According to the Pattern (6 page)

“Ah, indeed. Then you must be lonely,” murmured the caller, turning satisfied to go down the steps.

“Winthrop, Winthrop? Where have I heard that name? I know her face and I think I can recall his, but who are they? Celia, my child, into what have you led me?”

By this time the young lady had begun to suspect what was wrong, but she was not struck with the serious side. Instead she burst into a peal of laughter, whereat her mother laid a reproving hand upon her mouth.

“Hush, Celia, she will hear you,” she said, and looked anxiously back at the little house fast vanishing from sight through the carriage window. “It really isn’t so bad a house and she seems refined. I suppose it can’t be helped now.”

“And why should it?” said Miss Celia, sobering down. “She is perfectly lovely and had the sweetest little home. What does it matter who they are if they are nice, I would like to know? She looks as if she was perfectly - happy. I should just enjoy such cozy love-in-a-cottage as that. I saw the dearest baby in white in the maid’s arms up at that pretty window behind the flowers. I’m going to take her up. I don’t care who she is and I don’t see why you care. Aren’t you ‘who’ enough yourself without bothering about other folks? It can’t hurt you any, mamma, if her grandfather didn’t know yours.” “Celia,” said her mother severely, “you are very young and know very little of the world.”

ALTOGETHER the day seemed slightly brighter to Miriam Winthrop than any that had preceded it since her trouble fell upon her. She had not failed at the first step. Marvelous help had come to her. It was a good omen. Unconsciously she took on a somewhat more cheerful attitude. It was not that the way was any less dark, but far ahead of her she thought she caught a glimmer of hope. It might fade as she approached, but it was there now and to it she would go.

She set her armor in array, and looking it over decided which bravery to wear to the
musicale. Then as the shades of evening dulled the lustrous folds of silk and satin, she hung them all away and went to the nursery. She had been so weary that she had put aside her motherly duties often, and now she heard the baby’s voice pleading for a story. Her heart pierced her that she had neglected her darling little one, and she came swiftly and took her from the nurse and in the old-time way snuggled the curly head in her arms and began to rock.

The baby looked up with a joyous smile and never a reproach.

“Oh, ’oo dear, pitty itty mommie. I so glad oo tummed. Sing me pitty song, mommie, sing poppie’s song.

She almost stopped rocking, and a choking came into her throat. She could not sing that. It was a song she had woven out of her own happy heart when her first baby was in her arms, and night after night she would lull her to sleep, their little Pearl, their oldest child, while Claude lay on the sofa nearby in the gloaming and listened, telling her it was the sweetest music earth could hold for him. The song had been sung to the other children and Claude had loved it until the children had come to call it “Papa’s song.” She thought of those happy, happy

days, and the ray of hope that had dawned, vanished and left her in darkness once more. To think that he, after his devotion to her, could ever look like that into another woman’s eyes! How could she take him back and forgive him, even if she succeeded in winning him once more to herself? It must be done for the children’s sake and for the world’s view, but how for her own heart’s sake could there ever be any hope?

But the baby was pleading and the tears must be choked back. She would not grieve the little one unnec
essarily.

“Mamma will sing ‘Little Bo-Peep,” she answered as brightly as her voice could compass.

“No, no; baby want poppie’s song; mommie sing poppie’s song.” She was crying now, with her tender puckered little lips held up irresistibly sweet. How could she refuse? And after all, ‘twas no harder than all the rest she must bear and do.

She caught her voice through the tears in her throat and began:

The birdies have tucked their heads under their wings

And nestled down closely, the dear little things    

And my dear birdie is here in her nest,

With her head nestled close on her own mother’s breast.

The wind whispers soft sleepy songs to the roses,    

And kisses the buds on the tips of their noses;      

Shall I sing a sleepy song soft to my sweet,        

And kiss the pink toes on her dainty wee feet?

The butterflies folded their silver gauze wings,       

And now sweetly sleep with all fluttering things.               

Will you fold your paddies, my dear little girl,

And rest your tired footies, my precious wee pearl?

