VIII
On a certain bright December day not many weeks after the occurrence of the last related events, the town of Clarksville seemed to have assumed a most unwonted bustle and confusion. People were actually hurrying in and out of the little white Methodist church, carrying evergreen boughs, chrysanthemums and sprays of holly and mistletoe. Wagons were driving back and forth between town and the Barlow place, and the Barlow house was in the hands of a Little Rock caterer and his assistants. It was Checkers' wedding day. He and Pert were to be married that night at six o'clock. Nothing they could think of had been left undone to make the occasion a happy one.
Though the old man fumed and fretted at the expense, Checkers insisted upon having things "right." "This is my first and last wedding," he said, "and there 's going to be nothing Sioux City about it." So, though the old man groaned in spirit, caterer, orchestra, flowers, etc., were ordered, regardless of expense, from Little Rock, and all the town took a surpassing interest in the event.
Checkers' return to Clarksville had been the triumphant return of Caesar to Rome. As is usual in such cases, current report had magnified his fortune twenty-fold. Mr. Barlow was now all smiles and acquiescence; but his first meeting with Checkers was painfully strained. Checkers treated him on the principle of "least said, soonest mended;" but Mrs. Barlow he kissed and called "mother."
He had found Pert looking a little pale, and her bright eyes seemed somewhat larger and brighter. But the happiness which accompanied his return soon brought the color back to her cheeks.
PERT
Of course Checkers urged an immediate marriage, and of course there was the usual demur; but, in the end, a date was fixed upon as near as would conveniently allow for such preparations as Pert and her mother felt it necessary to make. And in the mean time Checkers and Pert were ideally happy. They took long drives and walks through the woods, and spent long evenings in talking over their plans for the future, with a never-flagging interest.
It was practically decided that Checkers was to buy the Tyler place. This was a fruit farm in perfect condition, with a neat little house upon it, and not far from town. It could be purchased for cash at a very low figure, and as the trees were all bearing, it seemed to promise a large and sure return for the money, even cutting in half, for possibilities of frost or drought, a conservative estimate of what the trees should yield to the acre.
Mr. Barlow and Checkers figured upon it carefully from every standpoint, and the more they figured, the more it seemed a providential opportunity, Checkers knew nothing of any other business, and his money was practically lying idle in the bank. No other safe investment could promise so large an income and at the same time furnish him with employment and a pleasant home.
And so at last the matter was decided. The earnest money was paid, and the order given for the execution of the necessary papers. The house was vacated and thoroughly renovated, and Pert found a new delight in selecting paper, carpets and furniture to her liking—Checkers had given her carte blanche.
As soon as the title to the property was found to be clear, Checkers gave a certified check to Mr. Tyler for twenty thousand dollars, and a warranty deed was signed, conveying the property, in fee, to Persis Barlow. This was in accordance with Checkers' desire, and was a great surprise to Pert and her parents. "What's mine is yours, dear," he said with a smile, "and what's yours is your own." And that ended the matter—unfortunately for Checkers.
There was just one question upon which the two had a serious difference—the case of Arthur Kendall.
"Now, Edward," said Pert one evening (when she called him 'Edward' he knew that something important was coming), "I want to talk to you about something that has been worrying me dreadfully."
"What is it, sweetheart?"
"And I want you to promise to do as I ask you."
Checkers felt suspicious, and refused to "go it blind."
"Well, it's about the Kendalls. I want you to make up with Arthur, somehow—"
"Not on your—"
"Yes, Edward; you must. Remember the Thanksgiving sermon about forgiveness and loving your neighbors."
"Oh, it's all well enough to love your neighbor, but there 's no necessity for taking down the fence. Arthur treated me like a step-child, and—"
"But, Checkers dear, we want Aunt Deb. and Mr. Kendall at the wedding. They won't come unless Arthur does, and Arthur won't come unless you make up with him. Consider, Checkers, you 've been unusually blest, and you ought to be humble and thankful, and do something to show it; and here's your opportunity. Another thing"—this came hesitatingly—"he 's the only fellow about here who could make a decent appearance as your best man."
