Chapter Nine

The next day he received cards for Miss Fitzsimmons' wedding, which was to take place in a fashionable church, and a note from that young lady, requesting him to act as groomsman on the occasion. He was seriously annoyed, yet to refuse was impossible, and as an interview was necessary, he had to call.

"All the handsome young men have been killed off in this horrid war," she said, as they met, "and Hattie Foot is such a beauty that I wanted her to have you to stand up with."

This quasi compliment did not melt the hard heart with which Horace stood before her: so he had got to be set over against Harriet Foot, and would be thought to be returning to her set.

"Aunt Jane will be sure to bring them both to the wedding," he thought, " and what will they think?" And then he suggested to be the bride elect that it would not be a very graceful progress up the broad aisle of the church, if he came limping in the procession.

"Oh, that need not trouble you," she cried, "I like to display my hero friends! We chose you on purpose, Hattie and I. It is all the fashion now to make much of those who had fought for our beloved country."

So there he was.

"I wish I could get married tomorrow," he thought, "if only to escape this farce. Our beloved country, indeed?"

And then there had to be a rehearsal of the marriage ceremony before that ceremony took place, and he got all mixed up with the old set in such a way, that he felt like a fly caught in a web.

At last the wedding day arrived, and Miss Fitzsimmons, all lace and diamonds, was made to promise to love and honor an insignificant-looking little man, with his hair parted in the middle, who looked not a little frightened, as well as he might. No one would have suspected who witnessed the scene in the church that day that a fierce and cruel war was raging in the country; the display of dress and fashionable array of spectators offered a fearful contrast to the poverty and wretchedness covering, as with a gloomy pall, so large a part of it. Horace reproached himself for participating in this pageant, and his heart wandered away from the elaborate lady on his arm to a little modest figure, that he felt must be there, though he would not have profaned her by a look, if he had known where.

Quite late in the evening, after the brilliant bridal reception was over, he encountered Tom White in the supper room, who blushed like a girl as he asked if he could have an interview with him the next morning. Fancying he had gained a new client, Horace named an early hour of the following day, and went home jaded and out of spirits. The world he had just left had never looked so hollow and unsatisfactory; he hoped he should never have to enter it again.

At the appointed hour Tom White made his appearance, and after any amount of circumlocution, finally blurted out his business in this wise:

"I say, Captain Wheeler, we can't both have her, and I can't endure this suspense any longer. I made her acquaintance before you did, and never cared for anybody else. Now, I'll act fairly and squarely, if you will. You may propose first, and if she accepts you, I'll retreat, and leave the field to you. If she refuses, I want you to quit it, and let me try my chance, which is poor enough, I know."

Horace thus challenged, knew not what to say. Must he own his secret to this Tom White? But then the young gentleman had already taken possession of it.

"I think," said Tom, waxing, bold, as he saw that his rival shrank from him, "that if I can be frank and speak out, you can. It will not cost you any more than it does me."

"But it is not the thing," said Horace, "to make proposals to young ladies in their absence from home. You must at least wait till they return."

"Oh, that's an old-fashioned notion," cried Tom, "My mother, who is the pink of propriety, says that their aunt has given her sanction to my plan; that is as far as it concerns myself; of course I have not compromised you."

"Let me suggest then that you take the matter into your own hands. Propose to both of them, if you choose; I will not stand in your light. You can offer a position that it is not probable I ever can do; and at all events I am not prepared or disposed to pay my addresses to any young lady at present."

"I ask your pardon, then," said Tom. "I had quite the contrary impression. And really, when I come to think of it, and realize that whatever your feelings are towards her, she had such a preference for you, I hardly dare to take a step in the matter. But before you made your appearance she did seem fond of me."

"Indeed!" said Horace, dryly, and with a great inward disgust.

"Yes; don't you think it is a little particular when a young lady gives you her photograph?"

"Why, yes, decidedly so," said Horace, burning with secret rage.

"To be sure it was done in a hasty moment, and she wouldn't accept mine in return, but laughed at me for offering it. Indeed, she is always laughing at me, as you must have seen."

"May I inquire of whom you are speaking?" asked Horace, to whom it suddenly occurred that it did not seem like Maggie to be always laughing at anybody.

