According to the Pattern (5 page)

Then there were a few literary people well known to Aunt Katharine. Down went their names and up came Aunt Katharine in her niece’s estimation as her heart began to lighten. Counting up, she saw she had a goodly list if—that great if—if they all came.

The little cuckoo clock that had been a cherished wedding gift came out and sang twelve times in the hallway, and Mrs. Winthrop, remembering with a sigh the hour of church and that morning was already upon her, put the list in her desk and went to bed, wondering as she closed her aching eyes if the days would ever be over when all this horror would be a thing of the past and she could lie down in quietness and peace and truly rest.

MRS. Winthrop had hurried to church late and seated herself a little flurried over a new gown she wore, which seemed to her not to fit just right. She was anxious to put on her bravest front before the world in this her first approach for its favor. She bowed her head in reverent attitude, but her mind was still intent upon the problem which had occupied it on the way to church—whether she could achieve the making of a certain gown described in her last fashion magazine without any more help than the picture and her own wits. She raised her head and sat back in her seat as the text was announced:

“See, saith he, that thou make all things according to the pattern shewed to thee in the mount.”

The words startled her. They could not have sounded to her soul more loudly if they had been, “See that thou make all things according to the patterns showed to thee in the fashion magazine.”

Indeed, when the sentence first reached her ear, her overstrained imagination fancied the preacher was speaking to her, had read her thought, and was about to administer a reproof. Her color rose and she glanced nervously about.

But there was on every face about her a well bred apathy that betokened perfect trust in the ability of the speaker to perform his part of the services without disturbing them.

Mrs. Winthrop tried now to center her mind on what was being said. Perhaps she had mistaken his words and her own silly brain had falsified the text to suit what was in her mind.

When a third time came the words: “See . . . that thou make all things according to the pattern shewed to thee in the mount!” it began to seem an awful sentence, though without any very distinct meaning.

The sermon which followed was eloquent and learned. There was an elaborate description of the tab
ernacle, and the main point of the sermon, if point there might be said to be, was an appeal for certain styles of church architecture. But of all this Mrs. Claude Winthrop heard not a word, except it might have been the name of Moses.

In her younger days she had been taught the Bible. She knew in a general way that “the mount” was something holy. She did not wait to puzzle her brain about Moses in the mount nor wonder what it was he had been given a pattern of. She might have recalled it if she had tried. But instead she simply took the text as spoken to her. There had been something unearthly, almost uncanny, to her weary brain in the way the words had been said out of the stillness that came after the singing had ceased. In her uneasy state of mind it was brought home to her how far from any patterns given in any mounts had been the things that she had made of late.

Following close upon the benediction came the bewilderment of a familiar greeting. Mrs. Winthrop had been so beset by her thoughts during the sermon that she had thus far lost sight of her object in coming to church that morning. True, she grasped in her hand, as if it were something precious, the church calendar containing the announcements of all meetings of the church to be held that week, but she had forgotten to look out among the congregation those who might help in her schemes. Therefore she stood in amazement at the torrent of words spoken by the young girl who had sat in the seat before her. She knew that the girl’s name was Celia Lyman and that her mother belonged to an exclusive set of people. She had barely a speaking acquaintance with Mrs. Lyman, and had never felt that she would be likely to recognize her outside of the church.

“I beg your pardon,” the sweet voice said, while a detaining gloved hand was laid gently on Miriam’s arm, “but mamma told me to be sure and give you a message. She was unable to get out this morning. She has one of her miserable headaches, and is all worn out. But she wanted me to tell you that she was anxious to have you come to our house Thursday to the musicale. She sup
posed she had sent you an invitation with the rest, but this morning she found it had slipped down behind her writing desk against the wall. She remembers laying it out for Miss Faulkes to look up your street and number, for mamma had quite forgotten it—she never remembers such things—but there it lay with only your name on it. And now Miss Faulkes says she couldn’t find your address and forgot to speak to mamma about it. She is becoming careless about things. So as it was so late and mamma could not find the paper with your address she thought maybe you would just take the invitation informally this time, for there is to be some really fine music which mamma is sure you will enjoy. You won’t mind this once, will you?” and a pair of violet eyes searched her face as if the matter were of great moment.