The violet’s closed its pretty blue eye

That has gazed all day long at the clear summer sky,    

Now droop the dark lashes over your eyes,

They are weary with holding great looks of surprise.

The flower bells have dropped their tired little heads,        

And laid themselves down in their soft mossy beds,   

Your golden .head droops and your eyes are shut tight,       

Shall I lay you down sweet on your pillow so white?

She crooned the song to a little tune that had woven itself out of the years of her singing it, and seemed to fit the words as no other melody could do, and the sleepy little child in her arms nestled closer and closer, folding her hands and closing her eyes as the song went on, until with the last words the soft regular breathing told the mother the baby was truly asleep. Still she sat and held her, humming the melody, not daring to stop so soon lest she should waken, and trying to make real again the dear days when she had sat happily and sung thus. But the dark rolling of deep waters was between her and he
r husband, and a darker and more awful roll of trouble separated them still farther from one another.

The other two children, sitting in the wide window seat, had dropped their books as the light faded too much for them to see, and sat listening to the song.
Pearl crept to her mother’s side, slipping her soft little hand inside her mother’s and laid her head against her lap.

“Oh, mamma,” said Carroll from the window in a whisper that tried to be soft for the baby’s sake, “when will our father come back? It seems as if
he had been gone for years. Will he ever come back?”

And the poor mother’s heart echoed the yearning cry, “Will he ever come back?”

The days that followed were filled with toil, and plans developed rapidly now, for hourly Miriam was growing wiser in the ways of the world. The musicale was a great help to her, for while she knew few present and kept herself unobtrusively in the background, she had good opportunity to take notes. Mentally she went over her first list for her own teas and marked off some and put down others. She began to see possibilities of asking many of these others. The young girl, Celia, fluttered over to her and introduced her here and there, and with an enthusiasm characteristic of a young girl expressed her intention of coming to see the baby. Before she drifted away she had made an early appointment to call on Baby Celia, being delighted that they bore the same name. As Miriam Winthrop watched her move gracefully from this group to that and smile and say a pleasant word she saw the possibility of help in that girl and resolved to follow it up.

The days that followed the musicale opened up a new world for Miriam Winthrop. She began to grow in the good graces of many people whom she might not have met if she had not first been invited to the Lymans’.

Meantime letters from her husband announced positively that he would be at home at a certain time, now .very near at hand, and Miriam in all haste gathered her forces and went over her visiting list. The list was very different now from the one she had first made out in her ignorance. Only one name had she blindly clung to throughout, which strict adherence to society etiquette would have ruled out for the present, at least, because of her being an entire stranger, and that was the name of the woman who headed her list. Just why she wanted her there she herself could not understand, but she felt as if she must meet her to begin the battle. With fearful heart and strong purpose that never once wavered, she sent out her cards. There would be plenty of time for her husband to understand the new state of things after he reached home and no possibility of his upsetting her plans if the invitations were already out when he returned. The fashion magazine had made it plain that her husband must be in evidence. Her own heart made it plainer that he must witness the fray from beginning to end if he was to be won over.

The invitations out, she set about her preparations for the day, which in general had been made long ago, but which she now planned out in every minute detail, so that the domestic wheels should move smoothly without the possibility of a hitch at the trying time.

She invited Miss Lyman and one or two other young people to lunch informally and practiced on them without their knowledge. She sent the maid with Pearl to a child’s party and bade her keep her eyes and ears open. The maid returned demure and said little, but showed that she had learned several lessons. Miriam began to feel that she could afford to rest and store up strength for the day of the first reception, when a new anxiety arose. Another letter from her husband announced that he would be delayed several days later than he had supposed and would now reach home on the day, the very day, of her first tea. What if he should be delayed? What if he should not come until afterward? How miserably she had planned! How her work would all be for naught! She foresaw in a flash the dreary anxiety of the day, of awaiting his arrival till the hour, of the having to dress and meet the people with her mind upon his arrival. And then what would he think? He might be angry to come home and find the house full of guests. There was no telling in these days what attitude he might take toward her. She drew a sigh of relief as she remembered that whatever he felt toward her he would veil till their guests were gone.

