Zillah and Ada came in for their share. "Which of them was Wallace Ormsby courting?" they were asked.
"Probably both," Ada answered in a tone of irony. "He is a man of original ideas, and doesn't always do things by rule."
"And he knows we can't live apart," added Zillah, blushing and smiling.
"Nonsense! he can't marry you both. Now which of you is it?"
"Suppose you ask him," returned Zillah, the color deepening still more on her cheek.
"I declare I've a great mind to! I believe I'll do it to-night, if I get a chance," returned her tormentor laughingly.
It was the custom for the ladies to come to the society as early in the afternoon as practicable, stay to a plain tea and until nine or ten o'clock in the evening, the gentlemen joining them for the last hour or two – an arrangement which served the double purpose of interesting the latter in the good work in a way to draw forth their contributions, and to provide escorts for the ladies on their homeward walk.
There was a full attendance that evening. Among the early arrivals came Nicholas Ransquattle, bowing low, right and left, as he entered the room. "Good-evening, ladies. I'm happy to see you all." Then straightening himself and throwing back his head (now grown very bald) upon his shoulders in the old, awkward fashion, he sent his dull gray eyes searchingly about the room.
"He's looking for you," Zillah's next neighbor whispered in her ear. "I heard the other day that he said down town, talking with some of the fellows, that he was going to cut Wallace Ormsby out. And there, just see! he's making straight for this corner. You ought to feel proud of your conquest, Zil."
"Not till I'm sure I've made it, Sallie; no, not even then," Zillah returned somewhat scornfully; "since I should be but one among the multitude of his adorable angels."
Sallie laughed and nodded assent, as Nicholas drew up a chair and seated himself between them.
It was the common report that he had courted every girl of marriageable age in the town, offering heart and hand to each in succession as they moved into the place or grew to young maidenhood. No one had accepted him yet; he had never been attractive to the softer sex, and did not become more so with advancing years. Behind his back the girls were unsparing in their ridicule of his awkward carriage, homely features, and unbounded vanity and self-conceit. They had dubbed him "Old Nick" and "The Bald Eagle."
"Permit your humble servant to be a thorn between two roses, ladies," he said with another low bow as he seated himself.
"Provided you are a useful one, Mr. Ransquattle," replied Sallie, giving him a needle to thread. "They are of use sometimes, I suppose."
"Yes, Miss Rush, to protect the roses, which I shall be most happy to do."
"Protect them from what?" asked Zillah dryly.
"From rude and careless hands that would fain pluck them from the parent stem; perchance only to cast them neglectfully aside and let them die." And Nicholas glanced significantly toward Ormsby, who had entered the room at that moment, and was bidding "Good-evening" to their hostess.
Wallace caught the glance, noted by whom Ransquattle was seated, and flushed angrily.
"Roses must die whether plucked or not," remarked Sallie, "and the fingers that pluck them save them from wasting their sweetness on the desert air."
"You'll never be left to so sad a fate, Miss Rush," was the gallant rejoinder.
"I don't know," she replied, laughing and shaking her head, "there may be some danger if the thorns are too close when the gatherer of roses comes."
Wallace had found a seat near Mildred, and she noticed that as he talked with her he stole many a furtive and ill-pleased glance in Zillah's direction.
Mildred was folding up her work.
"You are not going yet," he said. "It wants a full half hour of the usual time for dispersing."
"I know, but Mrs. Smith is very sick, and I have promised to watch with her to-night."
"Milly, I'm going home," Ada said, coming up at that instant. "Mother will be lonely, perhaps, and I can work just as well there as here."
"But I must go now, and we must not leave Zillah to go home alone."
"No, but Ru will be here directly I – "
"Let me have the pleasure of escorting you both, and I'll come back for Zillah," said Wallace, speaking hastily in an undertone.
His offer was accepted, and the three slipped quietly away. Mrs. Smith's house was the nearer, and not much out of the way in going to Mr. Keith's; so Mildred was seen to her destination first, then Wallace and Ada walked on to hers.
Wallace expected to leave her at the door, and returning in good season, ask the privilege of seeing Zillah safely home also; but Mr. Keith called him in, saying he had an important matter to consult him about, and in spite of the young man's ill-concealed impatience to be gone, kept him there for more than an hour.
