The Oklahoma Leader. (Guthrie, Okla.), Vol. 23, No. 3, Ed. 1 Thursday, June 27, 1912 Page: 3 of 8
This newspaper is part of the collection entitled: Oklahoma Digital Newspaper Program and was provided to The Gateway to Oklahoma History by the Oklahoma Historical Society.
Extracted Text
The following text was automatically extracted from the image on this page using optical character recognition software:
TIIKLEADER, GUTHRIE, OKI,A..Till'RSI A V, .U NK 27, l!H2.
PAGE THREE
THEY THAT
OL/V/A NOMAD Dl/NBA/i
always b<
(Copyright 1911 bv Harp* * Bm.5
J HEN the news of Stephen Orth's com-
W| ing marriape became known in Wray-
| ford, people fell to recalling th* time*
twenty-five years before, when Sophie
Burchell had taken the little orphan b«>y
into her home. It ha<l been her fir>t ac-
tion, they remembered, after the death
of her invalid father had invested her
sapped and sober middle age with a
tardy, an almost unbecoming freedom.
And she had no sooner tremblingly
gained her secure possession of the little
Stephen than from every direction plati-
tudes of approval drifted toward her.
Slatternly in tVcrs, who had themselves
bred big families with- • development in themselves
cf 'eroie virtue?, * rre lr-".d to predict that the re-
«pon«ihi!ity for a cl ild would work a niirarle for the
lonely woman. The kindlier of Sophie's neighbors
had agreed that it would give her "something to
live for"; the others, less graciously, that it would
give her "something to do." Nobody would have
gone so fkr as to a<?ert that the arrangement would
benefit the boy, for, like the rest of the world, Wray-
ford had its sneer for "old maids' children"; but
VVrayford could see for itself that lean, sober, little
Stephen seemed, if ever a child was, adapted to bis
destiny. Ho had belonged to that less lovely half
of the adolescent race in which one misses, from
very birth, the beautiful completeness of infancy;
children wWo are incOfnplctc adults, merely, whose
t"0 sharply molded f.^'es wear the anxious presage
of ♦' i-'^s to come; wli Jittle mouths arc set and
who-'' iyes, barren of dreams, are impatient for
ma:r ity F.ven at the age of four, you could have
detrcted no infant impishness in Stephen's already
well-controlled character.
It had, indeed, been a pattern of staid companion-
ship that they had presented, as Stephen trudged
docilely to church by Miss Bun-hell's side, <>r sat
with his book while she sewed, or helped her witf\
her gardening. It had not seriously troubled his
foster parent, a-> it had the more speculative of her
neighbors, that the child was never "naughty"; it
was quite plain that his dignity and good sense were
sufficient to keep him from irrational misdemeanors;
moreover, she believed that Stephen would keep
"good" by virtue of the quality of her care for him—
for there dwelt within her a secret of the sort that
dull neighbors never penetrate. Miss Sophie had a
devout faith in her own geniu1. for motherhood; it
was her one arrogance.
Through many patient, unblessed years Sophie
Burchell had hoarded, as a poet might, this belief in
H her own divine capacity. Neither the tyranny of
A ^ dam BurcheH\s lonp illness nnr the pity of her own
loneliness had even faintly discouraged it in her.
Nor was this merely a vague longing to strain warm,
laughing babies to her breast; it was the touching
certainty that she cotiM tirtle-sly cherish and wisely
care for them It had been her strangely besetting
fear that she might yield to her hic's too constant
danger of growing warped or thorny, as hard-
pressed, long-starved women v.ill; for she felt that
she must keep herself sound and strong and sweet
for the child that would some 'lay need her. It did
not profoundly matter that the chiid could not be
her own. Hvery child that she s iw, for that matter,
every puny baby, every scrawny urchin, called out
the unstinted flow .,f Sophie's maternal tenderness.
It was an opulent and overbrimming motherhood to
which Stephen Orth fell heir.
Whether Stephen would repay her as people said,
for what she magnificently gave him, was a calcina-
tion that Sophie wotiM have been the last to riake;
nevertheless, there were intimations, after a year or
so, of what onlookers considered an almost miracu-
lous recompense. Stephen was not only dutiful, he
was actually gifted. At least, he discharged with
what other children regarded as offensive ease the
tasks that his teachers almost deferentially assigned
him; and by the time he was eight years old his
fame as a student had gained him a prestige in \\ ray
ford of which he himself was precociously sensible.
