Grace Livingston Hill - The Story of Miranda - Complete Trilogy (Marcia Schuyler, Phoebe Deane & Miranda)

“It must be lots of fun at your house these days,” said Mary Ann wistfully. “Are you most ready for the wedding?”

Marcia nodded. Her eyes were bright. She could see the sign of the village store just ahead and knew the bolts of new chintz were displaying their charms in the window.

“My, but your cheeks do look pretty,” admired Mary Ann impulsively. “Say, how many of each has your sister got?”

“Two dozens,” said Marcia conscious of a little swelling of pride in her breast. It was not every girl that had such a setting out as her sister.

“My!” sighed Mary Ann. “And outside things, too. I ’spose she’s got one of every color. What are her frocks? Tell me about them. I’ve been up to Dutchess county and just got back last night, but Ma wrote Aunt Tilly that Mis’ Hotchkiss said her frocks was the prettiest Miss Hancock’s ever sewed on.”

“We think they are pretty,” admitted Marcia modestly. “There’s a sprigged chin—” here she caught herself, remembering, and laughed. “I mean muslin-de-laine, and a blue delaine, and a blue silk——”

“My! silk!” breathed Mary Ann in an ecstasy of wonder. “And what’s she going to be married in?”

“White,” answered Marcia, “white satin. And the veil was mother’s—our own mother’s, you know.”

Marcia spoke it reverently, her eyes shining with something far away that made Mary Ann think she looked like an angel.

“Oh, my! Don’t you just envy her?”

“No,” said Marcia slowly; “I think not. At least—I hope not. It wouldn’t be right, you know. And then she’s my sister and I love her dearly, and it’s nearly as nice to have one’s sister have nice things and a good time as to have them one’s self.”

“You’re good,” said Mary Ann decidedly as if that were a foregone conclusion. “But I should envy her, I just should. Mis’ Hotchkiss told Ma there wa’nt many lots in life so all honey-and-dew-prepared like your sister’s. All the money she wanted to spend on clo’es, and a nice set out, and a man as handsome as you’ll find anywhere, and he’s well off too, ain’t he? Ma said she heard he kept a horse and lived right in the village too, not as how he needed to keep one to get anywhere, either. That’s what I call luxury—a horse to ride around with. And then Mr. What’s-his-name? I can’t remember. Oh, yes, Spafford. He’s good, and everybody says he won’t make a bit of fuss if Kate does go around and have a good time. He’ll just let her do as she pleases. Only old Grandma Doolittle says she doesn’t believe it. She thinks every man, no matter how good he is, wants to manage his wife, just for the name of it. She says your sister’ll have to change her ways or else there’ll be trouble. But that’s Grandma! Everybody knows her. She croaks! Ma says Kate’s got her nest feathered well if ever a girl had. My! I only wish I had the same chance!”

Marcia held her head a trifle high when Mary Ann touched upon her sister’s personal character, but they were nearing the store, and everybody knew Mary Ann was blunt. Poor Mary Ann! She meant no harm. She was but repeating the village gossip. Besides, Marcia must give her mind to sprigged chintz. There was no time for discussions if she would accomplish her purpose before the folks came home that night.

“Mary Ann,” she said in her sweet, prim way that always made the other girl stand a little in awe of her, “you mustn’t listen to gossip. It isn’t worth while. I’m sure my sister Kate will be very happy. I’m going in the store now, are you?” And the conversation was suddenly concluded.

Mary Ann followed meekly watching with wonder and envy as Marcia made her bargain with the kindly merchant, and selected her chintz. What a delicious swish the scissors made as they went through the width of cloth, and how delightfully the paper crackled as the bundle was being wrapped! Mary Ann did not know whether Kate or Marcia was more to be envied.

“Did you say you were going to make it up yourself?” asked Mary Ann.

Marcia nodded.

“Oh, my! Ain’t you afraid? I would be. It’s the prettiest I ever saw. Don’t you go and cut both sleeves for one arm. That’s what I did the only time Ma ever let me try.” And Mary Ann touched the package under Marcia’s arm with wistful fingers.

They had reached the turn of the road and Mary Ann hoped that Marcia would ask her out to “help,” but Marcia had no such purpose.

“Well, good-bye! Will you wear it next Sunday?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” answered Marcia breathlessly, and sped on her homeward way, her cheeks bright with excitement.

In her own room she spread the chintz out upon the bed and with trembling fingers set about her task. The bright shears clipped the edge and tore off the lengths exultantly as if in league with the girl. The bees hummed outside in the clover, and now and again buzzed between the muslin curtains of the open window, looked in and grumbled out again. The birds sang across the meadows and the sun mounted to the zenith and began its downward march, but still the busy fingers worked on. Well for Marcia’s scheme that the fashion of the day was simple, wherein were few puckers and plaits and tucks, and little trimming required, else her task would have been impossible.

Her heart beat high as she tried it on at last, the new chintz that she had made. She went into the spare room and stood before the long mirror in its wide gilt frame that rested on two gilt knobs standing out from the wall like giant rosettes. She had dared to make the skirt a little longer than that of her best frock. It was almost as long as Kate’s, and for a moment she lingered, sweeping backward and forward before the glass and admiring herself in the long graceful folds. She caught up her braids in the fashion that Kate wore her hair and smiled at the reflection of herself in the mirror. How funny it seemed to think she would soon be a woman like Kate. When Kate was gone they would begin to call her “Miss” sometimes. Somehow she did not care to look ahead. The present seemed enough. She had so wrapped her thoughts in her sister’s new life that her own seemed flat and stale in comparison.

The sound of a distant hay wagon on the road reminded her that the sun was near to setting. The family carryall would soon be coming up the lane from the evening packet. She must hurry and take off her frock and be dressed before they arrived.

Marcia was so tired that night after supper that she was glad to slip away to bed, without waiting to hear Kate’s voluble account of her day in town, the beauties she had seen and the friends she had met.

She lay down and dreamed of the morrow, and of the next day, and the next. In strange bewilderment she awoke in the night and found the moonlight streaming full into her face. Then she laughed and rubbed her eyes and tried to go to sleep again; but she could not, for she had dreamed that she was the bride herself, and the words of Mary Ann kept going over and over in her mind. “Oh, don’t you envy her?” Did she envy her sister? But that was wicked. It troubled her to think of it, and she tried to banish the dream, but it would come again and again with a strange sweet pleasure.

She lay wondering if such a time of joy would ever come to her as had come to Kate, and whether the spare bed would ever be piled high with clothes and fittings for her new life. What a wonderful thing it was anyway to be a woman and be loved!

Then her dreams blended again with the soft perfume of the honeysuckle at the window, and the hooting of a young owl.

The moon dropped lower, the bright stars paled, dawn stole up through the edges of the woods far away and awakened a day that was to bring a strange transformation over Marcia’s life.