"I will tell you as soon as they are settled," returned Linda stoutly. Here Phebe came in to announce supper and the conversation ended.
[CHAPTER II]
THE CLINGING VINE
When, two years earlier, Martin Talbot brought his wife to the old family homestead of Talbot's Angles, Linda determined to make the best of the situation. If it was for Martin's happiness to marry the pretty, rather underbred, wholly self-centered Grace Johnson, his sister would not be the one to offer disillusionment. Grace was from the city, dressed well, had dependent little ways which appealed to just such a manly person as Martin. She made much of him, demanded his presence continually, cooed to him persuasively when he would be gone, pouted if he stayed too long, wept if he chided her for being a baby, but under her apparent softness there was obstinacy, and the set purpose of a jealous nature.
Between Linda and her brother there had always been good comradeship, but not much over-demonstration of affection. Each felt that the other was to be depended upon, that in moments of stress, or in emergency there would be no holding back, and consequently Martin expected nothing less than that Linda should accept a new sister-in-law serenely, should make no protests. In fact, he was so deeply in love that, as is the way of mankind, he could not conceive that anyone should not be charmed to become the housemate of such a lovable creature as he assumed Grace to be, one so warm-hearted, so enchantingly solicitous, so sweetly womanish, and, though he did not exactly underrate Linda, he grew to smile at Grace's little whispers of disparagement. Linda was so cold, so undemonstrative; Linda was so thoughtless of dear Martin. Why, she had never remarked that he was late for dinner. Wasn't it just like Linda to go off by herself to church instead of walking with them? How unappreciative sisters could be of a brother's sacrifices. Not every brother would have supported his sister so uncomplainingly all these years, but dear Martin was such an unselfish darling, he never once thought of its being a sacrifice, and that a less unselfish man would expect his sister to take care of herself. Martin was so chivalrous, and so on.
Therefore, Linda's days of devotion, her constant proofs of affection told in acts rather than in reiterated words, her hours of poring over accounts that she might economize as closely as possible in order that the mortgage might the sooner be paid, her long consultations with Mammy, and her continual mending, patching, turning, contriving, all were forgotten or taken for granted as a just return for her support. That she had driven to town and back again, seven miles each way, during the last years of her school life, that she might still be companion and housekeeper for her brother, seemed no great matter from Grace's point of view, though in those days themselves there had been many a protest against the necessitated late hours that were the result of her many tasks, and "What should I do without my little sister?" was the daily question.
There was no lack of employment for Linda's hands, even after Grace came, for though very tenacious of her prerogative as mistress of the house, Grace did nothing but assume a great air of being the busy housekeeper, and such work as was not done by Phebe, fell to Linda's share. Martin saw nothing of this, for Grace would bustle in with a show of having been much occupied, would throw herself into a chair with a pretence of fatigue, cast her eyes innocently at Martin, and say, "Oh, I am so tired. Housekeeping in the country is so difficult, but I love doing it for you, dear. Can't you stay home with your little Gracie this afternoon?" And Martin would stay nine times out of ten, with not the slightest perception of the fact that a surface sentimentality which stands in the way of the advancement or profit of another is worth nothing by the side of the year in, year out thought and activity in those little things which, in the end, show a far deeper affection than any clamor for a person's presence or any foolish and unmeaning words of praise.
Linda's pride constrained her to keep all these things to herself, and not even from her old Mammy would she allow criticism of her brother and his wife. Mammy, be it said, was ready enough to grumble at the new order of things to Linda herself, but it was not till the burden was too heavy to bear longer in silence that Linda poured forth the grievances to which no one could listen so sympathetically as Mammy. Indeed, no one could have been a safer listener, for Mammy's pride in the family was as great as Linda's own, and she would have died rather than have noised its trouble abroad.