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

with gentle, righteous, rigid inspection. She felt with the first glance that she was being tried in the fire, and that it was to be no easy ordeal through which she was to pass. They had come determined to sift her to the depths and know at once the worst of what their beloved nephew had brought upon himself. If they found aught wrong with her they meant to be kindly and loving with her, but they meant to take it out of her. This had been the unspoken understanding between them as they wended their dignified, determined way to David’s house that afternoon, and this was what Marcia faced as she opened the door for them.

      She gasped a little, as any girl overwhelmed thus might have done. She did not tilt her chin in defiance as Kate would have done. The thought of David came to support her, and she grasped for her own little part and tried to play it creditably. She did not know whether the aunts knew of her true identity or not, but she was not left long in doubt.

      “My dear, we have long desired to know you, of whom we have heard so much,” recited Miss Amelia, with slightly agitated mien, as she bestowed a cool kiss of duty upon Marcia’s warm cheek. It chilled the girl, like the breath from a funeral flower.

      “Yes, it is indeed a pleasure to us to at last look upon our dear nephew’s wife,” said Miss Hortense quite precisely, and laid the sister kiss upon the other cheek. In spite of her there flitted through Marcia’s brain the verse, “Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.” Then she was shocked at her own irreverence and tried to put away a hysterical desire to laugh.

      The aunts, too, were somewhat taken aback. They had not looked for so girlish a wife. She was not at all what they had pictured. David had tried to describe Kate to them once, and this young, sweet, disarming thing did not in the least fit their preconceived ideas of her. What should they do? How could they carry on a campaign planned against a certain kind of enemy, when lo, as they came upon the field of action the supposed enemy had taken another and more bewildering form than the one for whom they had prepared. They were for the moment silent, gathering their thoughts, and trying to fit their intended tactics to the present situation.

      During this operation Marcia helped them to remove their bonnets and silk capes and to lay them neatly on the parlor sofa. She gave them chairs, suggested palm-leaf fans, and looked about, for the moment forgetting that this was not her old home plentifully supplied with those gracious breeze wafters.

      They watched her graceful movements, those two angular old ladies, and marvelled over her roundness and suppleness. They saw with appalled hearts what a power youth and beauty might have over a man. Perhaps she might be even worse than they had feared, though if you could have heard them talk about their nephew’s coming bride to their neighbors for months beforehand, you would have supposed they knew her to be a model in every required direction. But their stately pride required that of them, an outward loyalty at least. Now that loyalty was to be tried, and Marcia had two old, narrow and well-fortified hearts to conquer ere her way would be entirely smooth.

      Well might Madam Schuyler have been proud of her pupil as alone and unaided she faced the trying situation and mastered it in a sweet and unassuming way.

      They began their inquisition at once, so soon as they were seated, and the preliminary sentences uttered. The gleaming knitting needles seemed to Marcia like so many swarming, vindictive bees, menacing her peace of mind.

      “You look young, child, to have the care of so large a house as this,” said Aunt Amelia, looking at Marcia over her spectacles as if she were expected to take the first bite out of her. “It’s a great responsibility!” she shut her thin lips tightly and shook her head, as if she had said: “It’s a great impossibility.”

      “Have you ever had the care of a house?” asked Miss Hortense, going in a little deeper. “David likes everything nice, you know, he has always been used to it.”

      There was something in the tone, and in the set of the bow on Aunt Hortense’s purple-trimmed cap that roused the spirit in Marcia.

      “I think I rather enjoy housework,” she responded coolly. This unexpected statement somewhat mollified the aunts. They had heard to the contrary from some one who had lived in the same town with the Schuylers. Kate’s reputation was widely known, as that of a spoiled beauty, who did not care to work, and would do whatever she pleased. The aunts had entertained many forebodings from the few stray hints an old neighbor of Kate’s had dared to utter in their hearing.

      The talk drifted at once into household matters, as though that were the first division of the examination the young bride was expected to undergo. Marcia took early opportunity to still further mollify her visitors by her warmest praise of the good things with which the pantry and store-closet had been filled. The expression that came upon the two old faces was that of receiving but what is due. If the praise had not been forthcoming they would have marked it down against her, but it counted for very little with them, warm as it was.

      “Can you make good bread?”

      The question was flung out by Aunt Hortense like a challenge, and the very set of her nostrils gave Marcia warning. But it was in a relieved voice that ended almost in a ripple of laugh that she answered quite assuredly: “Oh, yes, indeed. I can make beautiful bread. I just love to make it, too!”

      “But how do you make it?” quickly questioned Aunt Amelia, like a repeating rifle. If the first shot had not struck home, the second was likely to. “Do you use hop yeast? Potatoes? I thought so. Don’t know how to make salt-rising, do you? It’s just what might have been expected.”

      “David has always been used to salt-rising bread,” said Aunt Hortense with a grim set of her lips as though she were delivering a judgment. “He was raised on it.”

      “If David does not like my bread,” said Marcia with a rising color and a nervous little laugh, “then I shall try to make some that he does like.”

      There was an assurance about the “if” that did not please the oracle.

      “David was raised on salt-rising bread,” said Aunt Hortense again as if that settled it. “We can send you down a loaf or two every time we bake until you learn how.”

      “I’m sure it’s very kind of you,” said Marcia, not at all pleased, “but I do not think that will be necessary. David has always seemed to like our bread when he visited at home. Indeed he often praised it.”

      “David would not be impolite,” said Aunt Amelia, after a suitable pause in which Marcia felt disapprobation in the air. “It would be best for us to send it. David’s health might suffer if he was not suitably nourished.”

      Marcia’s cheeks grew redder. Bread had been one of her stepmother’s strong points, well infused into her young pupil. Madam Schuyler had never been able to say enough to sufficiently express her scorn of people who made salt-rising bread.

      “My stepmother made beautiful bread,” she said quite childishly; “she did not think salt-rising was so healthy as that made from hop yeast. She disliked the odor in the house from salt-rising bread.”

      Now indeed the aunts exchanged glances of “On to the combat.” Four red spots flamed giddily out in their four sallow cheeks, and eight shining knitting needles suddenly became idle. The moment was too momentous to work. It was as they feared, even the worst. For, be it known, salt-rising bread was one of their most tender points, and for it they would fight to the bitter end. They looked at her with four cold, forbidding, steely, spectacled eyes, and Marcia felt that their looks said volumes: “And she so young too! To be so out of the way!” was what they might have expressed to one another. Marcia felt she had been unwise in uttering her honest, indignant sentiments concerning salt-rising bread.

      The pause was long and impressive, and the bride felt like a naughty little four-year-old.

      At last Aunt Hortense took up her knitting again with the air that all was over and an unrevokable verdict was passed upon the culprit.

      “People have never seemed to stay away from our house on that account,” she said dryly. “I’m sure I hope it will not be so disagreeable that it will affect your coming to see us sometimes