Helen and Harry said nothing of the cablegram to the Paris tailor, and Helen took no steps toward having the cambric dress made, not even when the wedding invitations appeared.
“A Cresswell married in cotton!” Helen was almost in tears lest the Paris gown be delayed, and sure enough a cablegram came at last saying that there was little likelihood of the gown being ready by Easter. It would be shipped at the earliest convenience, but it could hardly catch the necessary boat. Helen had a good cry, and then came a wild rush to get John Taylor’s cloth ready. Still, Helen was querulous. She decided that silk embroidery must embellish the skirt. The dressmaker was in despair.
“I haven’t a single spare worker,” she declared.
Helen was appealing to Mrs. Vanderpool.
“I can do it,” said Zora, who was in the room.
“Do you know how?” asked the dressmaker.
“No, but I want to know.”
Mrs. Vanderpool gave a satisfied nod. “Show her,” she said. The dressmaker was on the edge of rebellion. “Zora sews beautifully,” added Mrs. Vanderpool.
Thus the beautiful cloth came to Zora’s room, and was spread in a glossy cloud over her bed. She trembled at its beauty and felt a vague inner yearning, as if some subtle magic of the woven web were trying to tell her its story.
She worked over it faithfully and lovingly in every spare hour and in long nights of dreaming. Wilfully she departed from the set pattern and sewed into the cloth something of the beauty in her heart. In new and intricate ways, with soft shadowings and coverings, she wove in that white veil her own strange soul, and Mrs. Vanderpool watched her curiously, but in silence.
Meantime all things were arranged for a double wedding at Cresswell Oaks. As John and Mary Taylor had no suitable home, they were to come down and the two brides to go forth from the Cresswell mansion. Accordingly the Taylors arrived a week before the wedding and the home took on a festive air. Even Colonel Cresswell expanded under the genial influences, and while his head still protested his heart was glad. He had to respect John Taylor’s undoubted ability; and Mary Taylor was certainly lovely, in spite of that assumption of cleverness of which the Colonel could not approve.
Mary returned to the old scenes with mingled feelings. Especially was she startled at seeing Zora a member of the household and apparently high in favor. It brought back something of the old uneasiness and suspicion.
All this she soon forgot under the cadence of Harry Cresswell’s pleasant voice and the caressing touch of his arm. He seemed handsomer than ever; and he was, for sleep and temperance and the wooing of a woman had put a tinge in his marble face, smoothed the puffs beneath his eyes, and given him a more distinguished bearing and a firmer hand. And Mary Taylor was very happy. So was her brother, only differently; he was making money; he was planning to make more, and he had something to pet which seemed to him extraordinarily precious and valuable.
Taylor eagerly inquired after the cloth, and followed the ladies to Zora’s room, adjoining Mrs. Vanderpool’s, to see it. It lay uncut and shimmering, covered with dim silken tracery of a delicacy and beauty which brought an exclamation to all lips.
“That’s what we can do with Alabama cotton,” cried John Taylor in triumph.
They turned to him incredulously.
“But—”
“No ‘buts’ about it; these are the two bales you sent me, woven with a silk woof.” No one particularly noticed that Zora had hastily left the room. “I had it done in Easterly’s New Jersey mills according to an old plan of mine. I’m going to make cloth like that right in this county some day,” and he chuckled gayly.
But Zora was striding up and down the halls, the blood surging in her ears. After they were gone she came back and closed the doors. She dropped on her knees and buried her face in the filmy folds of the Silver Fleece.
“I knew it! I knew it!” she whispered in mingled tears and joy. “It called and I did not understand.”
It was her talisman newfound; her love come back, her stolen dream come true. Now she could face the world; God had turned it straight again. She would go into the world and find—not Love, but the thing greater than Love. Outside the door came voices—the dressmaker’s tones, Helen’s soft drawl, and Mrs. Vanderpool’s finished accents. Her face went suddenly gray. The Silver Fleece was not hers! It belonged—She rose hastily. The door opened and they came in. The cutting must begin at once, they all agreed.
“Is it ready, Zora?” inquired Helen.
“No,” Zora quietly answered, “not quite, but tomorrow morning, early.” As soon as she was alone again, she sat down and considered. By and by, while the family was at lunch, she folded the Silver Fleece carefully and locked it in her new trunk. She would hide it in the swamp. During the afternoon she sent to town for oilcloth, and bade the black carpenter at Miss Smith’s make a cedar box, tight and tarred. In the morning she prepared Mrs. Vanderpool’s breakfast with unusual care. She was sorry for Mrs. Vanderpool, and sorry for Miss Smith. They would not, they could not, understand. What would happen to her? She did not know; she did not care. The Silver Fleece had returned to her. Soon it would be buried in the swamp whence it came. She had no alternative; she must keep it and wait.
She heard the dressmaker’s voice, and then her step upon the stair. She heard the sound of Harry Cresswell’s buggy, and a scurrying at the front door. On came the dressmaker’s footsteps—then her door was unceremoniously burst open.
Helen Cresswell stood there radiant; the dressmaker, too, was wreathed in smiles. She carried a big red-sealed bundle.
“Zora!” cried
