By the Light of the Soul Part 48

It was, in fact, ludicrous. Aunt Maria entered the sitting-room, a grotesque figure in her black skirt bundled up under Maria's waterproof, which was powdered with snow. She wore her old black bonnet, and the wind had tipped that rakishly to one side. She stared at Lily and George Ramsey, who both rose with crimson faces.

"Good-evening," Lily ventured, feebly.

"Good-evening, Miss Stillman," George said, following the girl's lead. Then, as he was more a.s.sured, he added that it was a very stormy night.

George had been sitting on one side of the stove, Lily on the other, in the chairs which Maria and Lily had occupied before the young man's arrival. They had both sprung up with a guilty motion when Aunt Maria entered. Aunt Maria stood surveying them. She did not return their good-evenings, nor George's advance with regard to the weather.

Her whole face expressed severe astonishment. Her thin lips gaped slightly, her pale eyes narrowed. She continued to look at them, and they stood before her like culprits.

"Where's Maria gone?" said Aunt Maria, finally, in a voice which seemed to have an edge to it.

Then Lily spoke with soft and timid volubility. "Maria said her head ached so she thought she had better go to bed, Miss Stillman," she said.

"I didn't hear anything about any headache before I went away. Must have come on mighty sudden," said Aunt Maria.

"She said it ached very hard," repeated Lily. "And when the door-bell rang, when Mr. Ramsey came--"

"It's mighty queer she should have had a headache when George Ramsey rang the door-bell," said Aunt Maria.

"I guess it must have ached before," said Lily, faintly.

"I should suppose it must have," Aunt Maria said, sarcastically. "I don't see any reason why Maria's head should begin to ache when the door-bell rang."

"Of course," said Lily. "I suppose she just felt she couldn't talk, that was all."

"It's mighty queer," said Aunt Maria. She stood quite immovable. She was so stern that even her rakishly tipped bonnet did not seem at all funny. She looked at Lily and George Ramsey, and did not make a movement to remove her wraps.

Lily took a little, faltering step towards her. "You are all covered with snow, Miss Stillman," she said, in her sweet voice.

"I don't mind a little snow," said Aunt Maria.

"Won't you take this chair?" asked George Ramsey, pointing to the one which he had just vacated.

"No, thank you," replied Aunt Maria. "I ain't going to sit down. I've got on my best black silk, and I don't ever sit down in it when I can help it. I'm going to take it off and go to bed."

Then George Ramsey immediately made a movement towards his coat and hat, which lay on the lounge beside Lily's wraps. "Well," he said, with an attempt to laugh and be easy, "I must be going. I have to take an early car to-morrow."

"I must go, too," said Lily.

They both hustled on their outer garments. They said good-evening when they went out, but Aunt Maria did not reply. She immediately took off Maria's water-proof and her bonnet, and slipped off her best black silk gown. Then she took the little lamp which was lighted in the kitchen and went up-stairs to Maria's room. She had an old shawl over her shoulders, otherwise she was in her black quilted petticoat.

She stepped softly, and entered the spare room opposite Maria's. It was icy cold in there. She set the lamp on the bureau and went out, closing the door softly. It was then quite dark in the little pa.s.sageway between the spare room and Maria's. Aunt Maria stood looking sharply at Maria's door, especially at the threshold, which was separated from the floor quite a s.p.a.ce by the shrinkage of the years. The panels, too, had their crevices, through which light might be seen. It was entirely dark. Aunt Maria opened the door of the spare room very softly and got the little lamp off the bureau, and tiptoed down-stairs. Then she sat down before the sitting-room stove and pulled up her quilted petticoat till her thin legs were exposed, to warm herself and not injure the petticoat. She looked unutterably stern and weary. Suddenly, as she sat there, tears began to roll over her ascetic cheeks.

"Oh, Lord!" she sighed to herself; "to think that child has got to go through the world just the way I have, when she don't need to!"

