“And sing!”
“Yes.”
The frail one would sing, then, in a small, quavering voice; and if she had not to cry too much, the blind one would join in the song—especially in the refrain—with an alto that went wrong more often than right—as they say it did when she sang in the choir. For both of them used to sing in the choir. And they still loved music. Sometimes, sitting behind their thick, black veils, in the corner of the faded church no one ever took from them, they would hear the old organist play (they let him do so whenever the young lady had a headache), “Fading, Still Fading.” Then they would reach out and hold each other by the hand. For that had been a famous duet of theirs. In fact, they still yearned to sing whenever they heard it. But that would not do. Only the choir sang now.
Did I tell you that the husband of the frail one had died in 1860, and that they had both worn mourning for him ever since? It was he who had used, sometimes, to invent a third part to their duet—a tremendous bass.
The other precious thing in this garret was a trousseau. Once I saw a bonnet of white silk—made coal-scuttle fashion—shirred (I think that is the name)—and with a simple red rose inside where it nestled against thick brown hair and cheeks with pink spots in them—at least so they are all pictured in the old daguerreotype taken at Philadelphia.
And there was a wondrous silk dress of a wide stripe—white, with just a dash of pink in the moiré. It could be worn to-day. It is not cut at all. But it is much more soft and gentle—this fabric woven only by worms and human hands—than those woven on power-looms. Then there was a pair of satin slippers with strings to cross over the ankles, and a marvellous petticoat—all feather-stitching! A veil, too, turned quite yellow now, which had always wrapped some sprays of flowers, the stems of which only remained. But one could see that they had been orange blossoms—mock-orange blossoms. They grew in the front yard of the two old ladies—when they were not old ladies at all. They grow there still. Mock-orange blossoms.
There was, too, a pair of stockings, which, I was often told, had come straight from London. Think of that! They had pink clocks at the sides ending in rosebuds. After that the trousseau was of intimate things I may not mention—and which I never saw—perhaps could not name—for when these were likely to be uncovered the lid of the chest was softly, deprecatingly closed in my face. But I know that they were infinitely adorned.
II
THE EYES THAT WEPT TILL THEY WENT BLIND
Their conversation has been going on all the while they have sat there on the floor. Listen:
“I wore this on my wedding journey. Brides did that then.”