It was bleak and drear. A raw, angry wind came out of the north and
went raging through the woods, tearing the pretty clothing of the
trees to pieces and rudely hurling the dust of the street in one's
face. The sun got behind the clouds and in grief and dismay hid his
face while this dismal looting went on unrebuked and unrestrained. But
Nature is fickle, possibly because she is feminine. At all events, she
can change both mind and conduct, and in short order. So ere long she
came out of her November rage and sat down in still, mellow sunshine,
and gathering her children about her, whispered beautiful stories in
their ears; warmed them with her love and brightness; soothed their
care-lined brows and filled their hearts with a sense of the nearness
of the Giver of all good.
It was on one of these days of Indian summer that Steve cut loose from
work and started off on a tramp. He worked in town; he rested in
country.
He had put something like five miles of woodland and late fall meadow
between himself and the distractions of city life, when looking adown
a path that sloped gently to a brook he saw, sitting on a tree that
lay athwart the stream and paddling her white feet in the sunny water,
Nannie Branscome. His surprise robbed him of his reserve and he
hastened to her.
"Are you lost, Miss Branscome?"
"Yes," she answered calmly.
She still sat there, paddling her feet, with nothing of consternation
or perplexity in her face or manner. All around her were the browns of
a summer that had come and gone; heaps of dead leaves nestled close to
the trees, mute witnesses of a lost beauty; while here and there an
ox-eyed daisy glowed from out its somber company as a firefly shines
through the dusk of twilight. In the midst of all this sat Nannie in
her pretty suit trimmed in scarlet, looking like a bird of paradise
amid a flock of sparrows and other soberly clad creatures. Indeed, she
reminded one of a bird, with her head cocked on one side and her
air--not bold, but saucy.
Steve stood on the bank of the creek, perplexed for a moment. Then he
asked with a slight smile:
"What are you going to do about it?"
The girl lowered her head a trifle and looked out at him from 'neath
her curls, but she said nothing.
"Let us go home, Miss Branscome."
She continued looking at him without a word, and he returned her gaze
as he stood there with a gentle dignity that had its effect upon her.
"Barefooted?" she asked.
"No. I am going to explore this creek for a little distance, and you
can get ready while I'm gone."
"But suppose my shoes and stockings have floated down the stream? What
then?"
Steve was dismayed, but he maintained his quiet air.
"Suppose," persisted Nannie.
Just then Steve caught a glimpse of a tiny shoe at the foot of a near
tree.
"And suppose," he said, "they have not, but are awaiting their owner
over yonder?"
Nannie laughed and looked around and Steve walked on.
When he returned she was ready, and they set off together toward town.
"Were you really lost?" asked Steve.
"Yes. I've been wandering around for at least two hours."
"How came you to go out there?" he asked.
"I was expected to go somewhere else," she answered with one of her
elfin looks.
Steve was silent. Mentally he was wondering if this was the mainspring
of conduct in all women. He thought very likely it was. Mary often
asked his advice and then always took her own way, and it was
invariably opposite to the course he had indicated.
They had not gone much further, when, happening to look around for
something, Nannie caught a glimpse of her dress skirt and saw that it
was creased and stained with mud.
"There now! I've just ruined my gown!" she exclaimed, and then burst
into passionate tears.
"Miss Branscome! don't!" said Steve, who was fairly startled out of
his usual quiet into something akin to excitement. "Don't! I beg of
you. Nannie! don't cry, my dear!"
He failed to notice how he had spoken; so did she, apparently.
"We can make it all right, I know," he continued, but for a time she
refused to be comforted.
"You would cry too, I guess, if you were in my place and would get
such an awful scolding at home."
"No doubt I would," assented Steve in deep distress.
"I wish I were dead and buried under a landslide," sobbed Nannie.
In the depth of her sorrow she wanted to delve deep into mother
earth.
"Oh, no. Don't wish that! What should we do without you?" said Steve
earnestly.
"Oh, you needn't to worry," replied Nannie pettishly, the violence of
her grief having spent itself. "Nothing so good as that is going to
happen. I shall live to get home and have my head taken off, and stalk
around as a torso ever afterward."
"Now do let me see if I can't set things to rights," said Steve.
"You've no idea how handy I am in such matters."
