am more than a little troubled over it, too, and, as you are one of
the persons nearly concerned, I am going to confess to you as soon as
possible. Harry—your brother, I mean—will be sure to tell you very
soon, if he hasn’t done so already, and I want to make all possible
haste to solemnly assure you that I hadn’t the slightest idea of such
a thing coming to pass, and I didn’t do the slightest thing to bring
it about.
“I always thought your brother was a splendid fellow, and have never
been afraid to express my mind about him, when there was no one but
girls to listen. But out here, I have somehow learned to admire him
more than ever. I cheerfully acquit _him_ of intentionally doing
anything to create a favorable impression; if his several appearances
before me _have_ been studied, he is certainly the most original being
I ever heard of. Your children are angels—you’ve told me so yourself,
and I’ve my own very distinct impression on the subject, but they
_don’t_ study to save their uncle’s appearance. The figures that
unfortunate man has cut several times—well, I won’t try to describe
them on paper, for fear he might some day see a scrap of it and take
offense. But he always seems to be patient with them, and devoted
to them, and I haven’t been able to keep from seeing that a man who
could be so lovable with thoughtless and unreasonable children must be
perfectly adorable to the woman he loved, if she were a woman at all.
Still, I hadn’t the faintest idea that I would be the fortunate woman.
At last _the_ day came, but I was in blissful ignorance of what was to
happen. Your little Charley hurt himself, and insisted upon Har—your
brother singing an odd song to him; and just when the young gentleman
was doing the elegant to a dozen of us ladies at once, too! If you
_could_ have seen his face!—it was too funny, until he got over his
annoyance, and began to feel properly sorry for the little fellow—then
he seemed all at once to be all tenderness and heart, and I _did_ wish
for a moment that conventionalities didn’t exist, and I might tell
him that he was a model. Then your youngest playfully spilt a plate
of soup on my dress (don’t be worried—’twas only a common muslin, and
’twill wash). Of course I had to change it and, as I retired, the
happy thought struck me that I’d make so elaborate a toilet that I
wouldn’t finish in time to join the other ladies for the usual evening
walk; consequence, I would have a chance to monopolize a gentleman for
half an hour or more—a chance which, no thanks to the gentlemen who
don’t come to Hillcrest, no lady here has had this season. Every time
I peered through the blinds to see if the other girls had started, I
could see _him_ looking so distressed, and brooding over those two
children as if he were their mother, and he seemed _so_ good. He
seemed pleased to see _me_ when I appeared, and coming from such a
man the implied compliment was fully appreciated; everything he said
to me seemed a little more worth hearing than if it had come from any
man not so good. Then, suddenly, your eldest insisted on retailing the
result of a conversation he had had with his uncle, and the upshot was
that Harry declared himself; he wasn’t romantic a bit, but he was real
straightforward and manly, while I was so completely taken back that
I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Then the impudent fellow kissed
me, and I lost my tongue worse than ever. If I had known anything of
his feelings beforehand, I should have been prepared to behave more
properly; but—O Helen, I’m so glad I _didn’t_ know! I should be the
happiest being that ever lived, if I wasn’t afraid that you or your
husband might think that I had given myself away too hastily. As to
other people, we will see that they don’t know a word about it for
months to come.
“_Do_ write that I was not to blame, and make believe accept me as a
sister, because I _can’t_ offer to give Harry up to any one else you
may have picked out for him.
“Your sincere friend,
“ALICE MAYTON.”
[Illustration: I SHOUTED “HURRAH”.]
Was there ever so delightful a reveille? All the boyishness in me
seemed suddenly to come to the surface, and instead of saying and
doing the decorous thing which novelists’ heroes do under similar
circumstances. I shouted “Hurrah!” and danced into the children’s room
so violently that Budge sat up in bed and regarded me with reproving
eyes, while Toddie burst into a happy laugh, and volunteered as a
partner in the dance. Then I realized that the rain was over, and the
sun was shining—I could take Alice out for another drive, and until
then the children could take care of themselves. I remembered suddenly,
and with a sharp pang, that my vacation was nearly at an end, and I
found myself consuming with impatience to know how much longer Alice
would remain at Hillcrest. It would be cruel to wish her in the city
before the end of August, yet I——
“Uncle Harry,” said Budge, “my papa says ’tisn’t nice for folks
to sit down an’ go to thinkin’ before they’ve brushed their hair
mornin’s—that’s what he tells _me_.”
“I beg your pardon, Budge,” said I, springing up in some confusion; “I
was thinking over a matter of a great deal of importance.”
“What was it—my goat?”
“No—of course not. Don’t be silly, Budge.”