Just as she had foreseen it came to pass.

The simple flower decorations were all in place just where they would look the most natural and effective, the rooms were in perfect readiness for the guests. The maid attired in black with cap and cuffs and apron, the children disposed of in quietness for the afternoon, the refreshments at hand and the hostess exquisitely gowned.

And yet Claude Winthrop had not arrived. His wife looked anxiously from the window now and again. She had fortunately forgotten to wonder what he would say to the changed appearance of the outside of the house. She was only anxious to get him upstairs and ready for the company. She surveyed herself in a full-length mir
ror. Her cheeks were flushed with the unusual excitement, and her eyes almost feverishly bright. The gown was becoming, fitted her perfectly, and was worn with an air of perfect ease that did not convey the idea of its being an unusual thing for the wearer to be thus dressed. It may have been the one great absorbing thought that kept all others out, that made this possible, for she was naturally a timid woman, shrinking into herself and becoming painfully self-conscious at times in the presence of strangers. But love had transformed her into another being for the time. Not all the worldly wisdom of society, nor all the habits of generations could present a better front than this simple, unassuming ease which love and a question of life and death had made it possible for her to wear.

She glanced at her watch. Five minutes to the hour. She must be ready now. Someone might come at any minute. What if no one should come! For a moment she stood still at the thought of such dumb defeat. But no!

She must not think of such a thing. Time enough for that trouble if it should come. She must go down and see if the rooms were just right. With haste she laid out her husband’s clothes on the bed in the nursery, and gave orders that he be told at once where to find them when he came in. Then she heard the sound of carriage wheels and in a panic lest he had come, and she would have to face him with all that was unspoken in her heart, she fled to the parlor.

It was only Celia Lyman, who had promised to help her pour tea, and who had arrived early and chattered gleefully. She was young yet and looked at everything in a delightfully childish manner. She condoled with her hostess over the absence of her husband, and said ten times that he would be sure to get there soon, and she fluttered from one corner to another and called the rooms “perfectly fine” and “dear,” and a hundred other adjectives her enthusiastic heart suggested, and told Mir
iam that she looked as sweet as a girl and that her husband would “just have to kiss her” when he got there, right before them all, she was so beautiful. Miriam’s cheeks glowed for an instant over this approval. She cared not a straw whether Celia Lyman admired her, but she cared with her whole soul what her husband thought of her. In fact, she had come to feel that the whole matter depended largely upon the first impression, and now she began to think that it was a good thing he should have arrived too late for them to have any talk over the matter. The transformation would thus be greater—if only he came in time to see it at all.

The callers began to drop in by ones and twos. They really came. Miriam found herself wondering why they had cared to come and if they were surprised that she had dared ask them, but they seemed quite pleased and decorously unsurprised over the lovely spot when they got there. They lingered too, and declared she had been unkind not to have let them come before, and numerous pretty compliments. There was plenty to be done. Mir
iam was not used to the position of hostess. It taxed her brain to keep track of her guests and she felt that she ought to have given more attention to this one and that. She almost forgot about her husband’s non-appearance for a few minutes, until the maid approached and said in low tones:

“Mr. Winthrop is here, ma’am, and says he will be down in a few minutes.”

After that her heart thumped painfully and all sorts of questions began to bestir themselves. How had he taken it? -What would he think of her and the house, and the people? She cast a hurried glance about and felt satisfied with those who had come. There were others—there was one other—who had not yet arrived, who might come—ah! She caught her breath with one of those quick sighs that told of high tension in the nerves and which had become habitual with her of late. Ah! then would come the crucial moment!

At that instant an elegant carriage had stopped before the door, a coachman and footman in livery mounting guard. The footman opened the carriage door, and altogether overawed the demure maid at the door whose education had not as yet included footmen, and a tall and beautiful woman in costly apparel stepped curiously into the house.