Checkers went off into peals of laughter. "Oh," he exclaimed, "I begin to tumble. Forgive your neighbor, if you happen to need him—afterwards you can shake him again."
Pert joined in the laugh. "It is no such thing," she responded. "If you half appreciated me, you would n't blame Arthur for being angry at you for doing what you did to him. He loved me a great deal more than you do; he never refused me a favor in his life."
"That's just why he lost you. Push Miller used to say—"
"Never mind Push Miller; Arthur is to be at Sadie's to-morrow evening. You and I are going there to call. You are to shake hands with Arthur and tell him you 're glad to see him, and be natural and friendly. Afterwards you can ask him to stand up with you."
"It seems to be settled," said Checkers; and so it eventuated. Checkers greeted Arthur with frank cordiality, and relieved the tension by a few well-turned witticisms. No apologies passed between them, and reference to the past was tacitly barred. Checkers' sunny nature was not one to harbor a grudge, and if Arthur still felt rebellious, he managed to hide it gracefully. He readily consented to act the part of best man for Checkers; and Sadie, of course, was to be Pert's maid of honor. Most of the evening was spent in discussing other available material in the way of bridesmaids and groomsmen, and it was agreed that with a few importations from Little Rock, they would be able to present an attractive wedding party.
"Now, I have an idea," said Arthur, "which I think is a good one. Checkers ought to know those fellows before they are asked to be his groomsmen; we'll go up to Little Rock to-morrow, and I 'll invite them to meet him at an informal dinner at one of the hotels."
"A very good scheme," assented Pert.
"And I 'll invite the party here to supper for the night before the wedding," put in Sadie.
"It 's very kind of you both," said Checkers, "and I appreciate it more than I can tell you."
Early the next morning the two boys went to Little Rock. Arthur invited four of the most desirable of his acquaintances to dinner that evening, and luckily they all accepted.
Most of Checkers' day was taken up in fulfilling missions for Pert and her mother. He returned to the hotel late in the afternoon, and had barely time to don his new dress-suit and join Arthur in the rotunda before their guests arrived.
They were jolly good fellows, all of them. Checkers was duly presented, and after a preliminary cocktail the party adjourned to the private dining-room, where a round table was prettily laid for six. Checkers felt apprehensive for Arthur, when he noticed three different glasses at each plate; but Arthur took early occasion to state that he was "on the water-wagon," and he hoped that the boys would "not let it make any difference with them, or with the gayety of the evening"—and it did n't. After the first edge of their hunger was turned the jollity grew apace. Checkers in his happiest vein related numberless humorous anecdotes, among them his experience of Remorse and the gold piece. Each of them told his particular pet joke, and all were boisterously applauded.
"Now, waiter," exclaimed Arthur, suddenly righting his down-turned champagne glass, "fill them up again all around, and give me some. Gentlemen, I want to propose a double toast, and I 'll ask you to drink it standing—a bumper." All arose expectantly. "Let us drink," he said, "to the health and happiness of the sweetest, fairest, most lovable girl God ever put upon this earth—it is needless to name her. Let us also drink to the health and prosperity of the thrice-fortunate man who has won her love—Mr. Campbell, your health." He touched his wine to his lips; the others drained their glasses, and all sat down.
There was an expectant silence. Checkers felt the blood go surging to his brain, while his heart seemed to sink like lead within him. He felt powerless to rise, although he knew that all were awaiting his response. The silence became painful. "Speech," murmured some one. "Speech," echoed the others. With a superhuman effort he managed to arise, and grasping a full glass of water, drained it. "I 'll tell you, boys," he said huskily, "here's where I 'd put up the talk of my life, if I could; but it's like it was that day they declared all bets off—the occasion 's too much for me. I feel it all—I feel it in my heart," he continued earnestly. "I 'm obliged to Arthur for his motion, and to you all for making it unanimous. I know that I 'm lucky, so lucky that I can hardly believe my good fortune myself. Half the time I think that I must be asleep, and trying to 'cash a hop-dream.' I 've been ready to get married for a couple of years—I 've had everything but the stuff and the girl; I was ready to furnish the groom all right; but I 've always had a feeling that I could n't have much respect for a girl that would marry me if she was 'onto' me—every fellow feels the same, or ought to. And so when I find I have drawn a prize girl, who, as Arthur says, is 'the fairest and sweetest God ever put on this earth,' and it's true, it jars me, boys; it does, on the dead. I feel like the only winner in a poker-game, as though I ought to apologize for it—and I do, with about the same regret.