In the mean time Ransquattle made good use of his opportunity; managing so that, to Zillah's extreme vexation, she could not reject his offered escort without great rudeness.
"Forewarned, forearmed," she said to herself, thinking of Sallie's gossip as they set out: "'twill go hard with me, but I'll prevent his getting his opportunity to-night;" and she rattled on in the liveliest strain without an instant's intermission, talking the most absurd nonsense just to prevent her companion from opening his lips.
They had reached her father's gate before he succeeded in doing so. She had no notion of asking him in.
"Good-night, Mr. Ransquattle," she said gayly, letting go his arm and stepping hastily inside as he held the gate open for her. "I'm much obliged for your trouble."
"Excuse me, Miss Zillah, for detaining you a moment, but I have something very particular to tell you," he said, hardly waiting for the end of her sentence. "You are a very lovely and charming young lady."
"Oh, that's no news! I've heard it dozens of times," she interrupted, laughing and taking a backward step as if on the point of running away.
"No doubt; but never, I am sure, from so devoted an admirer as your humble servant. Miss Zillah, I lay my heart, hand, and fortune at your feet."
"Oh don't Mr. Ransquattle," she interrupted again, half-recoiling as she spoke; "it's a dangerous place to lay articles so valuable, lest perchance they should be accidentally trodden on."
"Can you have misunderstood me?" he asked, as it would seem in some surprise at her obtuseness. "I meant to ask you to marry me. Will you? But don't answer now. Take time to consider, and I will call to-morrow to learn my fate from the sweetest lips in the world."
He was bowing an adieu; but now she detained him. Drawing herself up with dignity, and speaking in a calm, cold tone of firm determination, "No, do not call, Mr. Ransquattle," she said: "I need no time to consider the question you have asked, and will give you your answer now. I can never bestow my heart upon you, and therefore never my hand. Good-night, sir;" and turning, she hastened with a quick, light step toward the house.
In the hall she met Wallace, who had just left her father in the sitting-room busy over some law papers.
"Zillah!" he exclaimed, "what is it? what has happened?"
"Why do you ask? why do you think anything has happened?" she returned, half averting her face.
"Because you look so flushed and indignant. If anybody has been insulting you – "
"O Wallace, what nonsense!" she cried, with a little nervous laugh.
"Well, I'm glad if it is not so," he said. "I hope no one would dare. I meant to go back to the society directly, hoping to have the pleasure of seeing you home, but was unavoidably detained. It's early yet though, and such a lovely moonlight evening. Won't you take a little stroll with me?"
"If you'll wait a moment till I tell mother we're going."
Mildred, finding she was not needed at Mrs. Smith's, had returned home and was just ready for bed; had blown out her candle and was standing by the window gazing out and thinking how lovely everything looked in the moonlight, when her door opened softly and the next instant Zillah's arms were about her neck, her face half hidden on her shoulder.
"How you tremble!" Mildred said, putting an arm around the slender waist; "has anything gone wrong?"
"O Milly, such a funny time as I've had in the last hour or two!" and the eyes that looked up into Mildred's face were fairly dancing with merriment. "I seem destined to play second fiddle to you, so far as the admiration of the other sex is concerned; having actually received proposals of marriage from two of your old beaux in this one evening."
"Indeed! Well, I hope you did not accept both," Mildred said laughingly.
"Not both, but one," she whispered with a low, joyous laugh, and a blush that was visible even in the moonlight. "O Milly, I'm so happy! I don't care if I am taking what you refused. Wallace is far beyond my deserts, and I wouldn't exchange him for a king."
"Wallace! O Zillah, how glad I am! I need no longer feel remorseful for having wrecked his happiness, and shall rejoice to call him brother: he will be one to be proud of."
"Yes; I am obliged to you for rejecting him; and I dare say so is he now," she added saucily, her eyes again dancing with fun.
"I don't doubt it. And now perhaps there'll be a triple wedding after all."
"What are you talking about?" returned Zillah in astonishment; "'tisn't time to be thinking of weddings yet."
"It would be too soon," Mildred said, and went on to explain the occasion of her remark; then said, "But you haven't told me whose was the other offer."