He proved the truth of his words by going to work upon the injured
gown, and after patient effort bringing it out of its dilapidated
condition in such shape that only a keen eye would detect any sign of
mishap.
Nannie was delighted and, stimulated by the excitement attendant upon
her rapid change of fortunes, became quite talkative.
"I wouldn't have minded it so much, but I have on one of my best
gowns, and Aunt Frances makes such a fuss every time she has to buy
me anything. She says it's of no use to spend on me. It don't amount
to a row of pins."
Steve looked at her inquiringly. In actual time he was many years her
senior, but Nannie had been in society for a season now, and even
young girls age fast there--too fast, by far.
"She means I don't bid fair to get married off well. I'm not very
popular, you know."
Still Steve was silent. Nannie was speaking in a language of which he
was ignorant.
"I dressed this morning to go to Joe Harding's breakfast, but I hate
him, and I went walking instead. Now I've got to see some of the girls
who went and make up a lot of stuff about it at home, or Aunt
Frances'll be awfully mad."
Steve looked into the beautiful face of the young girl who was talking
in this repellent fashion. Then he took her gently by the hand and
said in a firm, kindly tone:
"Nannie, you must come out of all this."
"How can I?" she asked. "I have no mother or father--no one who really
cares. I suppose I'll marry Joe Harding some day. He wants me, and
Aunt Frances keeps at me about it eternally, but I hate him."
"You must not marry him," said Steve firmly. "He is not a good man."
"And he's awfully ugly, too, but he's rich, and he's one of the swell
set. Ugh! but I do hate him!"
"Why are you going to marry him?"
"Why?" she asked, looking at him with straight, frank surprise. "I've
got to. Nobody else wants me."
The pettish look had passed from her face; so also had the world-wise
expression. There was something in her present naive frankness that
prevented it from seeming bold.
As he looked at her swift images of love and marriage flitted across
his brain. Somehow his loneliness was borne in upon him, and with this
realization there came as a sudden flash the consciousness that he
could marry. Long ago he had put all this one side, and in his grief
over the loss of mother and sister it had never once occurred to him
that he was free. The knowledge almost overwhelmed him now, and in his
bewilderment for the moment he lost sight of his ideal. Like most
reticent men, he cherished an ideal. Since meeting Constance Leigh,
unconsciously to himself that ideal had grown very like her. But now
he was sitting beside a fascinating young girl--for fascinating she
was to Steve, even in her brusqueness and plainness of speech; a mere
child, as it were, who was without home and without the protection of
love and parental care, and as he looked into her eyes, still wet with
tears, he felt his heart go out to her.
"Listen to me, Nannie," he said, taking her hand once more. "I am a
very lonely man. I need a wife----"
"Come, ducky, come and be killed," flashed through Nannie's mind.
"I think you need me and I'm sure I need you."
"How?" thought Nannie; "fricasseed or boiled?"
"If you would let me I would take you and try----"
"Fry, you mean," said Nannie mentally as he hesitated.
Then with a sudden whirl, peculiar to her gusty temperament, she said
to herself:
"He's proposing, and I needn't marry that hideous creature!"
She caught her breath and pressed her hands together.
"Oh, if only I could escape from Joe Harding!" she exclaimed.
Something very holy in Steve's nature came up then and changed the
man. No longer shy, no longer reserved, he bent toward Nannie without
touching her and said:
"My dear, marriage is a gate at once solemn and beautiful. When it is
used as a door of escape it opens into a dark forest abounding with
terrible wild beasts and hideous crawling things, but if one opens it
with love's key, I can't tell you what it leads to, for I have never
been there, but I believe it is the gateway to the Elysium fields
that lie just on the hither side of heaven."
Nannie looked up into the grave eyes and saw something of tenderness,
something of reverence there that was new to her. She had stepped into
an unknown world and was awed. As she sat there all mockery and levity
faded from her face, and in its place there crept a look of deep
admiration and deep respect for this man, and something awoke in her
soul.
She said not a word--she had no words for such as this--but by and by
she put her hand into Steve's.
"For life, Nannie?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, and burst into tears.