“Well, I think about him a good deal, an’ I don’t think it’s silly
a bit. I hope he’ll go to heaven when he dies. Do angels have
goat-carriages, Uncle Harry?”
“No, old fellow—they can go about without carriages.”
“When I goesh to hebben,” said Toddie, rising in bed, “Izhe goin’
to have lots of goat cawidjes an’ Izhe goin’ to tate all ze andjels
a-widen.”
With many other bits of prophesy and celestial description I was
regaled as I completed my toilet, and I hurried out of doors for an
opportunity to think without disturbance. Strolling past the hen-yard,
I saw a meditative turtle, and, picking him up and shouting to my
nephews, I held the reptile up for their inspection. Their window
blinds flew open and a unanimous though not exactly harmonious “Oh!”
greeted my prize.”
“Where did you get it, Uncle Harry?” asked Budge.
“Down by the hen-coop.”
Budge’s eyes opened wide; he seemed to devote a moment to profound
thought, and then he exclaimed:—
“Why, I don’t see how the hens _could_ lay such a big thing—just put
him in your hat till I come down, will you?”
I dropped the turtle into Budge’s wheelbarrow, and made a tour of the
flower-borders. The flowers, always full of suggestion to me, seemed
suddenly to have new charms and powers; they actually impelled me to
try to make rhymes,—me, a steady white-goods salesman! The impulse was
too strong to be resisted, though I must admit that the results were
pitifully meager:—
“As radiant as that matchless rose
Which poet-artists fancy;
As fair as whitest lily-blows,
As modest as the pansy;
As pure as dew which hides within
Aurora’s sun-kissed chalice;
As tender as the primrose sweet—
All this, and more, is Alice.”
In inflicting this fragment upon the reader I have not the faintest
idea that he can discover any merit in it; I quote it only that a
subsequent experience of mine may be more intelligible. When I had
composed these wretched lines I became conscious that I had neither
pencil nor paper wherewith to preserve them. Should I lose them—my
first self-constructed poem? Never! This was not the first time in
which I had found it necessary to preserve words by memory alone. So I
repeated my ridiculous lines over and over again, until the eloquent
feeling of which they were the graceless expression inspired me to
accompany my recital with gestures. Six—eight—ten—a dozen—twenty times
I repeated these lines, each time with additional emotion and gesture,
when a thin voice, very near me, remarked:—
“Ocken Hawwy, you does djust as if you was swimmin’.”
Turning, I beheld my nephew, Toddie—how long he had been behind me I
had no idea. He looked earnestly into my eyes, and then remarked:—
“Ocken Hawwy, your faysh is wed, djust like a wosy-posy.”
“Let’s go right in to breakfast, Toddie,” said I aloud, as I grumbled
to myself about the faculty of observation which Tom’s children seemed
to have.
Immediately after breakfast I despatched Mike with a note to Alice,
informing her that I would be glad to drive her to the Falls in the
afternoon, calling for her at two. Then I placed myself unreservedly
at the disposal of the boys for the morning, it being distinctly
understood that they must not expect to see me between lunch and
dinner. I was first instructed to harness the goat, which order I
obeyed, and I afterward watched that grave animal as he drew my nephews
up and down the carriage-road, his countenance as demure as if he
had no idea of suddenly departing when my back should be turned. The
wheels of the goat-carriage uttered the most heart-rending noises I had
ever heard from ungreased axle; so I persuaded the boys to dismount,
and submit to the temporary unharnessing of the goat, while I should
lubricate the axles. Half an hour of dirty work sufficed, with such
assistance as I gained from juvenile advice, to accomplish the task
properly; then I put the horned steed into the shafts, Budge cracked
the whip, the carriage moved off without noise, and Toddie began to
weep bitterly.
“Cawwidge is all bwoke,” said he; “_wheelsh don’t sing a bittie no
more_,” while Budge remarked:—
“I think the carriage sounds kind o’ lonesome now, don’t you, Uncle
Harry?”
“Uncle Harry,” asked Budge, a little later in the morning, “do you know
what makes the thunder?”
“Yes, Budge—when two clouds go bump into each other they make a good
deal of noise, and they call it thunder.”
“That ain’t it at all,” said Budge “When it thundered yesterday it was
because the Lord was riding along through the sky an’ the wheels of his
carriage made an awful noise, an’ that was the thunder.”
“Don’t like nashty old funder,” remarked Toddie. “It goesh into our
cellar an’ makesh all ze milk sour—Maggie said so. An’ so I can’t hazh
no nice white tea for my brepspup.”
