"FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE."
"Grandma, Jerrie has promised to be my wife!" Harold said to his
grandmother that night, and "Father, I have promised to marry Harold,"
Jerrie said to Arthur the next morning as she stood before him, with
Harold's hand in hers, and a look in her face something like what
Gretchen's had worn when Arthur first called her his wife.
"Lord bless you, I knew it was coming, but didn't think it would be
quite so soon. You shock my nerves dreadfully," Arthur exclaimed,
springing up and walking two or three times across the room. Then,
confronting the young couple, he said, "Going to marry Harold? I knew
you would all the time. Well, he will do as well as any one to look
after the business. Frank is no good, and Colvin is too old. So, get
married at once, within a week if you like. I'm off for Germany next
month, to find Gretchen's grave, and the house, and the picture, and
everything, and as I shall take you with me I shall need some one with
brains to look after things while I am gone."
"But father," Jerrie began, "if I go to Germany, Harold will go, too,
and if he stays here, I shall stay."
Arthur looked at her inquiringly a moment, and then, as he began to
understand, replied:
"Ah, yes, I see; 'where thou goest, I go, and where thou'--and so forth,
and so forth. Well, all right; but you must be married here in your
father's house, and soon too. I'll engage passage at once in the
Germanic, which sails the 15th of October, and you shall be married the
10th. That's three weeks from to-day, and will give you a few days in
New York. I'll leave Frank here till we return, and then he must go, of
course, and the new mistress step in with Mrs. Crawford to superintend.
We will get some nice man and woman to stay with her while we are gone."
He had settled everything rapidly, but Jerrie had something to say upon
the subject. She did not wish to come to Tracy Park altogether while
Mrs. Tracy was there, she said, and preferred to be married in the
cottage, the only home she had ever known.
"I shall stay with you all day," she continued, "but go home at night."
"And so have a long walk with Harold. Yes, I see," Arthur said,
laughingly, but assenting finally to her proposal.
It was Jerrie now who planned everything, with Harold's assistance, and
who broached the subject of Frank's future to her father, asking what
provision he intended to make for him when he left Tracy Park.
"What provision?" Arthur said. "I guess he has made provision for
himself all these years, when my purse has been as free to him as
myself. Colvin tells me there has been an awful lot of money spent
somewhere."
"Yes," Jerrie replied, "but you gave him permission to spend it, and it
would hardly be fair now to leave him with little or nothing, and he so
broken down. When Maude thought she was going to die, and before she
knew who I was, she wrote a letter for her father and you, asking him to
give me what he would have given her, and you to do the same. So, now, I
want you to give Maude's father what you would have given me for Maude's
sake."
"Bless my soul, Jerrie!" Arthur said. "What a beggar you are! I don't
know what I should have given you; all I am worth, perhaps. How much
will satisfy you for Frank? Tell me, and it is done."
Jerrie thought one hundred thousand dollars would not be any too much,
nor did it seem so to Arthur, who placed but little value upon his
money, and Jerrie was deputed to tell her uncle what provision was to be
made for him, and that, if he wished, he was to remain at the park until
his brother's return from Europe.
Frank was not in his own room, but Mrs. Tracy was, and to her Jerrie
first communicated the intelligence that she was to be married and go
with her father to Germany. The look which the highly scandalized lady
gave her was wonderful, as she said:
"Married! almost before the crape is off the door, or the flowers wilted
on Maude's grave! Well, that shows how little we are missed; and I am
not surprised, though I think Maude would be, at Harold, certainly. I
suppose you know there was something between them; but a man will do
anything for money. I wish you joy of your husband."
Jerrie was too indignant to explain anything, and hurried off in quest
of her uncle, whom she found in Maude's room, where he spent the most of
his time, walking up and down and examining the different articles which
had belonged to his daughter, and which, at his request, remained
untouched as she had left them. Her brushes, her comb, her bottle of
perfumery, her work-box, her Bible, a little half-finished sketch, and
the soft bed-slippers she had worn when she died, and one of which he
held in his hand when Jerrie went in to him.
