Peter: A Novel of Which He is Not the Hero

by Francis Hopkinson Smith

“Nonsense! My dear Ruth, you will be married in my house and the breakfast will be in the garden. If Peter and your father haven't got any common sense, that's no reason why you and Jack should lose your wits.”

This, of course, ended the matter. No one living or dead had ever been found with nerve enough to withstand Felicia Grayson when she had once made up her mind.

And then, again, there was no time to lose in unnecessary discussions. Were not Ruth and her father picnicking in a hired villa, with half their household goods in a box-car at Morfordsburg?—and was not Jack still living in his two rooms at Mrs. Hicks's? The only change suggested by the lovers was in the date of the wedding, Miss Felicia having insisted that it should not take place until November, “FOUR WHOLE WEEKS AWAY.” But the old lady would not budge. Four weeks at least, she insisted, would be required for the purchase and making of the wedding clothes, which, with four more for the honeymoon (at this both Jack and Ruth shouted with laughter, they having determined on a honeymoon the like of which had never been seen since Adam and Eve went to housekeeping in the Garden). These eight weeks, continued the practical old lady, would be required to provide a suitable home for them both; now an absolute necessity, seeing that Mr. Guthrie had made extensive contracts with MacFarlane, which, with Jack's one-fifth interest in the ore banks was sure to keep Jack and MacFarlane at Morfordsburg for some years to come.

So whizz went another telegram—this time from Jack—there was no time for letters these days—stopping all work on the nearly completed log cabin which the poor young superintendent had ordered, and which was all he could afford, before the sale of the ore lands. But then THAT seemed ages and ages ago.

“Don't tell me what I want, sir,” roared Mr. Golightly at the waiter, in “Lend Me Five Shillings,” when he brought a crust of bread and cheese and a pickle with which to entertain Mrs. Phobbs; Golightly in the meantime having discovered a purse full of sovereigns in the coat the waiter had handed him by mistake. “Don't tell me what I said, sir. I know what I said, sir! I said champagne, sir, and plenty of it, sir!—turkeys, and plenty of them!

Burgundy—partridges—lobsters—pineapple punch—pickled salmon—everything! Look sharp, Be off!” (Can't you hear dear Joe Jefferson's voice, gentle reader, through it all?)

And now listen to our proud Jack, with the clink of his own gold in his own pocket.

“What did you say? A six by nine log hut, with a sheet-iron stove in one corner and a cast-iron bedstead in another, and a board closet, and a table and two chairs—and this, too, for a princess of quality and station? Zounds, sirrah!—” (Holker Morris was the “Sirrah”)—“I didn't order anything of the kind. I ordered a bungalow all on one floor—that's what I ordered—with a boudoir and two bedrooms, and an extra one for my honored father-in-law, and still another for my thrice-honored uncle, Mr. Peter Grayson, when he shall come to stay o' nights; and porches front and back where my lady's hammock may be slung: and a fireplace big enough to roll logs into as thick around as your body and wide enough to warm every one all over; and a stable for my lady's mare, with a stall for my saddle-horse. Out upon you, you Dago!”

Presto, what a change! Away went the completed roof of the modest cabin and down tumbled the sides. More post-holes were dug; more trenches excavated; more great oaks toppled over to be sliced into rafters, joists and uprights; more shingles—two carloads; more brick; more plaster; more everything, including nails, locks, hinges, sash; bath-tubs—two; lead pipe, basins, kitchen range—and so the new bungalow was begun.

Neither was there any time to be lost over the invitations. Miss Felicia, we may be sure, prepared the list. It never bothered her head whether the trip to Geneseo—and that, too, in the fall of the year, when early snows were to be expected—might prevent any of the invited guests from witnessing the glad ceremony. Those who loved Ruth she knew would come even if they had to be accompanied by St. Bernard dogs with kegs of brandy tied to their necks to get them across the glaciers, including Uncle Peter, of course; as would also Ruth's dear grandmother, who was just Miss Felicia's age, and MacFarlane's saintly sister Kate, who had never taken off her widow's weeds since the war, and two of her girl friends, with whom Ruth went to school, and who were to be her bridesmaids.