"Why, of Miss Annie Wyman, of course," replied Tom.

"Ah, well, my dear fellow, that field is quite open to you. I have no thought of addressing that piquant young lady, and if she was fond of you once she is no doubt fond of you still. Go ahead. I wish you all sorts of good luck."

He was so relieved that he could hardly help hugging Tom; and Tom could have leaped for joy.

"I'll do it," he declared, "the first chance I get. Or at least as soon as I get courage." And then the new client walked away, and Horace drew a long breath.

"If he does not care for her, why should she care for him?" he thought. "I'll go tonight and watch her more closely than ever."

And so he did. But Maggie met him with apparent indifference. She had seen him figuring in a worldly scene, apparently quite at home in it, and felt more out of sympathy with him than she had ever done. She had been led to believe that since the loss of his limb he had cut himself off from fashionable society, and devoted himself to all she loved best. But here he was, at a gay wedding, with a stylish, elegantly dressed young lady on his arm, laughing and talking with her as with one with whom he felt on equal terms. She believed the pain this gave her was due to the sense that his Christian tone was lower than she had fancied it; in a measure this was true. But perhaps some lower sentiments mingled unconsciously with the higher ones; perhaps she felt that he who could choose the society of a Harriet Foot could hardly really value her own. Yet the contrast between her serene face and modest attire and the scene he had witnessed and shared in at the wedding was making her dear to him, and he knew it. That scene had revealed to him how changed he was since the days when he used to seek happiness among them; how much less and yet how much more he expected from life.

Annie, meanwhile, was an attentive to him as ever, full of gay and fearless talk, like one sure of the ground on which she walked, but as silent towards Tom White as Maggie was towards him. For Tom was there, as large as life, swelling with his secret, yet close to Maggie's side, for if she wasn't the rose, hadn't she dwelt near the rose?

"Our Mag is going home tomorrow," Annie said, at last. "One of the children has the measles, and of course they'll all have it. And she thinks mother will need one of us to help her through the siege."

"Why don't you go, then?" asked Horace, vexed to think of losing sight of Maggie.

"I can't tear myself away from you!" she returned, laughing.

These words ought to have fallen upon Tom's ears like balm, for they could not have been spoke in that open way by one whose heart secretly belonged to him she addressed. But he was obtuse enough to take them literally, and to become so downcast that everybody was relieved to see him soon take himself off. The four then drew close together around the fire, and talked of Maggie's departure; Horace now learned for the first time that she lived in the little town of Stafford, four miles off the railroad.

"Do you make the journey alone?" asked Horace.

"Oh, yes; Aunt Jane sends John with me to the station, and he gets my ticket and sees me off, and my father meets me at Grafton; we have then only the four miles to drive."

The next morning beheld the unaccustomed sight of Horace Wheeler arraying himself for the day by gaslight, and seven o'clock found him at the station, just as Maggie, a little behind time, came driving up. She gave a great start of joy when she saw him; but he did not see it, and as it did not suit him to be recognized by John, he skulked off.

"How could I be so foolish?" Maggie asked herself. "Why should I fancy, even for a moment, that he came to see me off? But then, he may have come for Annie's sake." John, having seen her safely in her seat, at once took his departure, and Horace instantly appeared. He had had no special design in coming, had made no program, did not know what he meant to say. There were only a few minutes both were so embarrassed, said such stupid things that in after days neither could recall a single word. But he went away a happy man, for the time, at least, and the train hardly dashed more rapidly on its way did Maggie's joyous heart.

"Maggie has come home nicer than ever," said the hero of the measles to his brother that night.

"She couldn't be any nicer!" was the reply.

"She kissed me four times when she got back," persisted the hero.

Ah, you foolish little man; it was not you she kissed!

"It was not necessary for you to come home, Maggie dear," said her mother.

"I thought it was; besides, I wanted to come." And so she slipped into her old place, the same, yet not the same, hardly daring to whisper to herself the sweet secret that had been but half betrayed; wondering if she had betrayed her own, the knowledge of which had come to her in a sudden flash in those few trembling minutes in the train.