"It is so like Maude," he said, with quivering lips, "and when I hold it
in my hand I can almost hear the dear little feet, which I know are cold
and dead, coming along the hall as she used to come, and will never come
again. I think I should like to die here in this room and go where Maude
has gone, and I believe I should go there. I am sure God has forgiven
me, and Maude forgave me, too, for I told her."
"You did! I thought so," Jerrie said.
"Yes, I had to tell her," he continued, "and I am glad I did, and she
loved me just the same. You saw her die. You heard what she said to me.
She must have believed in me, and that keeps me from going mad. I told
Dolly, too, and she said she'd never speak to me again as long as she
lived, and she didn't either until last night, when I was alone in here,
crying on Maude's bed; then she came to me and called me Frank, and said
she was sorry she had been so hard, and asked me what we were going to
do. I'm sure I don't know; do you?"
He was so like a child in his appeal to her, that Jerrie's tears came
fast as she told him of her approaching marriage and what her father
intended doing for him. Then Frank broke down entirely.
"I don't deserve it, and I know I owe it to you, whom I have injured so
much," he said, while Jerrie tried to comfort him.
"I must go back now to father," she said at last; and she went out into
the hall, where she encountered Tom just coming from his mother's room.
"Hallo!" Tom cried, with an attempt at a smile; "and so you are going to
marry Harold?"
"Yes, Tom; I'm going to marry Harold," Jerrie replied, unhesitatingly,
as she laid her hand on Tom's arm and walked with him down the stairs.
It seemed to her the most natural thing in the world that she should
marry Harold, and she was not at all abashed in speaking of it to Tom;
and when they saw Harold coming up the walk, the color rushed to her
cheeks, and her eyes grew wondrously bright with the love-light which
shone in them, as she dropped Tom's arm and hurried to Harold's side.
"By George, I b'lieve I'll go and hang myself!" Tom said, under his
breath, as he stalked moodily away; but instead of that he went across
the fields to Le Bateau, where he sat for an hour, talking with old
Peterkin and waiting for Ann Eliza, who had gone to Springfield, her
father said, after a new gown, for which he was to pay two hundred
dollars.
"Think on't!" he continued. "When we was fust married and run the 'Liza
Ann, the best gown May Jane had to her back was a mereener or
balzarine--dummed if I know what you call it--at one and ninepence a
yard; but now, lord land, what's a two hundred dollar gown to me! Ann
Eliza can have forty on 'em, if she wants to. There she is; there's the
kerridge! By gosh, though, ain't she a neat little filly!" and the
father's face glowed with pride as he watched his daughter alighting
from the carriage, to which Tom had hastened in order to assist her, for
she was still a little lame and limped as she walked.
He saw the two hundred dollar gown, for Peterkin would have it
displayed, and admired it, of course, and wished that he had half the
sum it cost in his own right, and wondered if he could stand it, as he
walked slowly home, where he heard from his mother that they were still
to remain at Tracy Park for a while, and that his father was to have one
hundred thousand dollars settled upon him.
"I guess now I'll wait a spell, and let old Peterkin go to thunder," he
decided, and for two weeks and more Ann Eliza watched in vain for his
coming, while Peterkin remarked to his wife that if Tom Tracy was goin'
to play fast and loose with his gal, he'd find himself brought up
standin' mighty lively.
The news that Harold and Jerrie were soon to be married, and go with
Arthur to Germany, created some surprise and some talk, too, in town,
where many of the people had believed that there had been an
understanding, if not an engagement, between Harold and Maude. But Tom
put that right with a few decided words. There had never been an
engagement, he said. Maude had liked Harold very much, and he had liked
her, but had always preferred Jerrie; in short, matters had been as good
as settled between them long ago.
This last was a little fiction of Tom's brain, but the people accepted
it as true, and began to look eagerly forward to the approaching
marriage, which took place in Mrs. Crawford's parlor, with only a few
intimate friends present--Grace Atherton, the St. Claires, Ann Eliza
Peterkin, and the Tracys, with the exception of Dolly, who could not do
so great violence to her feelings as to attend a wedding. Billy was not
there, but he sent a magnificent emerald ring to Jerrie, with the
following note:
"DEAR JERRIE: I can't see you married, although I am glad for you,
and glad for Hal. God bless you both. I shall never forget you as
long as I live; and when you come back, maybe I can bear to see you
as Hal's wife, but now it would kill me. Good-by."