But Stephen was as teachable in deportment as in
letters, and, mindful always of Miss Sophie .s tender
exhortations, he wore his juvenile honors graciously
*nd bore himself toward his elders with the respect
that their years, if not always their mental caliber,
demanded. His self-possession had been born with
him, and slightly awkward as he always was in in-
tercourse with children, he was always ready to
"Shake hands" agreeably with any number of adult
visitors, and describe to them his pleasure in attend-
ing school. It was only natural that the question of
the child's future career should early come to seem
a matter of public importance; and Miss Sophies
entire acquaintance experienced relief when, not long
after the boy's ninth birthday, she was able to in-
form them that Stephen lyid momentously chosen his
profession. He was to become a minister.
Up to this point Miss Sophie had borne her
precious burden with confident courage. She had
made all Stephen's clothes, always with an anxious
care that they were thick and large enough; she ha.I
zealously nourished his body; she had taught hup his
prayers; and in a thousand ways had spent upon him,
with what discretion she could, the passion of her
mother-love. Now it suddenly seemed to her that
she had not done enough. She had not taken the
child's gifts into sufficient account; and it was al-
most blasphemous that she had allowed him to call
her "mother." There seemed no adequate help that
such a commonplace woman as she felt herself to
he could give a superior son in "preparing for the
ministry." But Miss Sophie girded herself afresh.
A week later she had decided that if she could not
give Stephen spiritual reinforcement she could at
least educate him. It became known in \\ rayford
that Sophie Burchell wished to "take in sewing."
•Once started upon 'tile more formal part of his
education, Stephen found himself with singular ease.
Where his classmates disappointed him, there were
always professors that he found congenial. He was,
after all, very little inconvenienced by Miss Sophie s
•mall income, the friendi that he made found always
mm ; ~* ______
■ ■ , - — ——
such concrete means of exprcs.-ing their devotion.
The summer following his sophomore year at col-
lege he spent in l.urope as the guest of a good-nat
ured, stupid youth whom he had tutored. Before
he entered the divinity school he made a tour of
Alaska. In the visits to which his vacations were
mainly given up and in the academic triumphs that
he never neglected to secure. Miss Sophie aw al
most equally the band of (,od. At last, when he was
twenty-five years old, the Reverend Stephen Orth,
being fully equipped to direct the souls of men, ac-
cepted his first parish.
They were, speaking of Stephen when his letter
came—the women who were sitting, in (he warm
late afternoon, on the narrow porch of Sophie llur-
chcll's shabby little cottage. But the coincidence
was not as remarkable as though the talks between
Miss Sophie and her friends were not invariably of
Stephen and of the glories he so steadily accumu-
lated. Whatever their private view of the young
man himself, they all shared, nowadays, the tender
hypocrisy that made them admire what she touch-
ingly presented, even probe for what she did not
spontaneously offer. They knew so well that
Stephen's own account of himself—at school, at col-
lege, in the ministry—had always been the wide,
solid fabric upon which her affection had embroid-
ered its (lowing pattern; and it was with these in
visible tapestries that the walls of her life were
hung, it was from one to another of their splendid
scenes that her eager spirit perpetually fluttered.
They begged her to neglect th?m while she read
it. ami settled back in their chairs, arranging their
kind faces in lines of wonder and admiration for
from Sophie Burchell's Stephen it was a matter of
wide report that there was but one kind of news to
expect. But, as she read, the tender smile on So-
phie's face stiffened a little. And without rereading
the four hastily written pages, she.replaced them in
the envelope. There was perhaps no reason why
she should not have read the letter aloud. The news
that in her brief reading of it seemed to scorch and
shrivel her was no secret; it was being "announced,"
Stephen said, in Chicago. But a jealousy that was
stronger for the moment than any pride in him kept
her silent, lie should have told her first; and if lie
had not, these women should not know. Not guess-
ing that her artless face and fidgeting hands told
plainly a :tory of suppression, she placed the letter
in her belt and faced her guests nervously.
"It's quite a disappointment to me," she confessed,
with her quaint habit of understatement. "Stephen
wont't be home this month, after all."
