred to put Dorothy in ill-humour, or whether it was ill-humour or only habitual sullenness, Louise did not know; certainly her brows were black. Would it be possible to converse with her? As the question put itself to her mind, it called up the merry by-play of talk with which Estelle was wont to enliven the home breakfast table, so sparkling and attractive in its flow that her father had accused her of setting a special snare for him, that he might miss his car.

If Estelle were at this table what would she talk about? It was entirely a new and strange experience to Louise to be at a loss what to talk about. Books! What had Dorothy read? She did not look as though she had read anything, or wanted to. Sewing! Well, the new sister was skilled with her needle. Suppose she said, "I know how to make my own dresses, and I can cut and fit my common ones; can you?" How abrupt it would sound, and what strange table talk for the pleasure of the assembled family! She caught herself on the verge of a laugh over the absurdity of the thing, and was as far as ever from a topic for conversation.

Meantime Lewis had finished his questionings and turned to her. "Louise, did you ever see any one milk? I suppose not. If it were not so cold you would like to go out and see Dorothy with her pet cow; she is a creature—quite a study."

Did he mean Dorothy, or the pet cow? It was clear to his wife that he was himself embarrassed by something incongruous in the breakfast scene; but she caught at his suggestion of a subject even while his mother's metallic voice was saying—

"Cold! If you call this a cold morning, Lewis, you must have been getting very tender since you were in the city. It is almost as mild as spring."

"Can you milk?" Louise was saying, meantime, eagerly to Dorothy. The eagerness was not assumed; she was jubilant, not so much over the idea of seeing the process of milking as over the fact that she had finally discovered a direct question to address to Dorothy, which must be answered in some form.

But, behold! Dorothy, flushing to her temples, looked down at her plate and answered, "Yes, ma'am," and directly choked herself with a swallow of coffee, and the avenue for conversation suddenly closed.

What was she to do? How it was to call such distorted attempts at talk by the pleasant word conversation! What "familiar interchange of sentiment" could she hope to get up with Dorothy about milking cows? What did people say about cows, anyway? She wished she had some knowledge, even the slightest, of the domestic habits of these animals; but she was honestly afraid to venture in any direction, lest she should display an ignorance that would either be considered affected or sink her lower in the family estimation. Suppose she tried some other subject with Dorothy, would she be likely to choke again?

Mrs. Morgan tried to help. "Dorothy milked two cows when she was not yet twelve years old!"

Whether it was the words, or the tone, or the intention, Louise could not tell; but she immediately had a feeling that not to milk two cows before one was twelve years old argued a serious and irreparable blunder in one's bringing up. She was meek and quiet-toned in her reply:—

"I never had the opportunity of even seeing the country when I was a little girl, only as we went to the sea-side, and that is not exactly like the country, you know. All mamma's and papa's relatives happened to live in town."

"It must be a great trial to a woman to have to bring up her children in a city. Ten chances to one if they don't get spoiled."

Mrs. Morgan did not say it crossly, nor with any intention of personality, but again Louise felt it to be almost a certainty that she was thought not to belong to that fortunate "one chance" which was not spoiled.

Mother Morgan startled her out of her wandering by addressing her directly—

"I hope you will be able to make out a breakfast. I suppose our style of living is not what you have been used to."

What could Louise say? It certainly was not, and she certainly could not affirm that she liked it better.

Her husband turned a certain troubled look on her. "Can't you eat a little?" he asked in an undertone.

Did she imagine it, or was he more anxious that his mother should not be annoyed than he was that her appetite should not suffer? Altogether, the young bride was heartily glad when that uncomfortable meal was concluded and she was back in that upper room. She went alone, her husband having excused himself from his father long enough to go with her to the foot of the stairs and explain that father wanted him a moment.

Do you think she fell into a passion of weeping directly the door of her own room shut her in, and wished that she had never left the elegancies of her city home or the sheltering love of her mother? Then you have mistaken her character. She walked to the window a moment and looked out on the stubby, partly frozen meadows that stretched away in the distance, she even brushed a tender tear, born of love for the old home and the dear faces there; but it was chased away by a smile as she bowed to her husband, who looked back to get a glimpse of her; and she knew then, as she had known before, that it was not hard to "forsake all others and cleave to him." Moreover, she remembered that marriage vows had brought her more than a wife's responsibilities. She was by them made a daughter and a sister to those whom she had not known before. They were not idle words to her, these two relationships. She remembered them each one: Father Morgan, with his old, worn face, and his heart among the fields and barns; Mother Morgan, with her cold eyes, and cold hand, and cold voice; Dorothy and John, and the fair, yellow-haired Nellie, whom a special touch of motherliness had left still sleeping that morning; and remembering them each, this young wife turned from the window, and, kneeling, presented them each by name and desire to her "elder Brother."