V
A lover's ecstasy is ofttimes cut short by the reflection that he has
yet to face that awful bugbear--the old folk. There is something
terrible about age, it would seem, not only to its possessor, but even
to those who must encounter it second hand, and Steve was not without
his qualms. Although in his wooing he had not for one moment lost his
gentle self-possession, he had entirely forgotten about the ordeal of
an interview with Nannie's guardians until she reminded him by saying
with an impish chuckle:
"Won't Aunt Frances be happy when she hears of this!"
"Is she anxious that you should marry?" asked Steve with some wonder.
Nannie looked at him with wide eyes for a moment. It seemed hardly
possible that one could be so dull of comprehension, and yet there
was no doubting Steve's grave, earnest expression.
"Yes," was her only reply, but inwardly she was convulsed with
laughter as she looked ahead and in thought rapidly sketched a scene.
And so Steve walked up to his task with but a faint conception of its
magnitude.
"I have called, Mrs. Lamont," he said in his easy, gentlemanly way,
"to ask for the hand of your niece. Nannie and I have had a little
talk about it and understand each other, I think, and now we await
your consent."
"You surely don't _expect_ my consent," said Mrs. Lamont.
Steve's shyness and gentleness seemed to return to him.
"I really," he said hesitatingly, "had not thought of any reason why
we should not have it."
"Mr. Loveland--well, this is intensely trying to me. You've no idea, I
am sure, how I dislike to be so plain; but _can_ you not understand
that you are hardly a suitable match for Nannie? You are very poor, I
believe."
"Why, no," said Steve gently.
He had a good position on a daily paper and his mother's little
property had been disposed of to advantage, so that he had several
thousand in bank now. To him, with his small needs and quiet tastes,
this seemed like wealth.
"Oh, why will you force me to such brutal plainness!" exclaimed Mrs.
Lamont impatiently. "Really this interview will make me ill."
"It may indeed," said Steve.
He had no thought of sarcasm.
"Mr. Loveland, this is a business matter. We must understand each
other. You have property, I suppose?"
"Not now; it was sold."
"What do you own, may I ask? Oh, isn't it fearful to have to talk so!
But I must lead you to see things clearly."
"I have forty-five hundred dollars in bank and a good situation," said
Steve, with a feeling that he was turning his life inside out under a
stranger's gaze, and had returned to barbarism and was buying Nannie.
"Bringing you what, may I ask?"
"A hundred and twenty-five a month."
Mrs. Lamont gave a short laugh.
"Why, my dear sir--excuse me, but that would not suffice to keep
Nannie's carriage, let alone herself."
"Must she have a carriage?" asked Steve with a lengthening face.
"As a matter of course! Would you expect her to walk?"
Several things flashed through Steve's bewildered brain. Until to-day
he had always met Nannie in her own or some other parlor. She had
walked to-day, it is true, but perhaps she ought not to have done so.
He remembered that when he saw her feet as she was paddling in the
brook he thought them wonderfully small. He also recalled the fact
that Chinese women of rank have very small feet and cannot walk;
possibly Nannie was in a similar predicament.
"Is she deformed?" he gasped.
And then Mrs. Lamont put her handkerchief to her face and wept for
vexation.
Meanwhile Steve sat there, bewildered and distressed. He had come to
expect this sort of conduct from women in general, but it was
harrowing. His poor invalid mother often wept; Mary had cried now and
then, poor worn-out girl; and last week, when he was at her house,
even Constance had burst into tears when Randolph tried to explain
something to her; Nannie had cried that day, and now Mrs. Lamont was
weeping. No doubt it was a sort of melancholy punctuation mark in
vogue with the sex.
"Evidently we speak different languages, and it is an almost hopeless
task to try to explain," said the lady at length; "but Nannie's
interests are at stake, and I must attempt it."
She knew only too well how futile it would be to try to influence
Nannie. If this affair were ended it must be by Steve.
"Can you not see," she continued, emphasizing every word and speaking
in a hard, metallic tone, "that Nannie's position in society calls
for certain expenditures which are far beyond your means? As a woman
of fashion she will be obliged to keep a carriage and maintain a style
of living which would eat up your monthly salary in half a day. She
has a suitor of abundant means, a millionaire several times over--Mr.
Harding. He is infatuated with her and he will give her everything she
can desire."
"But he is a very bad man," said Steve simply.
"Oh, well--really, Mr. Loveland, please don't push me into a
discussion of such matters. Few men are saints, and I think he'll make
a good husband. He is very rich and he moves in the best circles."
