XIII.
A WEDDING DAY.
"A world-without-end bargain."—Shakespeare.
A young girl stood in the doorway, shading her eyes with her hand as she gazed down the dusty road; she was not tall or slight, but a plump, well-proportioned little creature, with frank, steadfast eyes, a low, smooth forehead with brown hair rippling away from it, a thoughtful mouth that matched well with the eyes; an energetic maiden, despite the air of study that somehow surrounded her; you were sure her voice would be sweet, and as sure that it would be sprightly, and you were equally sure that a wealth of strength was hidden behind the sweetness. She was only eighteen, eighteen to-day, but during the last two years she had rapidly developed into womanhood. The master told Miss Prudence this morning that she was trustworthy and guileless, and as sweet and bright as she was good; still, he believed, as of old, that she did not quite know how to take her own part; but, as a woman, with a man to fight for her, what need had she of fighting? He would not have been at all surprised had he known that she had chosen, that morning, a motto, not only for her new year, but, as she told Morris, for her lifetime: "The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace." And he had said: "May I fight for you, too, Marjorie?" But she had only laughed and answered: "We don't live in the time of the Crusades."
Although it was Linnet's wedding day Marjorie, the bridesmaid, was attired in a gingham, a pretty pink and white French gingham; but there were white roses at her throat and one nestled in her hair. The roses were the gift of the groomsman, Hollis, and she had fastened them in under the protest of Morris' eyes. Will and Linnet had both desired Hollis to "stand up" with Marjorie; the bridesmaid had been very shy about it, at first; Hollis was almost a stranger, she had seen him but once since she was fourteen, and their letters were becoming more and more distant. He was not as shy as Marjorie, but he was not easy and at home with her, and never once dared to address the maiden who had so suddenly sprung into a lovely woman with the old names, Mousie, or Goosie. Indeed, he had nearly forgotten them, he could more readily have said: "Miss Marjorie."
He had grown very tall; he was the handsomest among the brothers, with an air of refinement and courtesy that somewhat perplexed them and set him apart from them. Marjorie still prayed for him every day, that is, for the Hollis she knew, but this Hollis came to her to-day a stranger; her school-boy friend was a dream, the friend she had written to so long was only her ideal, and this tall man, with the golden-red moustache, dark, soft eyes and deep voice, was a fascinating stranger from the outside world. She could never write to him again; she would never have the courage.
And his heart quickened in its beating as he stood beside the white-robed figure and looked down into the familiar, strange face, and he wondered how his last letter could have been so jaunty and off-hand. How could he ever write "Dear Marjorie" again, with this face in his memory? She was as much a lady as Helen had been, he would be proud to take her among his friends and say: "This is my old school friend."
But he was busy bringing chairs across the field at this moment and Marjorie stood alone in the doorway looking down the dusty road. This doorway was a fitting frame for such a rustic picture as a girl in a gingham dress, and the small house itself a fitting background.
The house was a story and a half, with a low, projecting roof, a small entry in the centre, and square, low-studded rooms on both sides, a kitchen and woodshed stretched out from the back and a small barn stood in the rear; the house was dazzling in the sun, with its fresh coat of white paint, and the green blinds gave a cooling effect to the whole; the door yard was simply a carpet of green with lilac bushes in one corner and a tall pine standing near the gate; the fence rivalled the house in its glossy whiteness, and even the barn in the rear had a new coat of brown to boast of. Every room inside the small house was in perfect order, every room was furnished with comfort and good taste, but plainly as it became the house of the captain of the barque Linnet to be. It was all ready for housekeeping, but, instead of taking instant possession, at the last moment Linnet had decided to go with her husband to Genoa.
"It is nonsense," Captain Rheid growled, "when the house is all ready."
But Will's mother pleaded for him and gained an ungracious consent.
"You never run around after me so," he said.
"Go to sea to-day and see what I will do," she answered, and he kissed her for the first time in so many years that she blushed like a girl and hurried away to see if the tea-kettle were boiling.
