Stranger within the Gates (12 page)

About midmorning Sylvia went to her mother when she knew she was alone in her room, and her eyes were very sad and anxious.

"Mother, what do you think I ought to do about the concert tonight? It doesn't seem right for me to go off and have a pleasant time when all this is going on at home. I don't believe I could really enjoy a concert unless Rex is home."

"I don't see why you shouldn't go, dear," said Mary Garland. "You won't be helping anybody at home by staying here and sorrowing. And you owe it to your escort to go now. He will be disappointed. He has been counting on your going. Better just leave it in God's hands and go on, Sylvia dear."

It was just then while they were talking that the maid brought a florist's box upstairs.

"It's for you, Miss Sylvia," she said.

Sylvia took it to her mother's room.

"Mother! See! Flowers for me! I expect Rance has sent them."

She opened the box and found a lovely corsage of talisman roses.

"Oh, Mother, I wish we hadn't any sorrow so I could enjoy these beautiful roses!"

Her mother smiled sweetly.

"There is always sorrow in the world somewhere," she said, "but God sent those roses to you to enjoy. It is right for you to enjoy them. The sorrow and joy is always mixed up down here on earth, and we have to take the joy, thank God for it, and trust Him with the sorrow."

Sylvia gave her mother a warm, sweet look.

"You're wonderful, Mother!" she said softly. "To hear you talk, one would think the trouble was all mine and none of it yours. I wonder if I can ever get where I'll be brave like you and trustful."

So Sylvia got ready her prettiest garments--her dark, wine-colored taffeta dress; her string of pearls; and her pearl clip that she only wore on special occasions. They were not real pearls, of course, but a very nice imitation, simple and girlish. She got out the little chic new hat that matched her dress, with its tiny ostrich tip at one side, and then she thought of the roses, how well they would look against the wine color.

Fae was watching her happily.

"You're going to look wonderful, Syl," she said admiringly. "I'm so glad Mother thought it was all right for you to go. And your gray squirrel coat is going to be swell with the other things. Have you got gloves to match?"

Sylvia smiled.

"Yes, open the top drawer and you'll see them. You're a dear, generous sister to be glad that I'm going to have a nice time, even though you may be at home with unpleasant things happening."

Fae took out the gloves from their tissue paper wrapping and put an admiring finger on the white stitching on the back that stood out so crisply against the wine-colored kidskin.

"Oh, what pretty, pretty gloves!" said Fae. "I like that stitching, don't you? And the scallops on the cape edge, bound with white kidskin. They are sweet. Oh, I'm glad you are going to have a good time. No matter what is going on here, I'm going to think about you a lot and how you are sitting in the front row of the first balcony. I've always thought that would be the most marvelous place to sit, where you could see everybody and really hear so much better, too, I should think. If things get bad here, I'll just try to pretend I'm there sitting beside you hearing it all. And when you come back, you'll slip into my room, even if it is late and I'm asleep, and tell me about it. You'll wake me up and tell me, won't you?"

"I certainly will, you precious." And Sylvia stooped and kissed her sister gently, more stirred than she had the courage to show.

"Well, and I'm glad, too, that you've got such a nice young man to go with," said Fae with an adoring smile. "Selma saw him when you came home the other night. He only came to the door, but Selma was up at the front window and watched him walk down the drive. She says he had a nice walk, kind of strong and sure, as if he was never ashamed. Like our Paul. And she says he's very good-looking, too. I'm glad of that. I shouldn't like to have you go with Henry Parsons. He's too awkward and bushy. His hair is too long, and I just hate that little funny mustache he wears. Why do men wear things like that on their lips? I think it makes them look funny, don't you? And your young man has a nice name. Rance Nelius, isn't that it? I asked Mother. It doesn't sound sissy, and yet it isn't just like every other person."

The day went on with still no sign from Rex.

Paul and his mother went into conference early in the afternoon, and Paul did a good deal more telephoning but got no new light on the matter.