"Does Nannie love him?" asked Steve, and his voice and manner had
changed. He spoke very firmly.
"Mr. Loveland, you _exhaust_ me! Some of us who have reached maturity
have the good sense to provide for material advantages and take the
rest for granted."
"If Nannie loves Mr. Harding and wishes me to withdraw in his favor, I
will do so."
"I don't!" said a curt voice, and looking around with a start, Mrs.
Lamont beheld her dutiful niece between the _portieres_.
For a moment nothing was said, but Nannie's appearance did not portend
peace. Her eyes looked out wickedly from beneath her curls, and her
impish mouth was pursed up in an expression already familiar to her
aunt.
"Leave the room instantly!" cried Mrs. Lamont at last with rising
anger.
"I won't!" said Nannie shortly.
"Then I will teach you that I also can be firm. I command you to break
off this foolish, insane affair at once."
"I won't!" said Nannie.
"Ungrateful minx!" cried Mrs. Lamont. "Here I have dressed you all
these years and gone to no end of other expense, and this is how you
repay me."
"It is," said Nannie.
Now, Mrs. Lamont was a shrewd, worldly woman, and she took in the
situation fully. She realized that Nannie would hold to her own
course. She also realized that arguments such as hers were without
weight with Steve. These two, then, would marry for all she could say
or do, for Nannie was just come of age. Now she had already strained
her means to provide for the fashionable necessities of Nannie's
_debut_ and society life, and she dreaded her wedding. Had the child
married well, however, all the monetary effort attendant upon the
occasion could have been repaid afterward--all that and more; but now
to have an outlay and no return--that was too much! She would avert
it.
"I can do nothing with this saucy, impudent girl, this ungrateful
creature, but I appeal to you," she said to Steve, "to let her come to
her senses."
It was Mrs. Lamont, he thought, who was worse than mad to try to force
a young girl into an odious marriage, and Nannie's rebellion seemed
justifiable to him, unused though he himself was to defying any one.
"Nannie and I have decided," he said quietly. "I regret that you feel
so."
"You shall never be married from this house!" cried the aunt.
"We can go elsewhere," said Steve, not realizing that he was walking
into a net.
"And you may expect a bitter time after this conduct, miss," she
added.
"Mrs. Lamont," said Steve, stepping forward and taking Nannie's little
hand in his, "you will force us to an earlier marriage than we had
contemplated."
And now Steve was well in the toils of the net, and this was how it
happened that Mrs. Lamont was spared further expense for her willful
niece, and that Steve all but took Randolph's and Constance's breath
away by inviting them to a very quiet wedding which was to take place
at a church one morning about a week after this stormy scene, and
society buzzed like a bee over the elopement, as it called it, and so
forth, and so on, and all at once in the midst of the distractions
Nannie caught her breath and cried out:
"Why, goodness me! I'm married!"
And Steve received the news with almost equal dismay.
Really, if the Shah of Persia had presented this gentleman with a
white elephant, with long flowing trunk and two tails--three or four
tails, in fact--and this little gift had been brought up to his room
on a silver salver (always supposing that were possible) he could not
have felt much more nonplussed as to its proper disposal and care than
he did when he suddenly came out of a dream to realize he had a wife
on his hands.
"Where do you wish to live, my dear?" he asked in a tone that might
imply that he had all Europe and America to draw from as a place of
residence.
He was rather expecting Nannie to say that she wished to reside on
Calumet Avenue and to have a coach and four purchased that very day.
But nothing could surprise him now, so he received her abrupt answer
calmly.
"I want to live in the country, near Mrs. Chance."
Happily this wish was not impossible of fulfillment, so Steve at once
consulted his friends, and after much walking about (Nannie could
walk) and much discussion, the four agreed upon a small dovecote of a
place about a mile from Randolph's and Constance's home--a dear little
cottage with enough land about it to raise anything and everything.
Nannie was like a child with a new toy, and her delight lent her a
hundred little airs and graces that would only have provoked Mrs.
Lamont had she seen them. She always said that the child was rude and
stupid in society where she should have done her best, and only
fascinating with people who could be of no earthly use to her.
And now the little kitchen was set up, the fire was burning briskly,
the cook was at hand, and the delectable, indigestible material was
ready for the spit.