Emily Darrow, Sophie's minister's wife, was the
possessor of a rich experience that included more
than one summer at Chautauqua. "Does that mean
he's going to some summer school, Miss Burchell?"
she discerningly suggested. "These young clergy-
men are getting to be so restless intellectually.
Little Dora Thistlcwaite had the courage of her
conservatism. "I always think that intellect isn't
everything, even in a preacher," she daringly inter-
rupted; and explained, piously: "It seems to me
they ought not to put too great a strain upon their
bodies or they will fail when their flocks need them.
Does Stephen keep well, Sophie?"
"Oh, perfectly!" Sophie paled at the thought. "Of
course he does overtax himself," she added, with
subdued pride. "He djd at college, and he does now
for his people. But I have thought about it—and
watched him—and I believe it must be that—God
gives him strength. I don't want to seem to boast
about Stephen, but isn't it true—Evelyn dear, you
know about such things—isn't it true that the men
who have done great things in the world have always
been able to—disregard the laws of health a little?—
not too much, of course?"
The slight, blond girl spoke with.more decision
than her delicate face suggested. "I think that such
a man as Stephen Orth," she said, calmly, "under-
stands much better than we can his own capacity
for work."
"Very true," declared Mrs. Darrow, with author-
ity. "And Mr. Orth cannot be frail. His appear-
ance suggests unusual strength. A big, manly man.
"He probably would not be called handsome,"
Sophie suggested, with worship in her faint voice.
"Why, I should say that lie was," conceded Mrs.
Darrow. "Particularly in a gown. Does lie wear
one, Miss Burchell?"
"He has in this Chicago church," Sophie confessed,
happily. "Not before."
"Beautiful, isn't it?" testified Dora Thistlewaite,
of the picture thus presented. "Very beautiful, in-
deed."
Unlike the others, Evelyn Guest had not been dis-
tracted from the main point. "You didn't say why
he isn't coming, Miss Sophie," she now demanded.
"Is he to take no vacation?"
"His vacation he's to spend in mission work—his
church, you know, does so much of that sort of
good. He may be here in October. I could not
make out."
Dissimulation was new to her; and her head ached
when, at last, she was alone with her letter—the
dreadful letter that Stephen had written. In Sophie's
innocently rigid schedule of sentiment this was the
most significant letter that could ever pass between
them; according to that same schedule, it should
■also have been the tendercst. But with a brevity
that was almost brutal, Stephen had told her of his
could it mean but that her long and e> tatic mother-
hood had been a failure and a elf-deception? In
the soft dark, her restless touch encountered the Ut-
ter and withdrew from it. The very touch of the
paper hurt her, and she let it fall on the floor. But
the deep night, when at last she fell asleep, held a
brief peace,for her, for it restored the Stephen who
hail dealt no hurts, the little Stephen who had been
her son.
It happened that in another week, al.hough
through no agency of Sophie Burchell s, all \\ ray-
ford knew that Stephen Orth w;i- to marry * young
woman of great wealth. Although it hail been un-
foreseen, Wrayford was quick to note that fl i■> step
was none the less inevitable. It w;t> a destiny, they
agreed, that fitted him; for, though they had never
loved the alien, they had almost eagerly conceded
his superiority, his mysterious heritage of a power
and place that mere stirving could not have brought
him. Nor, through all their careless comment, had
they ever in their hearts believed that poor l.velyn
Guest, so perversely difficult t< the youth of Wray-
ford, so superfluously unusual as she had kept her
self, would ultimately be drawn into the charmed
circle of Stephen Orth's success. There was a dif-
ferent light from any Wrayford knew in the trail he
had radiantly blazed; it was not for a Wrayford
woman to share his high splendors and distinctions.
And yet, there was Miss Sophie.
For in the same hour that it pitilessly dismissed
Evelyn from the heaven of possibilities, Wrayford
impartially promoted Sophie to a deserved magnifi-
cence. She had grown old and weak through spend-
ing her love and strength on Stephen, and now to
her happy heart and passive hands the young man s
sternly adequate, if not impetuous, restoration could
be made. There were golden years ahead for Miss
Sophie, they readily assured her, trooping with a
kind curiosity into her little home to watch the r?ladi
spectacle of her anticipation; no Wrayford inUher
had ever dared dream of as much.