Aunt Maria rose and got a handkerchief out of her bureau-drawer in her little bedroom. She did not take the one in the pocket of her gown because that was her best one, and very fine. Then she sat down again, pulled up her petticoat again, put the handkerchief before her poor face, and wept for herself and her niece, because of a conviction which was over her that for both the joy of life was to come only from the windows of others.

Chapter XXIII

Lily Merrill, going home across the yard through the storm, leaning on George Ramsey's arm, gave a little, involuntary sob. It was a sob half of the realization of slighted affection, half of shame. It gave the little element of strangeness which was lacking to fascinate the young man. He had a pitiful heart towards women, and at the sound of the little, stifled sob he pressed Lily's arm more closely under his own.

"Don't, Lily," he said, softly.

Lily sobbed again; she almost leaned her head towards George's shoulder. She made a little, irresistible, nestling motion, like a child.

"I can't help it," she said, brokenly. "She did look at me so."

"Don't mind her one bit, Lily," said George. He half laughed at the memory of Aunt Maria's face, even while the tender tone sounded in his voice. "Don't mind that poor old maid. Neither of us were to blame. I suppose it did look as if we had taken possession of her premises, and she was astonished, that was all. How funny she looked, poor thing, with her bonnet awry!"

"I know she must think I have done something dreadful," sobbed Lily.

"Nonsense!" George said again, and his pressure of her arm tightened.

"I was just going when she came in, anyway. There is nothing at all to be ashamed of, only--" He hesitated.

"What?" asked Lily.

"Well, to tell you the truth, Lily," he said then, "it does look to me as if Miss Edgham's headache was only another way of telling me she did not wish to see me."

"Oh, I guess not," said Lily.

"For some reason or other she does not seem to like me," George said, with rather a troubled voice; but he directly laughed.

"I don't see any reason why she shouldn't like you," Lily said.

They had reached Lily's door, and the light from the sitting-room windows shone on her lovely face, past which the snow drifted like a white veil.

"Well, I think she doesn't," George said, carelessly, "but you are mighty good to say you see no reason why she shouldn't. You and I have always been good friends, haven't we, Lily, ever since we went to school together?"

"Yes," replied Lily, eagerly, although she did not like the word friends, which seemed to smite on the heart. She lifted her face to the young man's, and her lips pouted almost imperceptibly. It could not have been said that she was inviting a kiss, but no man could have avoided kissing her. George Ramsey kissed her as naturally as he breathed. There seemed to be nothing else to do. It was one of the inevitables of life. Then Lily opened the door and slid into the house with a tremulous good-night.

George himself felt tremulous, and also astonished and vexed with himself. He had certainly not meant to kiss Lily Merrill. But it flashed across his mind that she would not think anything of it, that he had kissed her often when they were children, and it was the same thing now. As he went away he glanced back at the lighted windows, and a man's shadow was quite evident. He wondered who was calling on Lily's mother, and then wondered, with a slight shadow of jealousy, if it could be some one who had come to see Lily herself. He reflected, as he went homeward through the storm, that a girl as pretty as Lily ought to have some one worthy of her. He went over in his mind, as he puffed his cigar, all the young men in Amity, and it did not seem to him that any one of them was quite the man for her.

When he reached home he found his mother already there, warming herself by the sitting-room register. She had gone to the tea-party in a carriage (George would not have her walk), but she was chilled.

She was a delicate, pretty woman. She looked up, s.h.i.+vering, as George entered.

"Where have you been, dear?" she asked.

George laughed, and colored a little. "Well, mother, I went to see one young lady and saw another," he replied.

Just then the maid came in with some hot chocolate, which Mrs. Ramsey always drank before she went to bed, and she asked no more questions until the girl had gone; then she resumed the conversation.

"What do you mean, dear?" she inquired, looking over the rim of the china cup at her son, with a slight, anxious contraction of her forehead.

"Well, I felt a little lonely after you went, mother, and I had nothing especial to do, and it occurred to me that I would go over and call on our neighbor."

"On young Maria Edgham?"

"Yes, mother."