"I am afraid," said Mary Garland with a troubled look, when Paul came back to her after another siege at the telephone and acknowledged that he could not think of anyone else to call. "I'm afraid that I hurt his feelings when he called up. I was so insistent that he come home at once without waiting for his classes. Perhaps he doesn't mean to come home at all. You know, I've never really answered his letter, saying whether he may bring his wife home for Christmas. I am afraid he is hurt because of me!"

A cloud of displeasure darkened Paul's pleasant face.

"If he is hurt, Mother, he certainly deserves to be. He must know he has done wrong. And he knows you love him and were terribly hurt at his letter. I suppose he really doesn't deserve to come home at all. But somehow I think he won't stay away entirely. And where can he go? I tell you he hasn't but a very little money. Unless he borrowed some from someone else, and you know there's no college fellow that has any surplus of money, especially around Christmastime. No, Mother, he's bound to come home sometime. And it's better for him not to know just how you are going to receive him. I'm only afraid that when you see him you'll turn softhearted and not make him understand what he has done. He's used to counting on you. He thinks he can wind you around his finger. Of course he loves you, and all, but I guess maybe we've spoiled him. He knows we're all just nuts about him."

"He's pretty stubborn, though," sighed his mother. "If he gets an idea in his head, he sticks to it a long time, you know."

"Yes," said Paul, setting his lips in a troubled, determined way. "Yes, and I suspect if Dad had lived, he would have thrashed that out of him somehow. I guess we've been too easy on him."

"There's another side to it, too, you know, Son. Rex is very tenderhearted. I got to thinking about his letter in the night, and how he said she was a nice girl and we would like her, that she was all alone in the world. I'm just afraid he was sorry for her and married her to protect her. And now, of course, he'll stand by what he's done, even though it may have been done impulsively, and he'll try to carry it off the best way he can. He won't give in. You know Rex."

"Yes, Mother, I know Rex, but I thought you knew God! Mother, didn't you put this whole matter into God's hands and say you would trust Him?"

"Oh yes," quivered Mary Garland, trying to smile through the quick tears that had come. "Yes, I do trust Him, and I'll try. I will put away my fears. Perhaps this is something I needed, a disciplining to teach me something I wouldn't learn in any other way."

Paul stooped and kissed her tenderly.

"Dear little mother! You're a great little brave woman. I don't believe you ever needed any disciplining. Not since
I've
known you, anyway."

"Oh yes, I have, many a time," said the mother, smiling.

"Well, we won't discuss that, because we should never agree about it, I'm sure. But Mother, now honestly, wouldn't you like me to get a car somewhere and drive back to college and hunt around to see if I can find out anything about this and if I can possibly trace Rex? Or both of them, if they are together, and I suppose they must be. Wouldn't you like that? I could even get hold of a detective to help trace them if necessary, and I'd bring them back, or at any rate bring Rex back; I'd promise you that. I can't see having you put through any more torture."

Mary Garland shook her head decidedly.

"No, Paul," she said. "That would make a future impossible. It would make a breach that would not easily be healed, perhaps forever. No. We will wait. He is married. He probably feels that he is independent. Eventually Rex will discover he has done wrong and will come. I am sure he will come. And it will be better for him to come than for you to run after him. He must not feel he is being controlled. He would never forgive you. Certainly his wife would not, if she has any spirit at all. We can't have a break like that in our family, our loving family! We can't, Paul!"

"I know," said Paul huskily, looking very sad.

"No, Paul," went on Mary Garland. "God isn't dead, and I've promised to trust Him. We'll wait."

"All right!" said Paul, sinking down in a big chair and burying his face in his hands.

After a little his mother rose.

"Come, Paul. Come and help me. I'm going to put up the best curtains in the guest room for them. I wasn't going to, after I got Rex's letter, but now I've decided to. I always put them up for happy times and holidays, you know."

"I didn't think you considered this a happy time," said Paul grimly, with a wry smile, "but whatever you say goes! By the way, where are you going to park them--if they come?"

They were standing now in the doorway of the great, beautiful guest room, looking around--the place where they had always enjoyed putting beloved guests. Great wide windows looking out upon the snow-clad lawn; lovely, simple old furniture; a few rare pictures.

