dealing with things to bear upon bread making, and the result was a store of knowledge that stood her in good stead later when she was ready to use it. She came to the kitchen armed with pencil and dainty tablet, and the pages that usually bore the names of society’s great lights and lists for dinners and parties, were made to tell amounts of yeast and flour and salt. Every detail Constance watched, and in her flowing hand wrote down Sa’Ran’s characteristic description of the way the bread should look when it was ready to put in the pans.
The night before she started on her way once more, having prolonged her visit three days beyond what she had at first intended, she sat with her aunt Susan late into the night, talking. The sweet old lady opened her heart to this niece and told a little of her life story of love and hope and death, with its attendant loneliness and sorrow. The plain gold ring, worn thin by the years, that gleamed on her tiny satin-skinned hand, meant years of loyalty to a dead beau, and yet there were no lines of rebellion and fretfulness written on the smooth brow. There was a light of hope and heaven in the faded blue eyes, and Constance almost envied her aunt her life and its peace and surety of heaven. She lay awake long after her aunt had left her, thinking over the whole story and wondering whether Morris Thayer would be worth being true to all those years. She decided that he would not, at least not to her.
Then step by step, for the first time in her life, she put plainly to herself what the future would be if spent with him. She knew that that was what he wanted. He had made it plain enough, but she had purposely been obtuse. She had not wanted to think of the matter before, and she did not wish to now, only the sense of something lost made her wish to find out just how much it was she had lost. For she felt he was lost to her now as much as if she had announced to him that her property was gone and he had turned on his heel and told her he could then have nothing more to do with her. Perhaps she did him an injustice to feel so sure that he would turn away from her, but at least she felt certain that his talk in the car revealed more of his true character than she had hitherto allowed herself to confess. Or perhaps she had been blinded in her luxury and ease.
Yes, if she should quietly let matters go their way, telling no one of the loss of her fortune, and marry him, there would be a fine wedding, quantities of presents, guests, and much society stir; and then there would be a fine establishment turned out by the hands of the latest decorators, in an unimpeachable part of the city, and a round of social engagements and dresses and trips to Europe. In fact, anything that anybody else had would be hers—all the things she had always had and the deference of her world. She would have a handsome husband who would be a credit to her wherever she went with him and would probably be good humored and indulgent, and bother her very little.
But her mind turned from the picture with a great weariness. There was nothing in it all to satisfy the longings that seemed to have been growing up within her during the last week. Just what those longings meant she did not understand. She only knew that life had suddenly become a more real, earnest thing to her than it had ever seemed before and that there was a zest to each new day when she awoke, and a looking forward to new delightful sensations, which she could not remember feeling since she was a little girl.
There was something else, too. A sweet influence had touched her through Aunt Susan; a desire to have a peaceful brow and to find out what it was that made disagreeable things become bearable. When she got home—or when she got a home, she corrected herself—she would look into it. She would attend church services more regularly and try to do good in some way, and see whether that would bring her any such halo of heavenly sweetness as seemed to
The night before she started on her way once more, having prolonged her visit three days beyond what she had at first intended, she sat with her aunt Susan late into the night, talking. The sweet old lady opened her heart to this niece and told a little of her life story of love and hope and death, with its attendant loneliness and sorrow. The plain gold ring, worn thin by the years, that gleamed on her tiny satin-skinned hand, meant years of loyalty to a dead beau, and yet there were no lines of rebellion and fretfulness written on the smooth brow. There was a light of hope and heaven in the faded blue eyes, and Constance almost envied her aunt her life and its peace and surety of heaven. She lay awake long after her aunt had left her, thinking over the whole story and wondering whether Morris Thayer would be worth being true to all those years. She decided that he would not, at least not to her.
Then step by step, for the first time in her life, she put plainly to herself what the future would be if spent with him. She knew that that was what he wanted. He had made it plain enough, but she had purposely been obtuse. She had not wanted to think of the matter before, and she did not wish to now, only the sense of something lost made her wish to find out just how much it was she had lost. For she felt he was lost to her now as much as if she had announced to him that her property was gone and he had turned on his heel and told her he could then have nothing more to do with her. Perhaps she did him an injustice to feel so sure that he would turn away from her, but at least she felt certain that his talk in the car revealed more of his true character than she had hitherto allowed herself to confess. Or perhaps she had been blinded in her luxury and ease.
Yes, if she should quietly let matters go their way, telling no one of the loss of her fortune, and marry him, there would be a fine wedding, quantities of presents, guests, and much society stir; and then there would be a fine establishment turned out by the hands of the latest decorators, in an unimpeachable part of the city, and a round of social engagements and dresses and trips to Europe. In fact, anything that anybody else had would be hers—all the things she had always had and the deference of her world. She would have a handsome husband who would be a credit to her wherever she went with him and would probably be good humored and indulgent, and bother her very little.
But her mind turned from the picture with a great weariness. There was nothing in it all to satisfy the longings that seemed to have been growing up within her during the last week. Just what those longings meant she did not understand. She only knew that life had suddenly become a more real, earnest thing to her than it had ever seemed before and that there was a zest to each new day when she awoke, and a looking forward to new delightful sensations, which she could not remember feeling since she was a little girl.
There was something else, too. A sweet influence had touched her through Aunt Susan; a desire to have a peaceful brow and to find out what it was that made disagreeable things become bearable. When she got home—or when she got a home, she corrected herself—she would look into it. She would attend church services more regularly and try to do good in some way, and see whether that would bring her any such halo of heavenly sweetness as seemed to
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