It was one of those stormy nights on which Horace chose to visit Aunt Jane, with the hope to have her all to himself. For this little old lady, with her bright ways and straightforward yet not unkind words, was in great demand, and it was long since he had had a private interview with her. But now he knew that Annie had gone to dine with Mr. White's mother, and that her dangerous ears, so ready to prick up at te sound of news, were safely out of the way. And he had made up his mind to open his heart to Aunt Jane like a son.

But it was not easy. He did not know when or how to begin, and sat holding the ball from which she was knitting in his hands, wishing she would speak first.

"Aunt Jane," he at last got out, "you are so skilled at reading my heart that I don't believe it is necessary to tell you what is in it."

"No," she replied, with much feeling," you need not. There are many good things in it. and among those good things I see my little Maggie; do I not?"

"And do you think there is any chance for me?"

"Ah, that is a question I cannot answer. You know I have often told you that girls have a great knack at keeping their likings and dislikings to themselves."

"What am I to do, then?"

"Why, you are to act in your usual straightforward way, and write and tell her how you feel, like a man."

"Oh, I couldn't write. I must see her. I am going to Stafford tomorrow, unless you advise against it."

"But I do advise against it. You'd catch the measles."

"I've had them."

"Maggie will not be able to see you. Those boys are her regular tyrants when they're sick."

"There's another thing I want to consult you about. A friend of mine has a paper in his possession on which his name is scribbled some score of times. Should he presumes that the lady who wrote it did this because she particularly cared for him?"

"If he is as modest as most men, he will presume it, whatever I may say. I should advise your friend to put that paper into the fire, and think and speak of it no more. Such a document might be the result of mere idleness."

Well, an old, crumpled, yellow envelope is not much of a "document," save in the hands of a lover, and Horace mentally followed Aunt Jane's suggestions.

"But, notwithstanding the measles, I am tempted to go to Stafford," he went on, and upset a vase of flowers on the table to show his zeal.

"At all events you need not sop up water with one of my best handkerchiefs; or what is better, you need not upset my vases."

"I ask your pardon, Aunt Jane," he said so meekly that her kind old heart yearned over him. "I did not observe that it was your handkerchief."

"I have heard that love is blind," she replied. "Well, if you will go, let me post you up as to the trains. You will go by the early one, six or half past six; you will reach Grafton in time for the stage to Stafford. You'll take your supper at the tavern, get yourself up in your most enchanting style, and reach the parsonage in a little after seven. You will find no one at home save Mrs. Wyman and the boys. Mr. Wyman will be at the prayer-meeting down in the cellar of his meeting-house, and Maggie, after nursing the boys all day, will be there, too; I know her mother's ways well enough for that. By-the-by, I hardly think you know what a truly religious girl my Maggie is."

"A single sentence on that head was my first attraction to her," he replied, lingering with his hat in his hand. "I could not love a young lady now who was not truly and deeply religious. Oh, Aunt Jane, how you have changed me!"

"How God has changed you, you mean. To think that a simple little country girl like Maggie Wyman has won the heart that none of the attractive young ladies here, with all their advantages, have ever touched! Good-bye, my dear boy, I congratulate you, and myself too, in advance."

"Thank you for those kind words," he said, with much feeling.

He had not made up his mind to the step he was now about to take without much reflection and much prayer. It was a very serious, weighty thing with him; so different from his proposal to Miss Fitzsimmons that he shuddered to think what would have become of him if she had accepted him.

But he was resolved to be very cool and quiet with Maggie, so that she need not be moved by compassion to accept him. And if she refused him, he meant to be yet more cool and quiet, and never let her know the pain she had given him. On his journey he tried to think how he should manage things, provided he should find Mrs. Wyman at home and alone, as according to Aunt Jane, he was likely to do; should he introduce himself and tell her his errand? His beating heart warned him to lay no plans, but to trust itself to Providence, and let it have its own way.

Meanwhile, Maggie was enacting the sweet daughter and sister, unconscious that he about whom she quarreled so much with herself was every moment drawing nearer. She had a habit of holding silent conversations with him, which vexed her extremely; as she moved about her household tasks and sat at the long seams she had to sew, or went up to the village street on her little errands, she was telling him all she ever did, and then, detesting herself in it, would break off suddenly with great confusion and self-reproach. Today she fancied she had gained great dominion over herself in this respect, for she had no such temptation; but the truth was, and the children had made her read to them, or tell them stories so diligently that she had not had time to think.