"Oh, can't you guess?" laughed Zillah; "don't you know that the Bald Eagle is still in quest of a mate?"
"Old Nick was it? Now then you must just tell the whole story," Mildred said in a tone of amusement.
"'Twas quite a variation from his offer to you," Zillah answered mirthfully, and went on to give a detailed and amusing account of the walk home and the short colloquy at the gate.
Then bidding good-night she hastened to her own room, shared with Ada, and repeated the story to her, winding up with, "Your turn will come, you may depend upon that; so try to be prepared."
"Small need of preparation," was the cool rejoinder. "But you've had a walk with Wallace since. Won't you tell me what he said."
"I couldn't begin to remember it all, but – Ada, darling, can you spare me to him?"
The last words were spoken in a tremulous half-whisper, her arm about her sister's neck, her lips close to her ear.
"I knew 'twould come to that before long!" sighed Ada, with a hug and a kiss, while tears sprang to her eyes. "O Zillah, dear, I believe my happiest days are over and gone!"
"No! No! no, darling! the very, very sweetest are yet to come! Love will be yours some day as it is mine to-night; and
'There's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.'"
CHAPTER XVII
"But happy they! the happiest of their kind!
Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate
Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend."
Wallace Ormsby sought and obtained a second interview with Mr. Keith that evening, in which he asked his senior partner to take him into still closer relations, and bestow upon him a priceless gift.
Mr. Keith was both surprised and moved. "I can't realize that she's really grown up," he said, "and – I – don't know how to spare her even to you, Wallace."
"But you know, my dear sir, it isn't as if I wanted to carry her away."
"No, that's quite true. But her mother's right in her is fully equal to mine. Wait a moment till I call her in."
So the request and the arguments in its favor had to be repeated.
The mother's eyes filled, and for a moment she was silent. Then, holding out her hand to the young man, "I have long had a motherly affection for you, Wallace," she said, "and there is no one else to whom I could so willingly entrust the happiness of my dear child, and yet it is very hard to give her up."
"Don't think of it in that way, dear Mrs. Keith," he made answer in tones of the deepest respect, taking the hand and lifting it gallantly to his lips. "Think of it rather as taking another member, another son, into the family. It would be joy to me to have the right to call you mother."
"And I should be proud to own you as my son," she returned with her own sweet, motherly smile. "But Zillah herself must decide this question."
"Then I have nothing to fear, nothing more to ask," he said joyously.
In truth, no one had any objection to bring against the match, and all went smoothly and happily with the newly affianced pair.
The next day Wallace came hurrying in with beaming countenance and eager air. "Ah! it was you I wanted," he said, finding his betrothed alone in the parlor, whither she had betaken herself for her daily hour of practice on the piano. "Won't you put on a shawl and bonnet and come with me?"
"Where?" she asked with a merry twinkle in her eye.
"Just across the street to look at that house of Miller's. It's nearly finished, and he's willing to sell."
"But who wants to buy?" she asked in her pretty, saucy way, as she stepped into the hall and tied on a bonnet which she took from the hat-rack there, while Wallace threw a shawl about her shoulders.
"Perhaps we can better answer that question after we've been over it," he said with a smile.
So it proved; the snug, pretty, conveniently arranged cottage – so close to the old home too – seemed just the thing for them. "Father, mother," and all the family were presently brought over to look at and pronounce an opinion upon it, and without a dissenting voice the purchase was decided upon.
"And now there's another and still more important matter to be settled," whispered Wallace in Zillah's ear.
"There is no hurry," she answered, blushing.
"There is to be a double or a triple wedding in our church in about a month from now," he went on lightly and in coaxing tones. "I want it to be the latter; so do four other people; but it all depends on you. Come, darling, why should we wait longer than that?"
"Ah! it fairly frightens me to think of such haste," she said, half averting her blushing face.
"I don't know why it should," he responded, his tone speaking both disappointment and chagrin, "unless you fear to trust your happiness to my keeping."
"That's because men are so different from women; but to save a quarrel – we'll leave it to father's and mother's decision; shan't we?"
And she turned to him again with a smile so arch and sweet that he consented at once, and sealed the promise with a kiss.
Father and mother said, "Wait at least until next spring; you are both young enough, and we cannot part so suddenly with our dear child."