Mrs. Winthrop endeavored to veil her amazement and murmured her thanks, saying that the manner of the invitation did not matter, and was rewarded by a most ravishing smile.

“Then you’ll be sure to come. Four to six is the hour. Oh, and I had almost forgotten, mamma told me to be sure to get your street and number so it would be on hand for another time of need,” and a dainty silver pencil and silver mounted memoranda was lifted from a collection of small nothings that hung on tiny chains at her belt, while the lovely eyes were lifted to her face inquiringly.

Mrs. Winthrop was conscious of a slight lifting of Miss Celia’s eyebrows as she repeated the street and number after her and wrote, and was there just a shadow of surprise in her voice? It was not a fashionable locality, and Miriam Winthrop suddenly saw a new difficulty in her way.

Then she turned to do gown the aisle and bowed here and there mechanically, scarcely knowing whom she met. How strange, how very strange, that Mrs. Lyman, after almost two years of utterly ignoring her since they had first met, should suddenly invite her to her home and her wonderful musicales, for their fame had reached even her ears, stranger almost though she was. It must be that a Higher Power was enlisted to help her to-day, for here was opening to her the very door the key of which she had despaired of finding. A superstitious feeling that the text was meant for her in some way as a warning, kept clinging to her, and made her go to her own room as soon as she had reached home, and after bolting her door kneel down and whisper a few words that were meant for a sort of prayer, an attempt to placate some unseen Ruler in whom she believed with a sort of nursery-fairy-tale credulity.

In the meantime Miss Celia Lyman was detailing her encounter to her mother.

“Yes, I saw Mrs. Preston, mamma, only I completely forgot her name when church was out, but I just turned around and talked hard, and I don’t think she noticed in the least that I didn’t speak it. I knew her at once, because she was so sweetly gowned. There were three other ladies in the seat behind us, but they were all strangers. There seemed to be lots of strangers there today; we had a man in our pew. I told her all you said, and put in a nice little compliment about her being so fond of music, though I couldn’t quite remember whether you said that or not, but it pleased her awfully for I saw her cheeks get as pink as roses. She said it didn’t matter in the least about the invitation and she would be so glad to come, so now you needn’t worry another bit about that lazy Miss Faulkes. I  would dismiss her if I were you.”

“Did you get Mrs. Preston’s address, Celia?” asked the mother from her luxurious couch; “you know I must call upon her if possible before the musicale. She is a stranger and a new-comer, and I wish to show her some
attention on account of her father knowing your grandfather so well.”

“Yes, mamma, I did remember it, though it was just a hairbreadth escape. I had to call her back to get it. You know I never can remember more than one thing at once; but really I deserve a good deal of credit, for I was dying to get over to the other side of the church to speak to Margaret Langdon before she got away. She is expect
ing her cousin home from Europe soon, you know, and I wanted to make sure he would be in time for Christobel’s house party, because if he isn’t I’m not going to accept, for there isn’t another man going that I care a cent about except Ralph Jackson, and he’s so over-poweringly engaged, there is no comfort for any other girl now in him. Let me see, where did I write that address.”

The sweet voice tinkled on like the babbling of some useless little brook.

“Oh, here it is, mamma. Hazel Avenue-1515 Hazel Avenue. Say, mamma, isn’t it rather queer for a Preston to live on Hazel Avenue? Are they poor? Her gown did not look like it. I should say it was imported. No one but a master-hand could have put those little touches to her costume.”

Mrs. Lyman sat up regardless of the pillows that slipped to the floor.

“Hazel Avenue! Are you sure, Celia? You are so careless. Perhaps you have some other address mixed with it.”

“No, mamma, I’m sure this time for I said it over after her, and I remember thinking it was a very dull part of town for that dress she wore to have come from.”

“Celia, are you sure you got the right woman?”