"Religion." Evelyn's smil<
from the word, as if it were *
m ;ke you happy, Miss Sophie
"Oh, but I'm not a good v
iotisly good.
feelings."
Evelyn's co
w .iv- faintly
childish to lu-i
pcrience of li
yet the young gi
glanced off sharply
rock. "Does religion
not relig-
of human
strong-fibred little
ed her friend and i
f. If Sophie had ha
Evelyn had eertainl
rl had the quiet coni
ersonality al-
idc her seem
a meagre ex-
had far less;
cncc of those
who draw knowledge from deep, indisputable sources
and to Miss Sophie there wl-' a mystic wisdom in
Iter serious eye- She came now and put her arm
about Sophie's neck.
"But at least you're going to he very happy now,
Mi s Sophie.'' she said, in a sure voice, "with Stephen
attaining everything, and with your journey to Chi-
cago, anil a wedding—"
"My dear child!" Sophie -tarte.l almost with ter-
ror. "Chicago and a wedding—"
"But surely you will go." insisted Evelyn, in her
unflinching way
"| eannot tell." Miss Sophie baffled imagination
clung to the stony brevity of Stephen's letter. "Ste-
phen has not said—"
"But you mustn't wait for him to 'say.' Men
don't remember that women need time to prepare f"r
things. You must make yourself ready. Miss Sophie.
"You must make yourself ready —the girl s kindly
warning was like the speech of an oracle. Recalling
it, later, Sophie rose firmly, as she always had, to the
idea that something w is required of her. Stephen,
no matter in what fashion, had announced. It was
her part to he ready sen he should summon her, to
he. at this one time in his life, more closely and inti-
mately hi- mother than she had ever been before. A
journey to Chicago—a share in her Stephen's wed-
ding, were these ordeals that should affright her?
The more initialed of her advisers warned Miss
Sophie that her time for preparation would be short
—that the fashionable world did not permit long
engagements. Stephen would expect her to take this
for granted, they said—for there had been prompt
echoing of Evelyn's counsel. Mustering its most
expert social arithmetic, Wrayford calculated that
the wedding could not octjltr later than the middle
of September. Long before that time Sophie deter-
mined to be ready.
They were nervous, urgent weeks that followed.
Besides the vaguer preoccupation of Stephen's hap-
I
For a long time l'lvclyn looked silently at the little creature, until something in its innoccnce
seemed to smite her—B—♦
And Sophie, stunned and chilled at first, yielded
later to the much-repeated suggestion, allowed the
too-long-frozcn current of her imagination to flow
into the great shining vessel they offered her. Until
at last there came a day when she was able to laugh
softly about it all, even to thrust in herself a few
timid pin-pricks of ridicule. What had been wrong
with her, that she had not immediately seen that
what was Stephen's good fortune was hers likewise?
Unaccustomedness had dulled her; her eyes had been
blind to the cipher of happiness that, Stephen
sent. And surely it mattered little enough that
had not told her earlier, when, with all her love and
pride in him, she had been unable to accept the
n'essage when it came.
The giving up to another woman of what she felt
ta be her ownership of him did not prove to be as
hard as it she had not, a thousand times, foreseen it.
For it could scarcely have happened that Sophie
would have remained unaware that for the supremely
eligible Stephen there was but one destiny. Yet she
had pitifully reckoned, with the fond, dauntless, fu-
tile reckoning of mothers, on the force of her own
gentle suggestions; and on the spectacle, presented
to Stephen at least half-yearly, of that wonderful
young creature, as Miss Sophie thought her, Evelyn
Guest. She had even allowed it to seem one of the
secure and foreordained things that one day Stephen,
feeling himself settled in his brilliant life—Stephen
never blundered through haste!—should come bark
to Wrayford and claim Evelyn in a sense that would
knit them all three together wii'i permanent close-
ness. And of the still, reverent hopes that the girl
had held within her own heart Miss Sophie, through
all this recent glad tumult, this strange, stirring talk
of a "new daughter" who would infallibly, since she
was Stephen's choice, be "nice" to her—was still
heavily and distressedly aware.
