By the Light of the Soul Part 9

"Oh, father," pleaded Maria. "Aunt Maria would marry you, and I would a great deal rather have her."

"Nonsense," said Harry Edgham, laughing, with a glance towards the door.

"Yes, she would, father; that was the reason she got her pompadour."

Harry laughed again, but softly, for he was afraid of Aunt Maria overhearing. "Nonsense, dear," he said again. Then he kissed Maria in a final sort of way. "It will be all for the best," he said, "and we shall all be happier. Father doesn't think any the less of you, and never will, and he is never going to forget your own dear mother; but it is all for the best, the way he has decided. Now, good-night, darling, try to go to sleep, and don't worry about anything."

It was not long before Maria did fall asleep. Her thoughts were in such a whirl that it was almost like intoxication. She could not seem to fix her mind on anything long enough to hold herself awake. It was not merely the fact of her father's going to marry again, it was everything which that involved. She felt as if she were looking into a kaleidoscope shaken by fate into endless changes. The changes seemed fairly to tire her eyes into sleep.

The very next afternoon Aunt Maria went home. Harry announced his matrimonial intentions to her before he went to New York, and she said immediately that she would take the afternoon train.

"But," said Harry, "I thought maybe you would stay and be at the--wedding, Maria. I don't mean to get married until the November vacation, and it is only the first of September now. I don't see why you are in such a hurry."

"Yes," replied Aunt Maria, "I suppose you thought I would stay and get the house cleaned, and slave here like a dog, getting ready for you to be married. Well, I sha'n't; I'm tired out. I'm going to take the train this afternoon."

Harry looked helplessly at her.

"I don't see what Maria and I are going to do then," said he.

"If it wasn't for taking Maria away from school, I would ask her to come and make me a visit, poor child," said Aunt Maria, "until you brought her new ma home. I have only a hundred dollars a year to live on, but I'd risk it but I could make her comfortable; but she can't leave her school."

"No, I don't see how she can," said Harry, still helplessly. "I thought you'd stay, Maria. There is the house to be cleaned, and some painting and papering. I thought--"

"Yes, I'll warrant you thought," said Aunt Maria, with undisguised viciousness. "But you were mistaken; I am not going to stay."

"But I don't see exactly--"

"Oh, Lord, you and Maria can take your meals at Mrs. Jonas White's, she'll be glad enough to have you; and you can hire the cleaning done," said Aunt Maria, with a certain pity in the midst of her disappointment and contempt.

It seemed to Maria, when her aunt went away that afternoon, as if she could not bear it. There is a law of gravitation for the soul as well as for the body, and Maria felt as one who had fallen from a known quant.i.ty into strangeness, with a horrible shock.

"Now, if she don't treat you well, you send word, and I'll have you come and stay with me," whispered Aunt Maria at the last.

Maria loved Aunt Maria when she went away. She went to school late for the sake of seeing her off; and she was late in the geography cla.s.s, but Miss Slome only greeted her with a smile of radiant rea.s.surance.

At recess, Gladys Mann snuggled up to her.

"Say, is it true?" she whispered.

"Is what true?"

"Is your father goin' to get married to teacher?"

"Yes," said Maria. Then she gave Gladys a little push. "I wish you'd let me alone," she said.

Chapter VII

Extreme youth is always susceptible to diversion which affords a degree of alleviation for grief. Many older people have the same facility of turning before the impetus of circ.u.mstances to another view of life, which serves to take their minds off too close concentration upon sorrow, but it is not so universal. Maria, although she was sadly lonely, in a measure, enjoyed taking her meals at Mrs. Jonas White's. She had never done anything like it before.

The utter novelty of sitting down to Mrs. White's table, and eating in company with her and Mr. Jonas White, and Lillian White, and a son by the name of Henry, amused her. Then, too, they were all very kind to her. They even made a sort of heroine of her, especially at noon, when her father was in New York and she, consequently, was alone.

They pitied her, in a covert sort of fas.h.i.+on, because her father was going to get married again, especially Mrs. White and Lillian.

Lillian was a very pretty girl, with a pert carriage of blond head, and a slangy readiness of speech.

"Well, she's a dandy, as far as looks and dress go, and maybe she'll make you a real good mother-in-law," she said to Maria. Maria knew that Lillian should have said step-mother, but she did not venture to correct her.

"Looks ain't everything," said Mrs. White, with a glance at her daughter. She had thought of the possibility of Harry Edgham taking a fancy to her Lillian.

Mr. Jonas White, who with his son Henry kept a market, thereby insuring such choice cuts of meat, spoke then. He did not, as a rule, say much at table, especially when Maria and her father, who in his estimation occupied a superior place in society, were present.

"Guess Mr. Edgham knows what he's about," said he. "He's going to marry a good-looking woman, and one that's capable of supportin'

herself, if he's laid up or anything happens to him. Guess she's all right."

"I guess so, too," said Henry White. Both nodded rea.s.suringly at Maria, who felt mournfully comforted.

"Shouldn't wonder if she'd saved something, too," said Mr. White.

When he and his son were on their way back to the market, driving in the white-covered wagon with "J. White & Son" on the sides thereof, they agreed that women were queer.

"There's your mother and Lillian, they mean all right," said Jonas White, "but they were getting that poor young one all stirred up."

Maria never settled with herself whether the Whites thought she had a pleasant prospect before her or the reverse, but they did not certainly influence her to love Miss Ida Slome any more.

Miss Slome was so kind to Maria, in those days, that it really seemed to her that she ought to love her. She and her father were invited to take tea at Miss Slome's boarding-house, and after tea they sat in the little parlor which the teacher had for her own, and Miss Slome sang and played to them. She had a piano. Maria heard her and her father talking about the place in the Edgham parlor where it was to stand. Harry stood over Miss Slome as she was singing, and Maria observed how his arm pressed against her shoulder.

After the song was done, Harry and Miss Slome sat down on the sofa, and Harry drew Maria down on the other side. Harry put his arm around his little daughter, but not as if he realized it, and she peeked around and saw how closely he was embracing Miss Slome, whose cheeks were a beautiful color, but whose set smile never relaxed. It seemed to Maria that Miss Slome smiled exactly like a doll, as if the smile were made on her face by something outside, not by anything within.

Maria thought her father was very silly. She felt scorn, shame, and indignation at the same time. Maria was glad when it was time to go home. When her father kissed Miss Slome, she blushed, and turned away her head.

Going home, Harry almost danced along the street. He was as light-hearted as a boy, and as thoughtlessly in love.

"Well, dear, what do you think of your new mother?" he asked, gayly, as they pa.s.sed under the maples, which were turning, and whose foliage sprayed overhead with a radiance of gold in the electric light.

Then Maria made that inevitable rejoinder which is made always, which is at once trite and pathetic. "I can't call her mother," she said.

But Harry only laughed. He was too delighted and triumphant to realize the pain of the child, although he loved her. "Oh, well, dear, you needn't until you feel like it," he said.

"What am I going to call her, father?" asked Maria, seriously.

"Oh, anything. Call her Ida."

"She is too old for me to call her that," replied Maria.

"Old? Why, dear, Ida is only a girl."

"She is a good deal over thirty," said Maria. "I call that very old."

"You won't, when you get there yourself," replied Harry, with another laugh. "Well, dear, suit yourself. Call her anything you like."