“Sure, perfectly sure, mamma. I studied her sidewise during the closing hymn, for she didn’t sit directly behind me. You said she had brown eyes and hair, and anyway, I remembered seeing her in the seat before. I’m sure it was the right woman. Now quiet down, mamma; if it had not been the right one she would surely have told me, wouldn’t she? She was the perfect pink of refinement in manner and dress.”

“Well, I suppose she would,” said the mother, as her daughter rearranged the pillows for her, “but you are very careless for a girl of your age, and I shall have to call upon her to make sure it is all right. There is really no telling what you may have said to her, after all. And it does seem queer to invite someone from Hazel Avenue.

The house on
Hazel Avenue which the Winthrops occupied had been just like all the rest on that street until three weeks before. One of Miriam’s first moves toward a new way of living had been to have a conference with their landlord, the result of which had been that he agreed to make certain changes if she would make certain other changes. She had carefully considered and inquired the cost before she began and had put the matter in immediate operation so soon as she had the landlord’s permission. A little carpenter work and painting, and some large panes of plate glass, and the house was transformed outwardly as well as inwardly. The neighbors regarded the curved bay window that occupied the place of the former two common windows with envy. A new front door and tiled vestibule had taken the place of their dingy predecessors, and a queer little odd-shaped window with leaded panes over the front door broke the straight, solemn line of the monotonous row, making an altogether pretty and dainty looking abiding-place.

The carpenter and painter had finished their work but the day before, and Miriam carefully arranged the filmy curtains and graceful palm branches, and was hovering over a newly filled window box in the second story curved bay window, which was aglow with bright blos
soms and rich greenery, when she saw a carriage turn into Hazel Avenue from Fifteenth Street and stop before her door.

She did not wait to see who it was, but slipped to her bedroom where lay on her bed a pretty house gown just finished, all but a few stray hooks which were waiting to be put on. It was the work of but a moment to slip into it, and she blessed the fates that had made her leave it there close at hand. She had tried it on but an hour before and so felt sure that it looked all right, and when her wondering but demure handmaid came to her door with the silver tray bearing Mrs. Lyman’s card she found her mistress already fastening the waist of her gown and quite calm outwardly, although quaking inwardly. She was about to make her first entrance into real society, a genuine call from a society woman, and through no effort of her own. She rejoiced in that fact.

“Isn’t it sweet here?” murmured Celia, who had begged to come along because she had fallen in love with the supposed Mrs. Preston.

“Very,” said her mother with a relieved air, “quite modest and unassuming, but all that is required,” and she settled back to await the coming of her hostess.

Miriam trembled as she crossed the little hall and wondered if she would be able to imitate the fashionable handclasp of the day which she had observed of late and had feared to attempt, but she came forward quite naturally in spite of her trepidation and welcomed her caller graciously. There was less assurance in Mrs. Lyman’s manner than she had expected. In fact that lady seemed almost ill at case as she rose to meet her, and she turned with relief to the fair-haired daughter, who immediately began to gush about the house which she called, “sweet.”

Mrs. Winthrop at once spoke of the kindness of Mrs. Lyman in inviting her to the musicale, expressing her delight in fine music, and an indescribable look came over Mrs. Lyman’s face, while Miss Celia began to say something about all the Prestons being so fond of music, which her mother immediately drowned by plunging wildly into a conversation about something as far from music as she could think of.

It was a rather interesting call, altogether considered.

The hostess felt herself to be on trial and was therefore not quite natural. The caller too was evidently somewhat distraught. Her daughter could scarcely wait until they were out at the carriage before asking her what was the matter. But Mrs. Lyman paused at the very threshold, a sudden thought reminding her that she did not know the name of this guest-to-be of hers.

“Is Mr.—that is, is your husband at home now?” She asked it hesitatingly, and Miriam, because of her tragic thought of her husband, felt herself flushing to the roots of her hair.

She made a great effort to control herself, for she knew she was blushing, but answered quietly enough. “No. Mr. Winthrop has been obliged to go abroad on business. I am expecting him home soon.