Linnet's mother was disappointed, for she wanted to see Linnet begin her pretty housekeeping; but Marjorie declared that it was as it should be and quite according to the Old Testament law of the husband cheering up his wife.
But Marjorie did not stay very long to make a picture of herself, she ran back to see if Morris had counted right in setting the plates on the long dining table that was covered with a heavy cloth of grandma's own making. There was a silk quilt of grandma's making on the bed in the "spare room" beside. As soon as the ceremony was performed she had run away with "the boys" to prepare the surprise for Linnet, a lunch in her own house. The turkeys and tongue and ham had been cooked at Mrs. Rheid's, and Linnet had seen only the cake and biscuits prepared at home, the fruit had come with Hollis from New York at Miss Prudence's order, and the flowers had arrived this morning by train from Portland. Cake and sandwiches, lemonade and coffee, would do very well, Linnet said, who had no thought of feasting, and the dining room at home was the only banqueting hall she had permitted herself to dream of.
Marjorie counted the chairs as Hollis brought them across the field from home, and then her eyes filled as he drew from his pocket, to show her, the deed of the house and ten acres of land, the wedding present from his father to the bride.
"Oh, he's too good," she cried. "Linnet will break down, I know she will."
"I asked him if he would be as good to my wife," answered Hollis, "and he said he would, if I would please him as well as Will had done."
"There's only one Linnet," said Marjorie.
"But bride's have sisters," said Morris. "Marjorie, where shall I put all this jelly? And I haven't missed one plate with a bouquet, have I? Now count everybody up again and see if we are all right."
"Marjorie and I," began Hollis, audaciously, pushing a chair into its place.
"Two," counted Morris, but his blue eyes flashed and his lip trembled.
"And Will and Linnet, four," began Marjorie, in needless haste, and father and mother, six, and Will's father and mother, eight, and the minister and his wife, ten, and Herbert and his wife, twelve, and Mr. Holmes and Miss Prudence, fourteen, and Sam and Harold, sixteen, and Morris, seventeen. That is all. Oh, and grandfather and grandmother, nineteen."
"Seventeen plates! You and I are to be waiters, Marjorie," said Morris.
"I'll be a waiter, too," said Hollis. "That will be best fun of all. I'm glad you didn't hire anybody, Marjorie."
"I wouldn't; I wanted to be primitive and do it all ourselves; I knew
Morris would be grand help, but I was not so sure of you."
"Are you sure of me, now?" he laughed, like the old Hollis who used to go to school.
After that Marjorie would not have been surprised if he had called her
"Mousie."
"Morris, what do you want to be a sailor for?" inquired Hollis, arranging the white rose in his button-hole anew.
"To sail," answered Morris seriously. "What do you want to be a salesman for?"
"To sell," said Hollis, as seriously, "Marjorie, what do you want to be yourself for?"
"To help you to be yourself," she answered promptly, and flew to the front door where there was a sound of shouting and laughter. They were all there, every one of the little home-made company; and the waiters ushered them into the kitchen, where the feast was spread, with great ceremony.
If Linnet had not been somebody's wife she would have danced around and clapped her hands with delight; as it was she nearly forgot her dignity, and exclaimed with surprise and pleasure sufficient to satisfy those who were in the secret of the feast.
Linnet was in her gray travelling suit, but the dash of crimson this time was in both cheeks; there was a haziness in her eyes that subdued the brightness of her face and touched them all. The bridegroom was handsome and proud, his own merry self, not a trifle abashed before them all on his wedding day, everything that he said seemed to be thought worth laughing at, and there was not a shadow on any face, except the flitting of a shadow ever and anon across Morris Kemlo's blue eyes.
The feast was ended, prayer offered by the pastor and the new home dedicated to him who is the Father in every home where his children dwell, and then kisses and congratulations and thanks mingled with the tears that the mothers must need shed out of their joy and natural regret. The mothers were both exultantly proud and sure that her child would not be the one to make the other unhappy. The carriages rolled away, Will and Linnet to take the train to Portland, for if the wind were fair the Linnet would sail the next day for New York and thence to Genoa. Linnet had promised to bring Marjorie some of the plastering of the chamber in which Christopher Columbus was born, and if they went down to Naples she would surely climb Mt. Vesuvius and bring her a branch of mulberry.
