HE MAKES AN EVENING CALL.
It's very provoking to a bashful man to have the family pew only one remove from the pulpit. I didn't feel like going to church the day after the picnic, but father wouldn't let me off. I caught my foot in a hole in the carpet walking up the aisle, which drew particular attention to me; and dropped by hymn-book twice, to add to the interest I had already excited in the congregation. My fingers are always all thumbs when I have to find the hymn.
"I do believe you did take cold yesterday," said mother, when we came out. "You must have a fever, for your face is as red as fire."
Very consoling when a young man wants to look real sweet. But that's my luck. I'll be as pale as a poet when I leave my looking-glass, but before I enter a ball-room or a dining-room I'll be as red as an alderman. I have often wished that I could be permanently whitewashed, like a kitchen wall or a politician's record. I think, perhaps, if I were whitewashed for a month or two I might cure myself of my habit of blushing when I enter a room. I bought a box of "Meen Fun" once, and tried to powder; but I guess I didn't understand the art as well as the women do; it was mean fun in good earnest, for the girl I was going to take to singing-school wanted to know if I'd been helping my ma make biscuits for supper; and then she took her handkerchief and brushed my face, which wasn't so bad as it might have been, for her handkerchief had patchouly on it and was as soft as silk. But that wasn't Belle Marigold, and so it didn't matter.
To return to church. I went again in the evening, and felt more at home, for the kerosene was not very bright. I got along without any accident. After meeting was out, father stopped to speak to the minister. As I stood in the entry, waiting for him, Belle came out, and asked me how I felt after the picnic. I saw she was alone, and so I hemmed, and said: "Have you any one to see you home?"
She said, "No; but I'm not afraid—it's not far," and stopped and waited for me to offer her my arm, looking up at me with those bewitching eyes.
"Oh," said I, dying to wait upon her, but not daring to crook my elbow before the crowd, "I'm glad of that; but if you are the least bit timid, Miss Marigold, father and I will walk home with you."
Then I heard a suppressed laugh behind me, and, turning, saw that detestable Fred Hencoop, who never knew what it was to feel modest since the day his nurse tied his first bib on him.
"Miss Marigold," said he, looking as innocent as a lamb, "if you do me the honor to accept my arm, I'll try and take you home without calling on my pa to assist me in the arduous duty." And she went with him.
I was very low-spirited on the way home.
"As sure as I live I'll go and call on her to-morrow evening, and show her I'm not the fool she thinks I am," I said, between my gritted teeth. "I'll take her a new sash to replace the one I spoiled at the picnic, and we'll see who's the best fellow, Hencoop or I."
The next afternoon I measured off four yards of the sweetest sash-ribbon ever seen in Babbletown, and charged myself with seven dollars—half my month's salary, as agreed upon between father and me—and rolled up the ribbon in white tissue paper, preparatory to the event of the evening.
"Where are you going?" father asked, as I edged out of the store just after dark.
"Oh, up the street a piece."
"Well, here's a pair o' stockings to be left at the Widow Jones'. Just call as you go by and leave 'em, will you?"
I stuck the little bundle he gave me in my coat-tail pocket; but by the time I passed the Widow Jones' house I was so taken up with the business on hand that I forgot all about the stockings.
I could see Miss Marigold sitting at the piano and hear her singing as I passed the window. It was awful nice, and, to prolong the pleasure, I stayed outside about half an hour, then a summer shower came up, and I made up my mind and rang the bell. Jane came to the door.
"Is the squire at home?" says I.
"No, sir, he's down to the hotel; but Miss Marigold, she's to hum," said the black girl, grinning. "Won't you step in? Miss will be dreffle sorry her pa is out."
She took my hat and opened the parlor door; there was a general dazzle, and I bowed to somebody and sat down somewhere, and in about two minutes the mist cleared away, and I saw Belle Marigold, with a rose in her hair, sitting not three feet away, and smiling at me as if coaxing me to say something.
"Quite a shower?" I remarked.
"Indeed—is it raining?" said she.
"Yes, indeed," said I; "it came up very sudden."
"I hope you didn't get wet?" said she, with a sly look.
"Not this time," said I, trying to laugh.
"Does it lighten?" said she.
"A few," said I.
Miss Marigold coughed and looked out of the window. There was a pause in our brilliant conversation.
"I think we shall have a rainy night," I resumed.
"I'm so afraid of thunder," said she. "I shall not sleep a bit if it thunders. I shall sit up until the rain is over. I never like to be alone in a storm. I always want some one close by me," she said, with a little shiver.
"I'M SO FRIGHTENED, MR. FLUTTER," SAID SHE; "I FEEL, IN MOMENTS LIKE THESE, HOW SWEET IT WOULD BE TO HAVE SOME ONE TO CLING TO."
I hitched my chair about a foot nearer hers. It thundered pretty loud, and she gave a little squeal, and brought her chair alongside mine.
"I'm so frightened, Mr. Flutter," said she: "I feel, in moments like these, how sweet it would be to have someone to cling to."
And she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.
"Dear Belle," said I, "would you—would you—could you—now—"
"What?" whispered she, very softly.
"If I thought," I stammered, "that you could—that you would—that it was handy to give me a drink of water." She sprang up as if shot, and rang a little hand-bell.
"Jane, a glass of water for this gentleman—ice-water," in a very chilly tone, and she sat down over by the piano.
Bashful fool and idiot that I was. I had lost another opportunity.
After I had swallowed the water Jane had left the room. I bethought me of the handsome present which I had in my pocket, and, hoping to regain her favor by that, I drew out the little package and tossed it carelessly in her lap.
"Belle," said I, "I have not forgotten that I spilled lemonade on your sash; I hope you will not refuse to allow me to make such amends as are in my power. If the color does not suit you, I will exchange it for any you may select."
She began to smile again, coquettishly untying the string and unwrapping the paper. Instead of the lovely rose-colored ribbon, out rolled a long pair of coarse blue cotton stockings.
Miss Marigold screamed louder than she had at the thunder.
"It's all a mistake!" I cried; "a ridiculous mistake! I beg your pardon ten thousand times! They are for the Widow Jones. Here is what I intended for you, dear, dear Belle," and I thrust another package into heir hands.
"Fine-cut!" said she, examining the wrapper by the light of the lamp on the piano. "Do you think I chew, Mr. Flutter?—or dip? Do you intend to willfully insult me? Leave the hou——"
"Oh, I beg of you, listen! Here it is at last!" I exclaimed in desperation, drawing out the right package at last, and myself displaying to her dazzled view the four yards of glittering ribbon. "There's not another in Babbletown so handsome. Wear it for my sake, Belle!"
"I will," she sighed, after she had secretly rubbed it, and held it to the light to make sure of its quality. "I will, John, for your sake."
We were friends again; she was very sweet, and played something on the piano, and an hour slipped away as if I were in Paradise. I rose to go, the rain being over.
"But about that paper of fine-cut!" she said, archly, as she went into the hall with me to get my hat; "do you chew, John?"
"No, Belle, that tobacco was for old man Perkins, as sure as I stand here. If you don't believe me, smell my breath," said I, and I tried to get my arm about her waist.
It was kind of dark in the hall; she did not resist so very much; my lips were only about two inches from hers—for I wanted her to be sure about my breath—when a voice that almost made me faint away, put a conundrum to me:
"If you'd a kissed my girl, young man, why would it have been like a Centennial fire-arm?"
"Because it hasn't gone off yet!" I gasped, reaching for my hat.
"Wrong," said he grimly. "Because it would have been a blunder-buss."
I reckon the squire was right.