Yet it was Evelyn herself whose prompt sympa-
thies had more than anything else led Miss Sophie
to believe in the fortune that gleamed ahead. Direct
and brave, with a cool, sudden color in her cheeks
like the first narrow frost-reddened branch of the
young birch, she had come to Miss Sophie for con-
firmatlon of the thing that she had heard them whis-
emraecment to a young woman whom he had come per, yet not dare, in her presence, speak aloud In ^ , . . ,
to know in settlement work: and he allowed her to her shy, troubled way, Sophie had admitted the truth, dressmaker's long mirror and saw in its yision-
infer "hat the alliance" as he called it, was a social "Who is she?" the girl had asked. "Do you know-
' ' her, Miss Sophie?" And then, strangely, Does she 1 • ■ 1 — '* -"
triumph for himself. They were to continue their
work together, among their poor people, during the
summer. I.ike himself, his fiancee was an orphan;
and her name was Mary iijallinger.
Until the summer dusk clouded into night, Miss
Sophie sat alone in her own room, iu the little cre-
tonne-cushioned rocking-chair where she had sat and
held Stephen when he was a little boy. Eager, in-
dulgent rereadings of the letter lying open on her
lap had not reconciled her to its cruel omissions. I can't remember that I ever saw him unhappy. He
Miss Sophie believed she knew what a son would is so strong and composed. 1—suppose—it is his
feel aad do. Stephen had done otherwise. What religion."
love him?"
"She is very young,'' Miss Sophie said, remember-
ing with a sudden chill how little there was that she
could tell. "And she is rich. But she must be a
good woman or Stephen could not—"
"Of course. Is lie—happy?"
"Happy?" repeated Miss Sophie. "Doesn't that
seem rather an odd question to ask about Stephen?
for it seemed to Tier that she had grown so stupid,
so forgetful—make the journey to Chicago alone?
\nd where would Stephen have her stay when she
j t there? And would it be a joy to him, hr.r owa
Stephen still, to have her come?—
It was already .1 month since Stephen had written,
and she had not heard again, lie always wrote irreg-
ularly. and of a lover who was at the same time so
sacredly occupied she was willing to demand little,
'ile could n t know h.r.v hungrily she longed to know
in ne . bout hi-; Mary, she had put the wish so
humbly in her letters; letters in which she unques-
tio-.ui-.y a^.umed Mary's eagerness to see Wrayford
ami Stephen's Lome: in which she scrupulously re-
peated all the Wrayford felicitations; and in which
she told him of all her own little occupations except
cue I he story of the wedding dress she withheld
from him. There would be time for that confes-
sion after Stephen : hould have written to bid her
come.
No second letter had arrived when, punctually,
crisp and beautiful in its many folds of tissue-paper,
the wedding dress came home. For several days
atferward MUs Sophie held an informal reception
for it in her little parlor Nothing so wonderful, she
felt. had been brought into the house since Stephen
hail first come there, as a little boy—nothing of such
inviolate. fragile loveliness, nothing that demanded
ik Ii \igilant watchfulness, such reverent touch. Miss
Sophie's deep satisfaction in the dress by no means
came from the many « suraticcs that she would look
pretty iu it; she insisted on regarding it as a sym-
bolic c< -tunic, like the robes t a priest. Whether
it would enhance her insignificant, elderly person
\\:is irrelevant. Indeed, not even for I'velyn would
she consent to try it on "1 want it to look as fresh
and lovely a; it does now," she would stubbornly
repeat. "I .shall not put it on until the .day conies."
It was near the middle of September when Ste-
phen's long-lo<>ked for second letter came. Sophie
was grateful that she was alone when they gave it
to her; hut there were long minutes wdien she held
it trembling in her hand before she could open it.
When at last she did, it held no surprise for her.
Her sensitive heart had felt its message before her
eye- had seen its word Like the earlier letter, it
was brief and rather odd; but the blow it dealt could
not be healed as icadily. Stephen had written on the
day of his wedding; a small, quiet wedding, he ex-
plained. for In bride wa • iu mourning. They were
to go immediately to live in Mary's own house 011
the lake shore. lb « atise of the many responsibilities
that they both had it was impossible to say when
tliev would conic Fast, lie hoped Sophie was as
well as always, and In: thanked her for the good
wishes he knew she sent him.