The mothers remained to wash the dishes and pack things away, to lock up the house, and brush the last flake of dust from any of Linnet's new possessions; Captain Rheid called to Hollis and asked him to walk over the farm with him and see where everything was planted. Hollis was to remain over night, but Morris was to take a late train to join the Linnet's crew, it being his first voyage as second mate.
The mothers took off their kitchen aprons, washed their hands at Linnet's new sink, and gave Morris the key of the front door to hang up in an out-of-the-way corner of the wood shed.
"It may better be here," said Mrs. Rheid, "and then any of us can get in at any time to see how things are without troubling anybody to find the key. The captain will see that every door and window is safe and as we have the silver I don't believe anybody will think of troubling the house."
"Oh, dear no," replied Mrs. West. "I always leave my clothes out on the line and we never think of locking a door at night."
"Our kitchen windows look over this way and I shall always be looking over. Now come home with me and see that quilt I haven't got finished yet for them. I told your husband to come to our house for you, for you would surely be there. I suppose Marjorie and Morris will walk back; we wouldn't have minded it, either, on our eighteenth birthday."
"Come, Marjorie, come see where I hang the key," said Morris.
Marjorie followed him down the kitchen steps, across the shed to a corner at the farther end; he found a nail and slipped it on and then asked her to reach it.
Even standing on tip toe her upstretched hand could not touch it.
"See how I put the key of my heart out of your reach," he said, seriously.
"And see how I stretch after it," she returned, demurely.
"I will come with you and reach it for you."
"How can you when you are demolishing plaster in Christopher Columbus' house or falling into the crater of Mt. Vesuvius? I may want to come here that very day."
"True; I will put it lower for you. Shall I put it under this stone so that you will have to stoop for it?"
"Mrs. Rheid said hang it over the window, that has been its place for generations. They lived here when they were first married, before they built their own house; the house doesn't look like it, does it? It is all made over new. I am glad he gave it to Will."
"He can build a house for Hollis," said he, watching her as he spoke.
"Let me see you put the key there," she returned, unconcernedly.
He hung the key on the nail over the small window and inquired if it were done to her satisfaction.
"Yes," she said. "I wonder how Linnet feels about going away from us all so far."
"She is with her husband," answered Morris. "Aren't you woman enough to understand that?"
"Possibly I am as much of a woman as you are."
"You are years ahead of me; a girl at eighteen is a woman; but a boy at eighteen is a boy. Will you tell me something out here among the wood? This wood pile that the old captain sawed and split ten years ago shall be our witness. Why do you suppose he gets up in winter before daylight and splits wood—when he has a pile that was piled up twenty years ago?"
"That is a question worthy the time and place and the wood pile shall be our witness."
"Oh, that isn't the question," he returned with some embarrassment, stooping to pick up a chip and toss it from him as he lifted himself. "Marjorie, do you like Hollis better than you like me?"
"You are only a boy, you know," she answered, roguishly.
"I know it; but do you like me better than Hollis?"
His eyes were on the chips at his feet, Marjorie's serious eyes were upon him.
"It doesn't matter; suppose I don't know; as the question never occurred to me before I shall have to consider."
"Marjorie, you are cruel," he exclaimed raising his eyes with a flash in them; he was "only a boy" but his lips were as white as a man's would have been.
"I am sorry; I didn't know you were in such earnest," she said, penitently. "I like Hollis, of course, I cannot remember when I did not like him, but I am not acquainted with him."
"Are you acquainted with me?" he asked in a tone that held a shade of relief.
"Oh, you!" she laughed lightly, "I know what you think before you can speak your thought."
"Then you know what I am thinking now."
"Not all of it," she returned, but she colored, notwithstanding, and stepped backward toward the kitchen.