"Well, I 've had my hard luck, and 'played out the string,' and now that things seem to be coming my way, I 'm going to enjoy myself while it lasts. 'Life is short, and we 're a long time dead.' That's an old saying, but it's a good one. Boys, I hope you 'll all be as happy as I am when it comes your turn, and may it come soon. Here 's how." He lifted his glass, which in the mean time the waiter had filled, and, smiling around the circle, tossed off his wine in unison with the others and sat down.
There was the usual clapping and cheering, after which Checkers asked their attention for a moment more. "I want to sign two of you fellows for groomsmen," he said. "I wish I needed four, I 'd like to have you all; but Pert said 'two,' and what Pert says goes. Now, how shall we decide it?"
"Why not match for it!" suggested one of them.
"Good idea!" exclaimed Checkers; "you four match nickels, odd man out. until two are left—come on, get busy."
On the first trial, two called "heads," and two "tails." "No business," said Checkers. On the second trial, three called "heads" and one "tails." "Tough luck, old man," said Checkers to the one; "I wanted you particularly." At the first essay of the three remaining, all showed "heads" up; at the second two of them "switched" to "tails," while the third kept "heads"—thus deciding the matter.
"Well, that settles that," said Checkers; "but groomsmen or not, we 'll all be there, and I hope we'll all have a good time."
It was in "the wee, sma' hours" when the party broke up, and Checkers and Arthur, after seeing their guests safely out, sought their rooms, and quickly tumbled into bed. Checkers, however, took occasion to thank Arthur warmly for his kindness, and to express a hope that an opportunity might soon occur for him to requite it. The next afternoon saw them back in Clarksville.
The few intermediate days passed quickly. Sadie's supper was a success, as such things go; the ceremony was rehearsed, and all was in readiness for the great event.
The wedding morning dawned, as bright and beautiful a winter's day as nature ever vouchsafed a happy bridal pair. Checkers was up with the lark. He felt the weight of the nations upon his shoulders. All day he was back and forth between house and church, anxious that nothing should be overlooked; suggesting and helping until late in the afternoon, when Arthur laid violent hands upon him, and insisted upon his taking a rest before making a toilet for the evening.
Promptly at six, to the Lohengrin March on a cabinet organ, the bridal party came slowly down the aisle, the two ushers first, and following them, the two bridesmaids. After these came Sadie, alone, with a huge bouquet of roses, and lastly leaning upon her father's arm, came Pert, in a simple white gown, her veil wreathed with orange blossoms and pinned with a diamond star, one of Checkers' gifts.
Every neck was craned, and every eye fastened upon her in breathless admiration, for she was beautiful.
From behind a screen at the side, Checkers and Arthur came forth, and met them at the altar. The service was simple, but solemn and impressive. The earnestness of Checkers' answers caused a quiet smile to pass around, which culminated in down-right laughter at the ardor with which he kissed the bride when the time came; but he was wholly oblivious. Marching out to the accustomed music, he could scarcely maintain a decorous step, so great was his elation.
Their short drive to the house, during which he folded Pert in his arms, and knew that she was his—all his—he felt to be the moment of his supremest earthly happiness.
The others followed quickly. The guests arrived, and soon there were congratulations, feasting, music and merry-making galore.
But all things—good things—have an end, and perhaps it is just as well that they have; at least, in this case Checkers and Pert, as they crossed the threshold of their own little home, breathed a happy sigh at the thought that they were alone at last—together.