Jerrie read this note with wet eyes, and then passed it to Harold, to
whom she told of that episode under the butternut tree, when Billy asked
her to be his wife.
"I am awful sorry for him, but I can't let him have you, Jerrie," Harold
said, passing the note back to her, and kissing her tenderly, as he
added: "That is my last for Jerry Tracy, my little girl of the
carpet-bag. When I kiss you again, you will be my wife."
"Come children, we are waiting," came with startling distinctness from
Arthur at the foot of the stairs, and then Harold and Jerrie went down
to the parlor, where they were soon made one, Arthur giving the bride
away, and behaving pretty well under the circumstances.
He had been very flighty the day before, insisting that Jerrie should be
married in white, with a blue ribbon on her bonnet, just as Gretchen had
been, and when she reminded him of Maude's recent death, he replied:
"Well, Gretchen will wear colors if you don't." And he brought out and
laid upon his bed the dress, which had been waiting for Gretchen on that
stormy night when he heard the wild cry of the dying woman above the
wintry gale. She was with him again in fancy, and when he went out to
the carriage which was to take him to the cottage, he stepped back and
stood a moment by the door as if to let some one enter before him, and
during the ceremony those nearest to him heard him whispering to
himself, "I, Arthur, take thee, Gretchen," and so forth; but when it was
over he seemed perfectly rational, as he kissed his daughter and shook
hands with his son-in-law, to whom he gave a check for ten thousand
dollars, saying as he did so that young men must have a little spending
money.
It was a very pleasant wedding, and every one seemed happy, even to
Dick, whose spirits, however, were rather too gay to be quite natural,
and whose voice shook a little as he called Jerrie Mrs. Hastings and
told her he hoped to see her in Paris in the spring as he thought of
going over there with Nina to join the Raymonds.
"Oh, I hope you will! Nothing could make me so happy as to meet you
there," Jerrie said, looking at him with an expression which told him
she was thinking of the pines and was sorry for him.
The newly married pair were going directly to New York, where Arthur was
to join them on the 14th, as the Germanic sailed the 15th.
All the wedding guests accompanied them to the station, Tom accepting a
seat in the coupe with Ann Eliza, who wore her two hundred dollar gown,
and was, of course, overdressed. But Tom did not think much about that.
He was ill at ease that morning, though trying to seem natural; and when
the train which took Jerrie away disappeared from view, he felt as if
every thing which had made life desirable had left him forever, and he
cared but little now what he did, or with whom his lot was cast.
So when Ann Eliza said to him, "It is such a fine day; suppose we drive
along the river; it may dispel the blues," he assented, and soon found
himself bowling along the smooth turnpike with Ann Eliza, whom he
thought rather interesting, with the tears shed for Jerrie on her long,
light eyelashes.
"I shall miss her so much, and be so lonely without her. I hope you'll
call often," she said to him, when at last the drive was over, and Tom
promised that he would, and kept his promise, too; for after Arthur
left, he found Tracy Park so insupportably dull, with his father always
in Maude's room, and his mother always in tears, that it was a relief to
go to Le Bateau and be made much of as if he were a prince, and treated
to nice little lunches and suppers, even if old Peterkin did make one of
the party and disgust him so at times that he felt as if he must snatch
up his hat and fly.
And one night, when the old man had been more than usually disagreeable
and pompous, he did start up abruptly and leave the house, mentally
vowing never to enter it again.
"I'd rather saw wood than listen to that infernal old brag," he was
saying to himself, when he heard a wheezy sound behind him, and looking
around saw the old brag in full pursuit, and beckoning him to stop.
"I'm goin' to walk a spell with you," he said, locking his arm in Tom's
as he came up. "I want to have a talk."
"Yes," Tom faltered, with a dreadful sinking of the heart, while
Peterkin went on:
"You see you've been a comin' to Lubbertoo off and on for mighty nigh a
month, and as the parent of a family it's time I as't your intentions."
"Intentions!" Tom stammered, trying to draw his arm from Peterkin's.
