"But you haven't congratulated me, Aunt Jessica! You have turned your back
on the bride elect--you with all your fine manners! She presents herself
once more to your notice the future Mrs. Joseph Holden, Junior, to be
married one month from last night!" And unexpectedly standing in front of
Mrs. Falconer, Amy made one of her low bows which she had practised in the
minuet. But catching the sight of the face of her aunt, she cried
remorsefully: "Oh, I have been so rude to you, Aunt Jessica! Forgive me!" There was
something of the new sense of womanhood in her voice and of the sisterhood
in suffering which womanhood alone can bring.
But Mrs. Falconer had not heard Amy's last exclamation.
"What do you mean?" she asked with quick tremulous eagerness. She had
regained her firmness of demeanour, which alone should have turned back any
expression of sympathy before it could have been offered.
"That I am to become Mrs. Joseph Holden--a month from last night," repeated
Amy bewitchingly.
"You are serious?"
"I am serious!"
Mrs. Falconer did not take Amy's word: she searched her face and eyes with
one swift scrutiny that was like a merciless white flame of truth, scorching
away all sham, all play, all unreality. Then she dropped her head quickly,
so that her own face remained hidden, and silently plied her work. But how
the very earth about the rake, how the little roots and clods, seemed to
come to life and leap joyously into the air! All at once she dropped
everything and came over and took Amy's hand and kissed her cheek. Her
lovely eyes were glowing; her face looked as though it had upon it the rosy
shadow of the peach trees not far away.
"I do congratulate you," she said sweetly, but with the reserve which Amy's
accession to womanhood and the entire conversation of the morning made an
unalterable barrier to her. "You have not needed advice: you have chosen
wisely. You shall have a beautiful wedding. I will make your dress myself.
The like of it will never have been seen in the wilderness. You shall have
all the finest linen in the weaving-room. Only a month! How shall we ever
get ready!--if we stand idling here! Oh, the work, the work!" she cried and
turned to hers with a dismissing smile--unable to trust herself to say more.
"And I must go and take the things out of my bundle," cried Amy, catching
the contagion of all this and bounding away to the house. Some five minutes
later Mrs. Falconer glanced at the sun: it was eleven o'clock--time to be
getting dinner.