“I should think you’d like the Lord to go a-ridin’, Toddie, with all
the angels running after Him,” said Budge, “even if the thunder _does_
make the milk sour. And it’s so splendid to _see_ the thunder bang.”
“How do you see it, Budge?” I asked.
“Why, don’t you know when the thunder bangs, and then you see an awful
bright place in the sky?—that’s where the Lord’s carriage gives an
awful pound, an’ makes little cracks through the floor of heaven,
an’ we see right in. But what’s the reason we can’t ever see anybody
through the cracks, Uncle Harry?”
“I don’t know, old fellow—I guess it’s because it isn’t cracks in
heaven that look so bright,—it’s a kind of fire that the Lord makes up
in the clouds. You’ll know all about it when you get bigger.”
“Well, I’ll feel awful sorry if ’tain’t anything but fire. Do you know
that funny song my papa sings ’bout:—
“‘Roarin’ thunders, lightenin’s blazes,
Shout the great Creator’s praises?’
I don’t know ’zactly what it means, but I think it’s kind o’ splendid,
don’t you?”
[Illustration: “TWO CLOUDS GO BUMP INTO EACH OTHER”]
I _did_ know the old song; I had heard it in a Western camp-meeting,
when scarcely older than Budge, and it left upon my mind just the
effect it seemed to have done on his. I blessed his sympathetic young
heart, and snatched him into my arms. Instantly, he became all boy
again.
“Uncle Harry,” he shouted, “you crawl on your hands and knees and play
you was a horse, and I’ll ride on your back.”
“No, thank you, Budge, not on the dirt.”
“Then let’s play menagerie, an’ you be all the animals.”
To this proposition I assented, and after hiding ourselves in one of
the retired angles of the house, so that no one could know who was
guilty of disturbing the peace by such dire noises, the performance
commenced. I was by turns a bear, a lion, a zebra, an elephant, dogs
of various kinds, and a cat. As I personated the latter named animal,
Toddie echoed my voice.
“Miauw! Miauw!” said he, “dat’s what cats saysh when they goesh down
wells.”
“Faith, an’ it’s him that knows,” remarked Mike, who had invited
himself to a free seat in the menagerie, and assisted in the applause
which had greeted each personation. “Would ye belave it, Misther Harry,
dhat young dhivil got out the front door one mornin’ afore sunroise,
all in his little noight-gown, an’ wint over to dhe docthor’s an’
picked up a kitten lyin’ on dhe kitchen door-mat, an’ throwed it down
dhe well. Dhe docthor wasn’t home, but dhe missis saw him, an’ her
heart was dhat tindher dhat she hurried out and throwed boords down for
dhe poor little baste to stand on, an’ let down a hoe on a sthring,
an’ whin she got dhe poor little dhing out, she was dhat faint dhat
she dhrapped on dhe grass. An’ it cost Mr. Lawrence nigh onto thirty
dollars to have the docthor’s well claned out.”
“Yes,” said Toddie, who had listened carefully to Mike’s recital,
“An’ kitty-kitty said, ‘Miauw! Miauw!’ when she goed down ze well.
An’ Mish Doctor sed, ‘Bad boy—go home—don’t never turn to my housh
no more,’—dat’s what she said to me. Now be some more animals, Ocken
Hawwy. Can’t you be a whay-al?”
“Whales don’t make a noise, Toddie; they only splash about in the
water.”
“Zen grop in ze cistern an’ ’plash, can’t you?”
* * * * *
Lunch-time, and after it the time for Toddie to take his nap. Poor
Budge was bereft of a playmate, for the doctor’s little girl was sick;
so he quietly followed me about with a wistful face, that almost
persuaded me to take him with me on my drive—_our_ drive. Had he
grumbled, I would have felt less uncomfortable; but there’s nothing so
touching and overpowering to either gods or men, as the spectacle of
mute resignation. At last, to my great relief, he opened his mouth.
“Uncle Harry,” said he, “do you s’pose folks ever get lonesome in
heaven?”
“I guess not, Budge.”
“Do little boy angels’ papas an’ mammas go off visitin’, an’ stay ever
so long?”
“I don’t exactly know, Budge, but if they do, the little boy angels
have plenty of other little boy angels to play with, so they can’t very
well be lonesome.”
“Well, I don’t b’leeve they could make _me_ happy, when I wanted to see
my papa an’ mamma. When I haven’t got anybody to play with, then I want
papa an’ mamma _so_ bad—so bad as if I would die if I didn’t see ’em
right away.”
[Illustration: “CAN’T YOU BE A WHAY-AL?”]