But he might as well have tried to wrench it from a vise, for Peterkin
held it fast and went on:
"Yes, intentions! Thunderation, hain't a chap 'sposed to have intentions
when he hangs round a gal who has money, like my Ann 'Liza? I tell you
what, Thomas," and his manner became very insinuating and frank, "as
nigh as I can calkerlate I'm worth three millions, fair and square, and
there's three on 'em to divide it amongst--May Jane, Bill, and Ann
'Liza. Now, s'posin' we say, threes into three million, don't it leave a
million?"
Tom acknowledged that it did, and Peterkin continued:
"Jess so. Now I aint one of them mean skunks that wants his folks to
wait till he's dead afore they enjoys themselves; and the day my Ann
'Liza is married, I plank down a million in hard cash for her and her
husband to do what they darned please with; cut a dash in Europe as Hal
is doin', if they like, or cut a splurge to hum, it's all one to me. I
call that square, don't you?"
Tom admitted that he did, and Peterkin went on:
"Now, then, I ain't a goin' to have Ann 'Liza's affections trifled with,
and if I catch a feller a doin' on't d'ye know what I'll do?"
Tom could not guess, and Peterkin continued:
"I'll lick him within an inch of his life, and then set the dogs on him,
and heave him inter the river! See?"
It was not a warm day, but Tom was perspiring at every pore as he saw
presented to him the choice between a million or to be "licked within an
inch of his life and then dogged into the river." Naturally he chose the
first as the lesser evil of the two, and began to lie as he had never
lied in his life before. He was very glad, he said, that Peterkin had
broached the subject, as it made matters easier for him by showing him
that his suit would not be rejected, as he had feared it might be.
"You know, of course, Mr. Peterkin," he said, "that I am now a poor
young man, with no expectations whatever, for though Uncle Arthur has
settled something upon father, I cannot depend upon that, and how could
I dare to look as high as your daughter without some encouragement?"
"Encouragement, boy? Great Scott!" and releasing Tom's arm, Peterkin hit
him a friendly slap, which nearly knocked him down. "Great Scott! What
do you call encouragement? When a gal is so flustified at seein' you,
that she teters right up and down, while her mother hunts heaven and
earth for tit-bits to tickle your palate with--quail on toast,
mushrooms, sweet breads, and the Lord knows what--ain't that a sign they
are willin'? Thunder and guns! what would you have? Ann 'Liza can't up
and say, 'Marry me, Tom;' nor I can't up and say, 'Thomas, marry my
daughter,' can I? But if you want to marry her, say so like a man, and I
swan I'll meet you like a man, and a father!"
Alas for Tom! he had nothing left him to do except to say that he wished
to marry Ann Eliza, and that he would come the next evening and tell her
so.
It was Peterkin who answered his ring when he presented himself at the
door of Le Bateau, Peterkin more inflated and pompous than ever as he
shook the young man's hand, calling him Thomas, and telling him to go
right into the parlor, where he would find Ann 'Liza waitin' for him and
where they could bill and coo as much as they liked, for he and May Jane
would keep out of the way and give 'em a chance.
Even then Tom cast one despairing glance toward the door, with a half
resolve to bolt; but Peterkin was behind him, pushing him on to his
fate, which, after all, was not so very bad when he came to face it.
There was nothing low, or mean, or coarse about Ann Eliza, who was by
no means ill looking, as she stood up to receive her lover, with a
droop in her eyes, and a flush on her cheeks; for she knew the object of
his visit, into which he plunged at once. He did not say that he loved
her, but he asked her in a straightforward way to be his wife, and then
waited for her answer, which was not long in coming, for Ann Eliza was
no dissembler. She loved Tom Tracy with her whole soul, and felt herself
honored in being sought by him.
"Oh, Tom!" she said, "it does not seem possible for you to love me, but,
if you really do, I will be your wife and try to make you happy,
and--and--"
She hesitated a moment, and then went on:
"Save you as much as possible from father. We cannot live here; you and
he would not get on; he means well and is the kindest of fathers to me,
but he is not like you, and we must go away."
She was really a very sensible girl, Tom thought, and in his joy at
finding her so sensible he stooped and kissed her forehead as the proper
thing for him to do, while she, the poor little mistaken girl, threw
herself into his arms and began to cry, she was so glad and happy.