"Hardly a parting – just to let her cross the street," Wallace made answer with a sigh that was not altogether of resignation; then added a hint that he would be willing to leave her in her father's house until spring if only they would let him join her there.
But that proposal was smilingly rejected, and the wedding day indefinitely postponed until "some time in the spring."
Intimate friends were not kept in ignorance of the engagement, and the two expectant brides and bridegrooms were, until convinced of its uselessness, very urgent for the triple wedding.
The double one took place at the appointed time and place, was quite a brilliant affair, and followed by a round of festivities such as the quiet little town had never witnessed before. Evening entertainments were given by the Chetwoods, the Granges, the Keiths, and one or two others. Then life settled back into the ordinary grooves, and the rest of the fall and winter passed without any unusual excitement.
The Keiths were quietly, cheerfully busy, as at other times. Wallace came and went as before, but was oftener left to Zillah's sole entertainment, yet treated more entirely than ever as one of the family.
Brighter days were dawning for our friends. Through all these years they had been very diligent in business and very faithful in paying tithes of all they possessed, and the truth of Scripture declarations and promises – "the hand of the diligent maketh rich," and "so shall thy barns be filled with plenty and thy presses burst out with new wine" – was being verified in their experience. This fall Messrs. Keith & Ormsby found themselves successful in several very important cases, which brought them both fame and money; the town was now growing rapidly, business looking up, and land, which they had bought for a trifle on first coming to the place, had already doubled and trebled in value.
Rupert, too, was succeeding well in his chosen vocation, and both he and his father urged Mildred to cease her toil as a music teacher, saying there was now not the slightest necessity for such exertion on her part.
The mother's views coincided with theirs, but Mildred begged to be permitted to go on in the old way, saying constant employment was good for her; she was used to it and liked it.
"And besides," she added playfully, "I enjoy the thought that I am laying a little something by against old age or a rainy day. I am not likely ever to marry, so will do well to be self-helpful; and why should I not have a business the same as if I were a man? I shall be all the happier, the more useful, and the more independent."
So they let her have her way. She was not keeping employment from those who needed it, for there were plenty of pupils for all the teachers in the place. Effie Prescott was now one of these – most faithful and successful, and full of joy and thankfulness that thus she was able to win her bread; for she had not strength to do so in any more laborious way, and her father was poor enough to feel it a relief to have Effie supporting herself.
"And I have you to thank for it," she had said again and again to Mildred; "it is one of your good works, and I shall never cease to be grateful to you for it."
"Indeed, Effie, you owe me nothing," Mildred would reply; "not even gratitude, for you have paid well for all I have done for you. You owe it all, under God, to your own industry, energy, and perseverance in the use and improvement of the talents he has given you."
To the whole household at Mr. Keith's the all-absorbing interest was the fitting up and furnishing of the snug cottage across the street, and the preparation of Zillah's trousseau, in the expense or labor of which each one was determined to have a share.
All these matters were freely discussed in the family, even the little boys and girls being deemed worthy to be trusted not to speak of them to outsiders. Not that any one felt that there was any special cause for concealment of their plans or doings, but they did not wish to have them canvassed and commented upon by the busybodies and gossips of the town, who, like those of other places, always knew so much more of their neighbors' affairs than did those neighbors themselves.
No one rejoiced more sincerely than Mildred in the evident happiness of the affianced pair; no one entered more heartily into their plans, was oftener consulted in regard to them, or was more generous with money and labor in carrying them out. Her sisterly pride in Zillah's beauty was without a touch of envy or jealousy, though she was fully aware of the fact that it far exceeded her own.
"What a lovely bride she will make!" Mildred often whispered to herself. "Wallace may well feel consoled for my rejection of his suit."
She tried hard for perfect unselfishness, and to entirely fill her mind and heart with the interests of the hour, especially as affecting these two; but thoughts of the love that now seemed lost to her, of the dreams of happiness which had been for years gradually fading till there was scarcely a vestige of them left, would at times intrude themselves, filling her with a sadness she could scarce conceal from the watchful eyes of the tender mother who knew and so fully sympathized in the sorrows and anxieties of this her first-born and dearly beloved child.