I was shaving, and only half-done, but I hastily wiped off my face,
dropped into a rocking-chair, took the forlorn little boy into my arms,
and kissed him, caressed him, sympathized with him, and devoted myself
entirely to the task and pleasure of comforting him. His sober little
face gradually assumed a happier appearance; his lips parted in such
lines as no old master ever put upon angel lips; his eyes, from being
dim and hopeless, grew warm and lustrous and melting. At last he said:—
“Uncle Harry, I’m _ever_ so happy now. An’ can’t Mike go around with me
and the goat, all the time you’re away riding? An bring us home some
candy, an’ marbles—oh, yes—an’ a new dog.”
Anxious as I was to hurry off to meet my engagement, I was rather
disgusted as I unseated Budge and returned to my razor. So long as
he was lonesome and I was his only hope, words couldn’t express his
devotion, but the moment he had, through my efforts, regained his
spirits, his only use for me was to ask further favors. Yet in trying
the poor boy, judicially, the evidence was more dangerous to humanity
in general than to Budge; it threw a great deal of light upon my own
peculiar theological puzzles, and almost convinced me that my duty was
to preach a new gospel.
As I drove up to the steps of Mrs. Clarkson’s boarding-house, it seemed
to me a month had elapsed since last I was there, and this apparent
lapse of time was all that prevented my ascribing to miraculous
agencies the wonderful and delightful change that Alice’s countenance
had undergone in two short days. Composure, quickness of perception,
the ability to guard one’s self, are indications of character which are
particularly in place in the countenance of a young lady in society,
but when, without losing these, the face takes on the radiance born
of love and trust, the effect is indescribably charming—especially to
the eyes of the man who causes the change. Longer, more out-of-the-way
roads between Hillcrest and the Falls, I venture to say, were never
known than I drove over that afternoon, and my happy companion, who in
other days I had imagined might one day, by her decision, alertness
and force exceed the exploits of Lady Baker, or Miss Tinne, never once
asked if I was sure we were on the right road. Only a single cloud came
over her brow, and of this I soon learned the cause.
“Harry,” said she, pressing closer to my side, and taking an appealing
tone, “do you love me well enough to endure something unpleasant for my
sake?”
My answer was not verbally expressed, but its purport seemed to be
understood and accepted, for Alice continued:—
“I wouldn’t undo a bit of what’s happened—I’m the happiest, proudest
woman in the world. But we _have_ been very hasty, for people who have
been mere acquaintances. And mother is dreadfully opposed to such
affairs—she is of the old style, you know.”
“It was all my fault,” said I. “I’ll apologize promptly and handsomely.
The time and agony which I didn’t consume in laying siege to your
heart, I’ll devote to the task of gaining your mother’s good graces.”
The look I received in reply to this remark would have richly repaid
me, had my task been to conciliate as many mothers-in-law as Brigham
Young possesses. But her smile faded as she said:—
“You don’t know what a task you have before you. Mother has a very
tender heart, but it’s thoroughly fenced in by proprieties. In her day
and set, courtship was a very slow, stately affair, and mother believes
it the proper way now; so do I, but I admit possible exceptions, and
mother does not. I am afraid she won’t be patient if she knows the
whole truth, yet I can’t bear to keep it from her. I’m her only child,
you know.”
“_Don’t_ keep it from her,” said I, “unless for some reason of your
own. Let me tell the whole story, take all the responsibility, and
accept the penalties, if there are any. Your mother is right in
principle, if there _is_ a certain delightful exception that we know
of.”
“My only fear is for _you_,” said my darling, nestling closer to me.
“She comes of a family that can display most glorious indignation when
there’s a good excuse for it, and I can’t bear to think of _you_ being
the cause of such an outbreak.”
“I’ve faced the ugliest of guns in honor of one form of love, little
girl,” I replied, “and I could do even more for the sentiment for which
_you’re_ to blame. And for my own sake, I’d rather endure anything
than a sense of having deceived any one, especially the mother of such
a daughter. Besides, you’re her dearest treasure, and she has a right
to know of even the least thing that in any way concerns you.”
“And you’re a noble fellow, and——” Whatever other sentiment my
companion failed to put into words was impulsively and eloquently
communicated by her dear eyes.
But oh, what a cowardly heart your dear cheek rested upon an instant
later, fair Alice! Not for the first time in my life did I shrink and
tremble at the realization of what duty imperatively required—not for
the first time did I go through a harder battle than was ever fought
with sword and cannon, and a battle with greater possibilities of
danger than the field ever offered. I won it, as a man _must_ do in
such fights, if he deserves to live; but I could not help feeling
considerably sobered on our homeward drive.
We neared the house, and I had an insane fancy that instead of driving
two horses I was astride of one, with spurs at my heels and a saber at
my side.