Tom did not know exactly what he ought to do. It was a novel situation
for him to be in, with a girl sobbing on his bosom, and his first
impulse was to push her off; but when he remembered that she represented
a million of dollars, he did what half the men in the world would have
done in his place: he held her close and tried to quiet her, and told
her he was not half good enough for her, and knew in his heart he was
telling the truth, and felt within him the stirring of a resolve that
she should never know he did not love her, and that he would make her
happy, if he could.
And so they were betrothed, and Peterkin came in with May Jane and made
a speech half an hour long to his future son-in-law, and settled just
when they were to be married and what they were to do.
Christmas week was the time, and he vowed he'd give 'em a wedding which
should take the starch entirely out of Gusty Browne, whose mother, Mrs.
Rossiter-Browne, would think Gusty was never married at all when she saw
what he could do. Greatly he lamented that Harold and Jerrie could not
be present. "But they'll see it in the papers," he said, "for I'll have
a four-column notice, if I write it myself and pay for it, too! And when
you meet 'em in Europe you can tell 'em what they missed."
To all this Tom listened with great drops of cold sweat running down his
back as he thought of the ridicule he should incur if Peterkin carried
out his intentions to "take the rag off the bush," as he expressed it.
The trip to Europe pleased him, but the party filled him with horror
from which he saw no escape, and he was anything but a happy man, when
he at last said good-by to Peterkin, who slipped into his hand a check
for $2,000, saying, when he protested against taking it:
"Don't be a fool, Thomas. I'm to be your dad, so take it; you'll need
it. I know your circumstances; they ain't what they was, and I don't
s'pose you've got enough to buy the engagement ring. I want a big one. A
solitary--no cluster for me. I know what 'tis to be poor. Take it,
Thomas."
So Tom took it with a sense of shame which prompted him several times to
tear it in shreds and throw them to the winds. But this he did not do,
for he knew he should need money, as he had none of his own; and when, a
few days before, he had asked Colvin for some, that worthy man, who had
never taken kindly to him, had bidden him go to a very warm place for
money, as he had no orders to give him any.
"Your uncle," he said, "settled one hundred thousand dollars on your
father--the more fool he--and expects him to live on it. So my advice to
you is that you go to work."
Now, Tom couldn't work, and after a little, Peterkin's gift did not seem
so very humiliating to him, although he could not bring himself to tell
his mother of it when he announced his engagement to her, which he did
bluntly, and with nothing apologetic in his manner or speech.
"I am going to marry Ann Eliza Peterkin some time during the holidays,
and start at once for Europe," he said, and then brought some water and
dashed it in her face, for she immediately went into hysterics and
declared herself dying.
When she grew calm, Tom swore a little, and talked a good deal, and told
her about the million, which he said was not to be sneezed at, and told
her what Colvin had said to him, and asked what the old Harry he was to
do if he didn't marry Ann Eliza, and told her of the proposed party,
asking her to save him from it if she could.
When she found she could not help herself, Dolly rose to the situation,
and said she would see her daughter-in-law elect, whom Tom was to bring
to her, as she could not think of calling at La Bateau in her present
state of affliction. So Ann Eliza came over, and her mother came with
her. But the latter Dolly declined to see. She could not endure
everything, she said to Tom, and was only equal to Ann Eliza, whom she
met with a bow and the tips of her fingers, without rising from her
chair. Still, as the representative of a million, Ann Eliza was entitled
to some consideration, and Dolly motioned her to a seat beside her, and
with her black-bordered handkerchief to her eyes, said to her:
"Tom tells me you are going to marry him, and I trust you will try to
make him happy. He is a most estimable young man now, and if he should
develop any bad habits, I shall think it owing to some new and bad
influence brought to bear upon him."
"Yes'm," Ann Eliza answered, timidly; and the great lady went on to talk
of family, and blood, and position, as something for which money could
not make amends, and to impress upon the girl a sense of the great honor
it was to be a member of the Tracy family.
Then she spoke of the wedding party, which she trusted Ann Eliza would
prevent, as nothing could be in worse taste when they were in such
affliction, adding, that neither herself nor Mr. Tracy could think of
being present.
"Be married quietly, without any display, if you wish to please me," she
said; and with a wave of her handkerchief she signified that the
conference was ended.