To Sophie it was as if the very heavens had sud-
denly opened before her, revealing through their
pittiless gulf the darkest of the nether infamies Oh,
it was plain enough to her now, although no plainer
than it should have been six weeks before, if she
had not weakly allowed their sophistries to blindfold
her. And to prove that it was plain, she put it into
words and said them aloud to herself tearlessly; this
time she would not be tempted to gloss over the
truth. Stephen had deliberately deceived her Ho
had been ashamed of her because she was simple and
shabby ami wa obliged to do sewing and accent
money for it. Ile had been afraid that slu- would
come. He did not wish her to know his wife. She
had lost him. Life seemed to swirl about her like
a thing of cloud.
W hen, a few hour- later, Kvelyn Guest found her,
Sophie rose camly from her sewing and brought the
letter for the girl to read.
"We shall have to tell everybody," she said. "1
shall not mind that. now. (tut there is one thing you
can do for me, dear. Will you take the gray silk
with you, when you go home, so that I may never
sec it again?"
For many months after this Sophie Ilurcnell sat
and sewed and thought persistently of Stephen; not
the Stephen who was mature, triumphant, cruel; but
the little boy that long ago had clung to her and
loved her. Mothers may proclaim that their joy lies
in watching strong sons gain independent footholds*
Miss Sophie knew that it lies in supplying the staff.
It was the baby Stephen, still more real than any of
the friends about her, to whom she had turned after
the man Stephen had cast her off. As she sat alone,
her dimmed eyes saw a slender child sitting in the
dusky corner opposite, and her mind busied itself
with rehearsing countless tender marvels of baby
pr^ocity. She believed that this visionary solace
was all she had; and yet it was not altogether all.
For news of the Reverend Mr. Orth came now and
then to Wrayford and to Miss Sophie's ears; and it
was thus she learned that a year after Stephen's
marriage his wife had given birth to a little Stephen,
and died. Into her heart there had therefore come a
new and half-tlelicious torment. There were two
Stephen Orths in the world; and again one was a
baby and motherless. Another little Stephen—un-
cherished, perhaps; indifferently tended. Still ar-
dent and undiscouraged, the motherhood in Sophie
yearned over this picture of her own conjuring.
Through her lonely days and lonelier nights she
seemed to hear, afar off, the little Stephen's un-
answered cries; and it was to this familiarly imag-
ined child that her too-long-cmpty arms were
stretched continually.
Less than a year after the first great piece of in-
telligence came the second. Stephen Orth was to
marry a widow. But when they came, unwillingly
and shyly, to tell Miss Sophie, they found her forti-
fied. It did not so much matter now what Stephen
did—whom he married. He was hers no loftge.*;
and the first agony of that estrangement was an
immunity against further wounds. Vet the thin?
that really fortified her was at that very moment
clutched in her trembling hand. A letter had come,
after the long silence, from Stephen Orth. He had
done his best ("Poor Stephen! poor boy!" she could
not help murmuring) to make his phrases sound
natural, to recover, in some measure, the lost rela-
tion. Hut Sophie had not lingered long over hi *
confused apologies. There must he a purpose, sh;
instinctively knew, in such a letter; and at last she
came to it; Stephen was about to leave for Europe
for the "six mouths' rest" which, as a fashionable
clergyman, was obviously his due, and in the most
obscure and delicate manner he admitted that his
second marriage would take placc previous to this
journey. It was desirable, then, that he should plac?
his little son where the child would receive devote!
care; and recalling the blessings of his own happy
boyhood, he wondered if Miss Sophie would car a
to take the boy for a time.
Sophie did not show the letter; nor, secretive for
the first time in her life, did she hint to any one its
message. Something, she knew, had made her sound
and alive and glad again; but her courage was un-
equal to any mention of the wonderful thing. And,
after all, there were not many breathless days to
wait before the blessing should descend.
So it happened that when Evelyn Guest, with her
tender habit of pity for the lonely woman, came
softly one day into Sophie's bedroom, she found her
with a baby in her arms. _
"Oh, my dear. 1 have been waiting for you!" cried
Sophie, in a voice trembling with happiness. "It i
Stephen. Do you see him? Setphen!"
The girl slipped to her knees and looked into the
baby's calm, unsmiling eyes. There was a look in
them, or a shadow of it, that she knew too well.
"Yes, you are right, she asented coolly. "It ia
Stephen."
"Evelyn!" reproached Miss Sophie. "How ran
you be so hard? See. he is smiling at you!"