"Maggie dear," said her mother, "I want you to go to meeting tonight; it will do you good after being shut up all day."

"But they say you can carry the measles about in your hair," returned Maggie. "I can change my clothes, but I can't leave my hair at home very conveniently."

"I think that's all nonsense," said Mrs. Wyman. "Besides, there won't be any children there this cold night, and all the grown folks are safe."

"And I can sit near the door and slip out without speaking to anyone," said Maggie, who really wanted to go.

She usually went to the evening meetings in her every day dress, which was simple enough, but as she had now to change it, she put on a pretty blue one, in which Horace had seen her, and she well remembered his saying that girls should never wear any other color.

"Here he is again!" she said to herself. "I am so ashamed of myself I don't know what to do! How he would despise me if he could see my thoughts!"

She slipped into the lecture room and too her seat in a dark corner, feeling very little in her own eyes, and intending, as she had said, to slip out and come home the instant the meeting was over.

But she came out into the darkness with her arm in a man's arm, her hand clasped in his hand, trembling, flushed, triumphant. How they managed it no mortal knows. What he said to her, if he said anything, he never told; she never could tell what she said to him, for she never spoke a word. The very utmost that could afterwards be got out of either of them was this: that Horace happened to come to meeting, and happened, which was true, to step into the door, where she happened to be sitting, and what was more natural than for him to see her safely home?

Maggie frightened her mother not a little by tumbling into her arms and bursting out crying; but it did not take long to tell the rest of the story, and to make up a fire in the parlor where Horace sat freezing, an introduce him as Aunt Jane's particular friend.

And then they took him right in with such delicious simplicity, never cumbering their heads with the question how their country ways would strike him, and loving him right off because he loved our Maggie! He went through the form of spending his nights at the tavern, but there was precious little formality of any other sort. Maggie took him into the kitchen and made him break eggs, which, however, she would not trust him to beat; introduced him into the nursery and constrained him to tell stories about his army-life; and invited him to shovel a path for her to the well. If he loved her when she sat quietly and demurely in Aunt Jane's parlor, how did he feel now that he saw what a gladsome, happy little creature she was; perfectly at case, kindly affectioned towards everybody, yet reserving the depth and tenderness of her nature for him alone!

Aunt Jane, Annie, and Tom White were sitting together one evening at the close of the week, Annie behaving like one possessed, Tom cast down and silent, when in came Horace. All rose to meet him, when, without ceremony, he took Aunt Jane in his arms and kissed her, and then Annie.

"I left them all well at your house this morning," he said the astonished young girl."Ah, Mr. White, I'm very happy to see you," and he looked as if he would kiss him too.

"You have been to Stafford? Been to our house?" cried Annie. "Don't go, Mr. White," she said, seeing that young man about to make a precipitate retreat."And what did they say? Do they want me to come home? Did you see Maggie?"

"I did see Maggie!" he ventured, in a tone that told his story; whereupon Annie began to cry. "Tom White's heart concluded to begin to beat again, and Aunt Jane cried and laughed and called herself an old fool.

"Sit down and tell us all about it," she said at last.

"I have lived a year since I saw you," he replied, "and it would take a year to tell about it." But he began his story with great animation, and the eager talker and the eager listener did not observe that Tom and Annie had miraculously disappeared.

"I thought he was in love with you," said Tom, and that is the reason I never dared to speak out. And I thought you loved him. Indeed, I don't know what I didn't think. And when he rushed in just now, and caught you and kissed you, I came near fainting away on the spot."

"I never would have forgiven you if you had!" she declared. "And how absurd it was in you to fancy I cared for him, when you might have seen–only you are such a dear blind old goose."

Well, it is not fair to listen any longer. It suffices that two more souls had got into the earthly paradise wherein lovers have walked ever since Adam and Eve walked in the garden, perfectly convinced that there never was any experience to be compared to theirs.

And now, having conducted Aunt Jane's hero and his heroine to the threshold of a new life, shall we discreetly allow the to cross it alone? Or shall be cross it with them and look into the prose that follows the poem; or is there to be another poem and no prose?

To be continued ...

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