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“He shall not see me cry, jamais, jamais; he married a laughing wife and those gray, cruel ones down there shall not rob him of me”
'i “Mother — Aunt Ellen,” he faced the three silent figures in the dim parlor, defiantly,“this is my wife — this is Fauvette.” !; The Wesleys saw a girl, incredibly (lovely — the women of their family had jnot' been noted for their beauty — a golden creature of glowing tints and young, warm curves; they saw, too, the ifashionable clothes, the audacious tilt of ;lier hat, which to their provincial eyes spelled nothing less than actual deviltry, and their eyes grew chill and hard as jisteel.
“I expect you’re going to find South Quarries considerably different front vhat you’re accustomed to.” Ellen proffered a limp hand. “Martin’ll show you jap to your room and you can lay your ithings off. We always have supper at jseven.”
I And this was the bride’s welcome to per new home. Groping up the steep, narrow stairs by the flickering light of ■the oil lamp in her husband’s hand, Fauyette pressed her eyes fiercely shut to Keep back the hot, sudden tears. Daugh:er of an ardent race, sensitive to all the nuances of grief and joy, she had now jihe blank sensation of having had a door slammed in her face.
I The guest-room was high-ceilinged, ' yith chocolate wall-paper and black wal|iut furniture. Over Fauvette’s soul yashed a great wave of homesickness, I jriny with the bitter tang of tears. Then she looked at her husband, unconcernedly combing his hair in thick, wet : spirals before the mirror, and her chin livent up gallantly.
f “He shall not see me cry, jamais, vjaniais!” she promised herself ; “he marIjried a laughing wife, and those gray, rcruel ones down there shall not rob him of me.” '
( Fifty-seven)
In the agonizing weeks that followed she tried piteous, futile little wiles to win the Wesleys to her, but it was like a butterfly dashing fragile wings against a granite wall. Ellen and her mother ignored her as much as was consi-stent with their theories of good breeding, and treated her before Martin with a frigid politeness, cruel as only women — and good women — know how to be. The senile old father leered at her with rheumy, knowing eyes and babbled Scriptural quotations about “scarlet women.” In church and on the street the village peered at her with prying, greedy glances and evil whisperings.
When Martin first heard the whispers he strode up the hill and across the threshold of the gaunt, white house and locked himself into the stuffy study, where Ellen heard his restless pacing and smiled triumphantly. Later she rapped and was admitted, to find him sullen-browed and blustering.
“Do you know what those evilminded old cats are saying about my wife — about a Wesley?” Even in his anger the ruling passion of family worship was stronger than anything else.
Ellen spoke smoothly. “After all, can you blame them for wondering, Martin ? A foreigner — and after such a short ac
quaintance ! Of course, you know all about her, but to those of us who dont — well, you must admit it is not strange we — speculate.”
A moment later the low doorway framed a vision so incongruous, so bewildering, that the dark, distinguished man sprang to his feet, with the tribute of an involuntary exclamation