"Marjorie," he caught her hand and held it, "I am going away and I want to tell you something. I am going far away this time, and I must tell you. Do you remember the day I came? You were such a little thing, you stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes, with your sleeves rolled back and a big apron up to your neck, and you stopped in your work and looked at me and your eyes were so soft and sorry. And I have loved you better than anybody every day since. Every day I have thought: 'I will study like Marjorie. I will be good like Marjorie. I will help everybody like Marjorie.'"
She looked up into his eyes, her own filled with tears.
"I am so glad I have helped you so."
"And will you help me further by saying that you like me better than
Hollis."
"Oh, I do, you know I do," she cried, impulsively. "I am not acquainted with him, and I know every thought you think."
"Now I am satisfied," he cried, exultantly, taking both her hands in his and kissing her lips. "I am not afraid to go away now."
"Marjorie,"—the kitchen door was opened suddenly,—"I'm going to take your mother home with me. Is the key in the right place."
"Everything is all right, Mrs. Rheid," replied Morris. "You bolt that door and we will go out this way."
The door was closed as suddenly and the boy and girl stood silent, looking at each other.
"Your Morris Kemlo is a fine young man," observed Mrs. Rheid as she pushed the bolt into its place.
"He is a heartease to his mother," replied Mrs. West, who was sometimes poetical.
"Does Marjorie like him pretty well?"
"Why, yes, we all do. He is like our own flesh and blood. But why did you ask?"
"Oh, nothing. I just thought of it."
"I thought you meant something, but you couldn't when you know how Hollis has been writing to her these four years."
"Oh!" ejaculated Hollis' mother.
She did not make plans for her children as the other mother did.
The two old ladies crossed the field toward the substantial white farmhouse that overlooked the little cottage, and the children, whose birthday it was, walked hand in hand through the yard to the footpath along the road.
"Must you keep on writing to Hollis?" he asked.
"I suppose so. Why not? It is my turn to write now."
"That's all nonsense."
"What is? Writing in one's turn?"
"I don't see why you need write at all."
"Don't you remember I promised before you came?"
"But I've come now," he replied in a tone intended to be very convincing.
"His mother would miss it, if I didn't write; she thinks she can't write letters. And I like his letters," she added frankly.
"I suppose you do. I suppose you like them better than mine," with an assertion hardly a question in his voice.
"They are so different. His life is so different from yours. But he is shy, as shy as a girl, and does not tell me all the things you do. Your letters are more interesting, but he is more interesting—as a study. You are a lesson that I have learned, but I have scarcely begun to learn him."
"That is very cold blooded when you are talking about human beings."
"My brain was talking then."
"Suppose you let your heart speak."
"My heart hasn't anything to say; it is not developed yet."
"I don't believe it," he answered angrily.
"Then you must find it out for yourself. Morris, I don't want to be in love with anybody, if that's what you mean. I love you dearly, but I am not in love with you or with anybody."
"You don't know the difference," he said quickly.
"How do you know the difference? Did you learn it before I was born?"
"I love my mother, but I am in love with you; that's the difference."
"Then I don't know the difference—and I do. I love my dear father and Mr. Holmes and you,—not all alike, but I need you all at different times—"
"And Hollis," he persisted.
"I do not know him," she insisted. "I have nothing to say about that. Morris, I want to go with Miss Prudence and study; I don't want to be a housekeeper and have a husband, like Linnet! I have so much to learn; I am eager for everything. You see you are older than I am."
"Yes," he said, disappointedly, "you are only a little girl yet. Or you are growing up to be a Woman's Rights Woman, and to think a 'career' is better than a home and a man who is no better than other men to love you and protect you and provide for you."
"You know that is not true," she answered quietly; "but I have been looking forward so long to going to school."
"And living with Miss Prudence and becoming like her!"
"Don't you want me to be like her?"