"Well, Annie, how did you and my lady hit it?" Tom asked, meeting Ann
Eliza in the hall as she came out, flushed and hot from the interview.
"We didn't hit it at all," Ann Eliza replied, with a gleam in her eye
which Tom had never seen before. "She just talked as if I were dirt, and
that you were only marrying me for my money. She don't like me, and I
don't like her, there!" and the indignant little girl began to cry.
Tom laughed immoderately, and, passing his arm around her as they went
down the stairs, he said:
"Of course you don't like her. Who ever did like her mother-in-law? But
you are marrying me, not my mother, so don't cry, _petite_."
Tom was making an effort to be very kind, and even lover-like to his
fiancee, who was easily comforted, and who, on her return to Le Bateau
told her father plainly that the party must be given up, as it would be
out of place and deeply offend the Tracys. Very unwillingly Peterkin
gave it up, and sent word to that effect to Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, who
had already been apprised of the coming event and was having a wonderful
gown made for the occasion.
"I find," he wrote, "that it wouldn't be at all _rachel-shay_ to have a
blow out whilst the family is in deep black; but when they git into
lavender, and the young folks is home from their tower, I'll have a
tearer."
Peterkin tried two or three times to see Mrs. Tracy, but she put him off
with one excuse after another, until Tom took the matter in hand and
told her she was acting like a fool and putting on quite too many airs.
Then she appointed an interview, and, bracing herself with a tonic, went
down to the darkened, cheerless room, and by her manner so managed to
impress him with her superiority over him and his that he forgot
entirely the speech he had prepared with infinite pains, and which had
in it a good deal about family _bonds_, and family _units_, and _Aaron's
beard_, and brotherly love. This he had rehearsed many times to May
Jane, with wonderful gestures and flourishes; "but, I'll be bumped," he
said to her on his return from the Park House, "if I didn't forget every
blessed word, she was so high and mighty. Lord! as if I didn't know what
she sprung from; but that's the way with them as was born to nothin'.
May Jane, if I ever catch you puttin' on airs 'cause you're a Peterkin,
I b'lieve I'll kill you!"
After this, anything like familiar intercourse ceased between the heads
of the two families until the morning after Christmas Day, when Frank
and Dolly drove over to Le Bateau, where were assembled the same people
who had been present at Jerrie's wedding, and where Peterkin insisted
upon darkening the rooms and lighting the gas, as something a little
out of the usual order of things in Shannondale. Peterkin was very
happy, and very proud of this alliance with the Tracys, and his pride
and happiness shone in his face all through the ceremony; and when the
clergyman asked, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" his
manner was something grand to see as he stepped forward and responded,
"I do, sir," in a voice so loud and full of importance that Dolly
involuntarily groaned, while Tom found it hard to refrain from laughing.
Tom behaved very well, and kissed his bride before any one else had a
chance to do so, and called May Jane mother and Peterkin father, after
he saw the papers which made Ann Eliza possessor in her own right of a
million dollars; and when, an hour later, she handed over to him as his
own, a deed of property valued at one hundred thousand dollars, he took
her in his arms and kissed her again, telling her what was very true,
that she was worth her weight in gold. Tom had felt his poverty keenly,
and all the more so that Ann Eliza's engagement-ring, a superb
solitaire, had been bought with her father's gift, as had their passage
tickets to Europe. But now he was a rich man, made so by his wife's
thoughtful generosity, and he was conscious of a new set of feelings and
emotions with regard to her, and inwardly vowed that he would make her
happy.
They took the train for New York that afternoon, accompanied by
Peterkin, who, when the ship sailed away next day, stood upon the wharf
waving his hands and calling out as long as they could hear him, "God
bless you, my children! God bless you, my children!" Then he went back
to Shannondale and called at Tracy Park, and reported to Frank, that the
youngsters had gone, and that Mrs. Thomas Tracy looked as well as the
best on 'em in the ship, and a darned sight better than some!
After this the great houses of La Bateau and Tracy Park settled down
into perfect quiet, especially that of Tracy Park, where Dolly shut
herself up in her mourning and crape, and Frank spent most of his time
in Maude's room, with her photograph in his hand, and his thoughts busy
with memories of the dear little girl lying in her grave of flowers
under the winter snow.