Mary Garland did not answer for a minute as she looked about on the place she had so enjoyed planning in every detail. Then with a look of renunciation in her eyes and decision in her tone she said, "Here, I think! Rex's room is scarcely large enough for two and has only a single bed. We'll just leave Rex's room the way it has always been, and then if he wants to get away by himself among his own things, he can. But we'll get this room ready and make it festive. After all, he is my son!"

"So!" said Paul with a comical twinkle. "The fatted calf, is it? Well, I'll try not to act the part of the elder son. I'll do my best not to be hostile, if you say that's the proper way. I'm not sure it is, but I won't hinder you."

"Oh, Paul, that's good! I was afraid you might make trouble. I know he deserves it, but we must remember he belongs to us, even if he has done wrong."

"Well, after all, Mother, you've got to remember that I love Rex, too. He's my brother, and we've been wonderful pals. Maybe it was somehow my fault that this happened. If we had been rooming together as we did his first year at college, it wouldn't have happened, I'm positive. Just because it was the custom for the seniors to room in the new building I thought I had to pull out and go with them, and in some ways I've been sorry ever since I did. Now I guess I've got to bear with the consequences, too. Mother, all last night I've been blaming myself. I got interested in my fraternity and what the other fellows were doing, and I didn't keep tabs on my brother. Of course, that is no excuse for him, but I know what I should have done, and I'm never going to forgive myself for it. Rex is a social lad and can't bear to be alone. I guess he missed me. We've always been so much to each other!"

"Perhaps," said the mother sadly. "But Paul, you mustn't blame yourself too much. We must go from day to day and do the right that we see. Perhaps this is going to prove a good thing for us in more ways than one--as suffering always is, I guess."

They went to work then at the curtains, filmy things of exquisite texture, edged with delicate handwrought lace, and then draperies of heavy silk, gracefully rose flowered. It was lovely when it was done, and Mary Garland brought out the little trifling ornaments, rosy satin pillows, beautifully costly accessories in silver and crystal and enamel, for the bureau and dressing table with its draperies matching the windows. It was a fitting place to which to bring a bride, and Mary Garland stood back and definitely began to visualize the girl who was to occupy it. Would she be worth it? The mother felt as if she were bringing her most cherished possessions to sacrifice at the altar of this unknown daughter whom Rex had thrust upon her.

Paul watched her for a moment and turned away, struggling with his own feelings. Then he said, "I doubt if she's worth it, Mother. I doubt if any girl is. But it's beautiful of you to do it. She may not appreciate what it costs you, and I doubt if even Rex does now, but
I
do, and someday I'll see that Rex understands that you gave of the best you had."

And then as if he were leaving a holy place, Paul went out. She heard the front door open and close, and glancing out of her window, Mary Garland saw her eldest son go down the drive with quick, brisk steps. She was not afraid for him, as she might have been yesterday, not since she heard his humble prayer. Not since she heard the words to her just now. Paul was growing in his spirit, and she was proud of him. He was going to be a help to her and not a hindrance in this trial that was ahead of them all.

A few minutes later Paul came back with a florist's box in his hand. He took off his coat and hat and put them away, and then he tramped upstairs with the box and a clear crystal vase in his hand, a vase he had always liked because he said it fitted flowers, having no frills whatever to mar its clearness. He came to her door.

"Here, Mother," he said, "see if these'll do. I thought they matched. But you'll have to fix them; I don't know how."

Her eyes met his, and she understood. He wanted to have some part in this. She smiled. Her face was filled with a kind of radiant glory, and a soft glow was reflected in the boy's eyes.

He filled the vase with water and handed out the pale pink rosebuds, one at a time, watching her while she arranged them, and she could see he was enjoying this little incident, too. If the bride didn't know enough to appreciate what they had done, it would not matter, for they would always have this memory of each other doing this together.

 

Dinner was early that night. Mary Garland understood that Sylvia would be excited, and it was well to have plenty of time. Besides, the young escort was to be introduced to her. So she put on one of her most becoming gowns, just a simple, plain one in deep purple like ripe grapes, with a bit of hand braiding on it and a touch of lace at the throat and wrists. Paul told her she looked like a queen and defied his sister Sylvia to rival her, even if she did have talisman roses to wear with her new garnet dress.