"No," he burst out. "I want you to be like Linnet, and to think that little house and house-keeping, and a good husband, good enough for you. What is the good of studying if it doesn't make you more a perfect woman? What is the good of anything a girl does if it doesn't help her to be a woman?"
"Miss Prudence is a perfect woman."
Marjorie's tone was quiet and reasonable, but there was a fire in her eyes that shone only when she was angry.
"She would be more perfect if she stayed at home in Maple Street and made a home for somebody than she is now, going hither and thither finding people to be kind to and to help. She is too restless and she is not satisfied. Look at Linnet; she is happier to-day with her husband that reads only the newspapers, the nautical books, and his Bible, than Miss Prudence with all her lectures and concerts and buying books and knowing literary people! She couldn't make a Miss Prudence out of Linnet, but she will make a Miss Prudence twice over out of you."
"Linnet is happy because she loves Will, and she doesn't care for books and people, as we do; but we haven't any Will, poor Miss Prudence and poor Marjorie, we have to substitute people and books."
"You might have, both of you!" he went on, excitedly; "but you want something better, both of you,—higher, I suppose you think! There's Mr. Holmes eating his heart out with being only a friend to Miss Prudence, and you want me to go poking along and spoiling my life as he does, because you like books and study better!"
Marjorie laughed; the fire in Morris' blue eyes was something to see, and the tears in his voice would have overcome her had she not laughed instead. And he was going far away, too.
"Morris, I didn't know you were quite such a volcano. I don't believe Mr. Holmes stays here and pokes because of Miss Prudence. I know he is melancholy, sometimes, but he writes so much and thinks so much he can't be light-hearted like young things like us. And who does as much good as Miss Prudence? Isn't she another mother to Linnet and me? And if she doesn't find somebody to love as Linnet does Will, I don't see how she can help it."
"It isn't in her heart or she would have found somebody; it is what is in peoples' hearts that makes the difference! But when they keep the brain at work and forget they have any heart, as you two do—"
"It isn't Miss Prudence's brain that does her beautiful work. You ought to read some of the letters that she lets me read, and then you would see how much heart she has!"
"And you want to be just like her," he sighed, but the sigh was almost a groan.
Certainly, in some experiences he had outstripped Marjorie.
"Yes, I want to be like her," she answered deliberately.
"And study and go around and do good and never be married?" he questioned.
"I don't see the need of deciding that question to-day."
"I suppose not. You will when Hollis Rheid asks you to."
"Morris, you are not like yourself to-day, you are quarrelling with me, and we never quarrelled before."
"Because you are so unreasonable; you will not answer me anything."
"I have answered you truly; I have no other answer to give."
"Will you think and answer me when I come home?"
"I have answered you now."
"Perhaps you will have another answer then."
"Well, if I have I will give it to you. Are you satisfied?"
"No," he said; but he turned her face up to his and looked down into her innocent earnest eyes.
"You are a goosie, as Linnet says; you will never grow up, little
Marjorie."
"Then, if I am only eight, you must not talk to me as if I were eighty."
"Or eighteen," he said. "How far on the voyage of life do you suppose
Linnet and Captain Will are."
"Not far enough on to quarrel, I hope."
"They will never be far enough for that, Will is too generous and Linnet will never find anything to differ about; do you know, Marjorie, that girl has no idea how Will loves her?"
Marjorie stopped and faced him with the utmost gravity.
"Do you know, Morris, that man has no idea how Linnet loves him?"
And then the two burst into a laugh that restored them both to the perfect understanding of themselves and each other and all the world. And after an early supper he shook hands with them all—excepting "Mother West," whom he kissed, and Marjorie, whom he asked to walk as far as "Linnet's" with him on his way to the train—and before ten o'clock was on board the Linnet, and congratulating again the bridegroom, who was still radiant, and the bride, who was not looking in the least bit homesick.
"Will," said Linnet with the weight of tone of one giving announcement to a mighty truth, "I wouldn't be any one beside myself for anything."
"And I wouldn't have you any one beside yourself for anything," he laughed, in the big, explosive voice that charmed Linnet every time afresh.