For a long time Kvelyn looked silently at the little
creature, until something in its innocence seemed to
smite her—to loose, suddenly, the bands with whic'i
she had so long been bound; and she tore the baby
from Sophie's arms, wildly kissing its face, its liar,
its little hands. "You must let me keep him for .1
little while. Miss Sophie," she said at last. "I kn , ••
r - you are going to share him with me. lie shall >e
Sophie come To "five"'with Yhem? Would Stephen our Stephen." And together the two women cb
think the gray brocade suitable? What else ought to the fragment of himself that Stephen Orth h.&
she to pack in her little trunk? Could she safely— flung them.
piness, Sophie was held in the grasp of two absorb-
ing concrete issues; matters which necessitated long
sitting up at night, much line embroidery, and, oh,
so many buttonholes, delirium in r-ery one of them.
It is very hard, poor Sophie discovered, not to betray
emotion in one's buttonholes. But each embroidered
shirt-waist that she finished meant an ampler margin
for her two grea". expenditures, the wedding present
and the wedding drpss,
"Or. at least, ! shall always call it my wedding
dress," Sophie explained, over and over If it had
been difficult to decidp, even with Evelyn s calm aid,
1 had uP°n :i Kift t,lat Should appropriate for the un-
. worldly Stephen and his unknown Mary—"You
at he knoWi sbe has everything!" Miss Sophie always in:
serted—the foster-parent had found that the question
of her own costume presented even greater perplex-
ities It was Mrs. Darrow who, vigorously plunging
into the crisis, demanded on that occasion Miss
Burchell wear something really substantial and
"stuart"
"I'm sure they won't expect me to be actually
fashionable," Sophie timidly objected, recalling fear-
somely the tall, brittle ladies with plumed hats that
she had seen in the fashion papers. "They know, of
course, that in Wrayford we arc nothing of the sort.
Stephen will have told them everything. And -till—
I couldn't bear to have Stephen ashamed of me. I
want something hand-some, Mrs. Darrow. I had
made up my mind to that."
"Of course you do. And in a pearl gray satin.
Miss Burchell, you would look really distinguished.'
"You think it oughtn't to be black? Perhaps a.
gray dress would look happier. You see, I mustn t
be ostentatious. I mustn't wear the kind of dress
that Mary's mother would have worn. Not being
Stephen's own mother—and in my circumstances—
you are sure, Mrs. Darrow, that a gray silk wouldn't
be too showy or too young for me?" t n
"Yo umust have your best lace put on it, Mrs.
Darrow went on, imperatively. "And, Evelyn, you
must see that she doesn't get too dark a silk"(
It was Sophie's own bold resolution not to "take
a stitch," as she put it, in the heavy gray brocade
that was the ultimate result of the anxious counsels.
To a dressmaker in the next town the almost holy
jirivilege was entrusted; and from this accomplished,
although notoriously unreliable, despot oaths were
exacted that the precious garment should be finished
not later than the first of September. "A near rela-
tive of mine is to be married," Sophie stated, with
the impression that she was severely browbeating
the portly woman whose stubby professional fingers
were indifferently turning over the sacred gray bro-
cade. "The day isn't quite decided upon, but I must
have it by the first"—an admonition that she re-
peated each thrilling time that she stood before the
of nuptial guests—and she could scarcely bear it all
Her life, newly strung with such glaring excite-
ments as this, now seemed to her like a great city
street, starred along cither side with indomitably
brilliant lights; a street that knows no night.
Through all her sleepless hours there was an unvary-
ing circle of speculation about which, faster and
faster, she endlessly swung. Would Stephen's wife
consent to share him with her? Was she. Mary, as
much as any woman could be. worthy of him?
Would they, as Wrayford prophesied, demand that
V
-9 o
.Jin
Upcoming Pages
Here’s what’s next.
Search Inside
This issue can be searched. Note: Results may vary based on the legibility of text within the document.
Tools / Downloads
Get a copy of this page or view the extracted text.
Citing and Sharing
Basic information for referencing this web page. We also provide extended guidance on usage rights, references, copying or embedding.
Reference the current page of this Newspaper.
Niblack, Leslie G. The Oklahoma Leader. (Guthrie, Okla.), Vol. 23, No. 3, Ed. 1 Thursday, June 27, 1912, newspaper, June 27, 1912; (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc162852/m1/3/: accessed April 24, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.