She knew that even yet there was a constant longing, a half-unconscious daily looking for of news of the wanderer as the mail came in, followed each time by renewed disappointment, and that often the poor, weary heart grew sick indeed with hope deferred.
As spring opened, the day for the wedding drew near, and the preparations for it were almost completed. Mildred's sadness of heart increased, until it cost her a constant and often heroic struggle to maintain her cheerfulness before others; while at times she could not refrain from shedding many tears in the privacy of her own room. One evening her mother, entering softly, found her weeping.
"My dear, dear child!" she whispered, taking her in her arms and caressing her tenderly, "my dear, brave, unselfish girl! you do not know how your mother loves you!"
"Precious mother!" responded the weeping girl, hastily wiping away her tears and returning the caress; "what could I ever do without your dear love! I am ashamed of my depression; ashamed that I should yield to it in this way. Ah, I little deserve to be called brave!"
"It has been a long, hard trial, dear daughter," Mrs. Keith said, softly stroking Mildred's hair, "and you have borne it wonderfully well; as you could not in your own strength, I well know."
"No, never! The joy of the Lord has been my strength, else my heart would have broken long ago; for oh, this terrible suspense! so much worse than any certainty could be!"
"I know it, darling," her mother responded in moved tones; "then would it not be your wisest course to endeavor to convince yourself that either utter indifference or death has ended this for you?"
"Mother, that is not in the power of my will. That Charlie could prove untrue I cannot believe, and something tells me that he still lives."
"Then, dearest, cheer up. Why this increased sadness of late?"
"I hardly know myself, mother dear; I am sure my whole heart rejoices in the happiness of my sister and Wallace; yet somehow the sight of it seems to deepen my own sorrow by contrast. I fear it is because I am selfish."
"I cannot think so," her mother said; "so do not harbor that thought, thus adding to your distress. Try to cast your care on the Lord, fully believing the inspired declaration that 'all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.' He is never for a moment unmindful of one of his children; he has a plan for each one, and suffers no real evil to befall them. 'Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him.'"
"Ah, mother!" Mildred said, smiling through her tears, "I am more and more convinced that all I need to make me perfectly happy is strong, unwavering faith in the wisdom and love of my heavenly Father; then I should rejoice to do and suffer all his holy will, never doubting that what he sends is the very best for me."
There was an additional cause for Mildred's depression just at this time – one felt in greater or less degree by all the Keiths – in the thought that this was the beginning of the inevitable breaking up of the dear family circle – the forming by one of their number of new ties, which must in some measure supplant the old – the tender loves of parents and children, brothers and sisters. Zillah was not going far away, and they did not fear to trust her to Wallace; but their home would no longer be hers, and another, in whose veins ran no drop of their blood, would henceforth be nearer and dearer to her than they.
Except the parents, perhaps no other felt this quite so keenly as Ada – the nearest in age and hitherto the room-mate and almost inseparable companion of the sister who was leaving them.
It was the morning of the wedding day; the ceremony was to take place in the evening, in the parlor of Mr. Keith's house, which the sisters were busily decorating for the occasion with spring flowers from the garden and the woods.
The supply was not sufficient, and the little boys were sent in search of more; the mother and Celestia Ann – who still lived with them, going home occasionally for a few weeks, but always returning and taking up her duties there with renewed satisfaction – were deep in the mysteries of cake-making and kindred arts; so when the door-bell rang Ada answered it.
Standing before the open door was a very pleasant-faced young man, whose dress and general appearance seemed to bespeak him a clergyman. He lifted his hat with a low bow, his face lighting up with a smile of recognition.
"Miss Mildred?" he said half inquiringly, as he held out his hand in cordial greeting.
"No, sir," returned Ada, giving him her hand, but with a slightly puzzled look; "I am Ada Keith."
"Ah! one of the little ones when I knew you – not old enough to remember me, I fear. I am from Lansdale, your old Ohio home."
He handed her a card, on which she read at a glance, "Rev. Francis Osborne."
"Ah, I know now who you are! I have a slight remembrance of a big boy of that name who has had time enough to grow into a man," she said with an arch smile that he thought very bewitching. "Come in, Mr. Osborne; they will all be glad to see you."