“Let me talk to her _now_, Alice, won’t you? Delays are only cowardly.”
A slight trembling at my side—an instant of silence that seemed an
hour, yet within which I could count but six footfalls, and Alice
replied:—
“Yes; if the parlor happens to be empty, I’ll ask her if she won’t go
in and see you a moment.” Then there came a look full of tenderness,
wonder, painful solicitude, and then two dear eyes filled with tears.
“We’re nearly there, darling,” said I, with a reassuring embrace.
“Yes, and you sha’n’t be the only hero,” said she, straightening
herself proudly, and looking a fit model for a Zenobia.
As we passed from behind a clump of evergreens which hid the house from
our view, I involuntarily exclaimed, “Gracious!” Upon the piazza stood
Mrs. Mayton; at her side stood my two nephews, as dirty in face, in
clothing, as I had ever seen them. I don’t know but that for a moment
I freely forgave them, for their presence might grant me the respite
which a sense of duty would not allow me to take.
“Wezhe comed up to wide home wif you,” exclaimed Toddie, as Mrs. Mayton
greeted me with an odd mixture of courtesy, curiosity and humor. Alice
led the way into the parlor, whispered to her mother, and commenced to
make a rapid exit, when Mrs. Mayton called her back, and motioned her
to a chair. Alice and I exchanged sidelong glances.
“Alice says you wish to speak with me, Mr. Burton,” said she. “I wonder
whether the subject is one upon which I have this afternoon received a
minute verbal account from the elder Master Lawrence.”
Alice looked blank;—I am sure that _I_ did. But safety could only lie
in action, so I stammered out:——
“If you refer to an apparently unwarrantable intrusion upon your family
circle, Mrs.——”
“I do, sir,” replied the old lady. “Between the statements made by
that child, and the hitherto unaccountable change in my daughter’s
looks during two or three days, I think I have got at the truth of
the matter. If the offender was any one else, I should be inclined to
be severe; but we mothers of only daughters are apt to have a pretty
distinct idea of the merits of young men, and——”
The old lady dropped her head; I sprang to my feet, seized her hand,
and reverently kissed it; then Mrs. Mayton, whose only son had died
fifteen years before, raised her head and adopted me in the manner
peculiar to mothers, while Alice burst into tears, and kissed us both.
A few moments later, as three happy people were occupying conventional
attitudes, and trying to compose faces which should bear the inspection
of whoever might happen into the parlor, Mrs. Mayton observed:—
“My children, between us this matter is understood, but I must caution
you against acting in such a way as to make the engagement public at
once.”
“Trust me for that,” hastily exclaimed Alice.
“And me,” said I.
“I have no doubt of the intention and discretion of either of you,”
resumed Mrs. Mayton, “but you cannot possibly be too cautious.” Here a
loud laugh from the shrubbery under the windows drowned Mrs. Mayton’s
voice for a moment, but she continued: “Servants, children,”—here she
smiled, and I dropped my head—“persons you may chance to meet——”
Again the laugh broke forth under the window.
“What _can_ those girls be laughing at?” exclaimed Alice, moving toward
the window, followed by her mother and me.
Seated in a semicircle on the grass were most of the ladies boarding at
Mrs. Clarkson’s, and in front of them stood Toddie, in that high state
of excitement to which sympathetic applause always raises him.
“Say it again,” said one of the ladies.
Toddie put on an expression of profound wisdom, made violent
gestures with both hands, and repeated the following, with frequent
gesticulations:—
“Azh wadiant azh ze matchless woze
Zat poeck-artuss fanshy;
Azh fair azh whituss lily-blowzh;
Azh moduss azh a panzhy;
Azh pure azh dew zat hides wiffin
Awwahwah’s sun-tissed tsallish;
Azh tender azh ze pwimwose tweet,
All zish, an’ moah, izh Alish.”
[Illustration: “AZH WADIANT AZH ZE MATCHLESS WOZE”]
I gasped for breath.
“Who taught you all that, Toddie?” asked one of the ladies.
“Nobody didn’t taught me—I lyned[9] it.”
[9] Learned.
“When did you learn it?”
“Lyned it zish mornin’. Ocken Hawwy said it over, an’ over, an’ over,
djust yots of timezh, out in ze garden.”
The ladies all exchanged glances—my lady readers will understand just
how, and I assure gentlemen that I did not find their glances at all
hard to read. Alice looked at me inquiringly, and she now tells me that
I blushed sheepishly and guiltily. Poor Mrs. Mayton staggered to a
chair, and exclaimed:
“Too late! too late!”