He was warmly welcomed and hospitably entertained, as an old-time friend, as one coming from the early home still held in tender remembrance, and as a messenger from Aunt Wealthy, who sent by him a handsome bridal gift – a beautiful gold brooch. Quite unexpected; for the dear old lady had already given generously toward the house-furnishing.
Zillah was greatly pleased. There was already upon a side-table in the sitting-room quite an array of handsome presents from her near relatives and friends – the Dinsmore cousins and others – and Aunt Wealthy's gift was now assigned a conspicuous place among them.
Mrs. Keith's wedding dress of rich, white silk, her bridal veil and orange blossoms, had been carefully preserved, and finding that the dress exactly fitted her, Zillah had chosen to be married in it, in decided preference to having a new one.
It was, of course, made in very old-fashioned style, but she insisted that she liked it all the better for that, and no one who saw her in it could deny that it was extremely becoming.
All the sisters were to be bridesmaids – in the order of their ages – and all to wear white tarlatan. Rupert would be first groomsman; Robert Grange, a brother of Lu, second; Cyril and Don, third and fourth.
A large number of guests were invited and a handsome entertainment was provided. Their pastor, Mr. Lord, had received due notice of the coming event, and promised to officiate.
Seeing him leaving the parsonage early in the afternoon, his mother called to him, asking where he was going.
"For a walk and to make a pastoral call or two," he answered, pausing and turning toward her with an air of affectionate respect.
"Well, Joel, don't forget to come home early enough to dress for the wedding. I shall be ready in good season, and hope you will too."
"Oh, certainly, mother! I'm glad you reminded me, though, for I really had forgotten it."
"And will again, I'm very much afraid," she murmured, between a smile and a sigh, as she watched him down the street.
He walked on and on in meditative mood, till nearing a farm-house, several miles from town, he was waked from his revery by the voice of its owner bidding him good-day and asking if he would go with him to the river for an afternoon's fishing. "I was just setting off for it," he said. "I've an extra pole and line here, and shall be glad of your company."
"Thank you, Mr. Vail, I will: it's a pastime I'm somewhat partial to," the minister made answer.
"Will, Will!" the farmer called to his son, "bring me that other fishing tackle, and tell your mother we'll be back – Mr. Lord and I – for tea about sundown."
Seven was the hour set for the wedding ceremony. At half-past five Mrs. Lord's tea-table was ready and waiting for the return of her son. But six o'clock came, and there was no sign of his approach.
"I'll go and dress; perhaps he'll be here by that time," she said to herself, turning from the window from which she had been gazing with constantly increasing anxiety and impatience.
She made a hasty toilet, hoping every moment to hear his step and voice. But he came not. She ate her supper, watched the clock until the hands pointed to five minutes of seven; then, filled with vexation and chagrin, donned bonnet and shawl and set off in haste for Mr. Keith's.
That gentleman met her at the gate. "Ah, my dear madam, I am glad to see you!" he said, shaking hands with her. "Walk in. But where is Mr. Lord? The guests are all assembled – now that you are here – and everything is in readiness for the ceremony."
"Indeed, Mr. Keith, I'm terribly mortified!" the old lady burst out, flushing like a girl; "it's just Joel's absent-mindedness. He meant to be here in season, I know; but he walked out some hours since, and where he is now, or when he will remember to come back, I don't know. Please don't wait for him another minute, if you can get anybody to take his place."
"Fortunately we can," said Mr. Keith; "so please, my dear madam, do not feel disturbed about that."
He led her into the house, and called Rupert and Wallace from the bridal chamber, where the wedding party were assembled. Then Frank Osborne was summoned from the parlor, where, with the other guests, he sat waiting to witness the coming ceremony. There was a whispered consultation; then Wallace hastened to his bride again, and whispered a word to her, to which she gave a pleased, blushing assent, as she rose and suffered him to draw her hand within his arm.
In another minute or two bridegroom and bride, with the whole train of attendants, had taken their places in presence of the assembled guests, and the ceremony began, Frank Osborne officiating.
He did not seem at all embarrassed or at a loss for words; his manner was solemn and tender, and when the ceremony was over every one said, "How beautiful it was!"
While the bride and groom were receiving the congratulations of relatives and friends, Mr. Lord, having leisurely finished his tea, sat in the farm-house porch, quietly conversing with his host. But a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he started up in evident perturbation.