A TIME FOR LOVE
Everybody rejoiced in Norman Hayne's good fortune. There was another
point in it that sent a pang through my heart. Would he outgrow and
forget?
Another friend went out of my small circle in the spring, Mrs. Chadwick.
Her husband had established a business in Buffalo, and they moved
thither. I did not realize then the valuable friend I had lost. I
was more interested in the young girls' good time. Homer Hayne was
always ready to escort Sophie and myself to the little parties and
merrymakings. Just now Dan had one of his periodic fancies for Polly
Morrison, and his mother was much troubled about it.
"But if they love each other?" I said. It really seemed to me that
they must, and now I had begun to speculate a little on this mysterious
power.
"Child," she replied almost sternly, "that kind of off and on business
isn't love at all, and the great question is whether they can spend a
life together, and take up all the cares and perplexities and help each
other along, steady them, comfort them, tide over the rough places that
come in all lives. It isn't all dancing and driving about with a fast
horse or careerin' over the prairies, racing like mad. I don't believe
Polly knows how to do a single useful thing. Her old grandmother's
always been one of the high and mighty ones, and danced with two or
three of the Presidents. Maybe they were big people in Maryland, and
she gets some money twice a year from her people there. They've just
got that house and garden. Morrison was a nice kind of man, but then he
died, and Mis' Morrison just slaves herself to death taking care of that
queer old crittur that doesn't look like any sort of human being now.
I hope to goodness I'll never live to look like that, as if the crows
had picked me, an' eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket."
Mrs. Hayne paused, all out of breath. I couldn't imagine her ever
looking like Granny Verrinder. Mrs. Morrison did not resemble her mother
in the least, though she must have been past both youth and beauty
when she was married. How they had come to drift to this place might
have puzzled people curious about their neighbors' antecedents. Polly
had been born here. From grandmother's early years to Mrs. Morrison's
marriage there seemed a hiatus about which they never talked. Mrs.
Morrison was a meek, quiet, hard-working woman. I think now she could
never have known what to do with Polly, but whatever she did granny
traversed. She, the elder, quarrelled with the girl, and yet she adored
her and brought out her old finery to adorn the madcap for the dances
and merrymakings. But Polly held her head as high in her blue homespun
gowns. The good time was all to her no matter if it was in a log cabin
with a black fiddler.
"The kind of wife Dan wants is a good, modest girl of strong principles
who can keep a clean, cheerful home and cook well. Poor feeding has
ruined many a man, and children are his salvation. I hope Dan's wife
will have a houseful. You see, a man begins to think about the future
when there's sons to grow up. I've always wanted one girl, but Hayne was
mighty fond of boys and that sort of 'leviated things. But I do hope and
pray that with all their wives there'll be one I can take to my heart
like an own daughter."
The little house of the Morrisons had only two rooms and a lean-to
kitchen. The front was grandmother's, and had a carved high-post
bedstead with faded silk curtains from the tester poles. There was a
curious chest of drawers with a kind of cabinet that had glass doors.
Behind these were china and silver that did betoken former grandeur.
Granny drank from the cups and took her sugar out of the silver bowl,
her milk from the silver cream jug. In pleasant weather she sat out
of doors a good deal in a great chair stuffed around with pillows. It
had rollers, and when the street was passable she would sometimes be
pushed up and down by her daughter, who was a veritable slave. A little
shrivelled up old woman with a long nose and a sharp chin, but her still
fine teeth would always keep them from meeting. She wore a cap and a
false front of faded black, and was bundled up in shawls. Her stick kept
away curious children. I think they felt there was something uncanny
about her. People had ceased to cultivate them, if they ever had, but
Polly was welcome for her fun and brightness.
I had noticed and Mrs. Chadwick had spoken of a great improvement in the
town. Education had really begun to educate. Provincialisms, elisions,
and what father had called outlandish talking was falling into disuse.
Of course, families coming from different States had brought in accents,
pronunciations and adages, some bright and to the point, it must be
confessed, but these were being toned down and refined. I had been a
good deal amused at the manner in which Ben had corrected his mother,
and she had protested with the tart rejoinder, "that her talk was plenty
good enough for her, and she didn't expect to put on French airs at her
time of life," but she did take more pains.
Once she said, "Dear me! We shall all have to spruce up when Norme comes
back so he won't be ashamed of us. I think father'll get the new house
also."
"Norme!" How dear the old boyish nickname sounded.
I was just past fifteen when the real things began to happen to me.
The year had been very pleasant, and I rather reluctantly did my hair
up high and wore a bonnet for Sunday best, and a long skirt—not very
long either—what they would have been like trailing over dust and mud!
Father was prospering, raising wheat and pigs and corn and buying up a
bit of property or acres of prairie land. Jolette and I managed very
well. Mrs. Hayne occasionally suggested that girls of fifteen ought
to be able to keep house, but now we had two cows and a great flock of
poultry. Jolette made fine butter, and our eggs found a ready sale. Even
at that time we sent some across the lake, for now vessels were coming
and going continually, except in extreme weather.
"I was married when I was sixteen and did my washing and scrubbing
and cooking. But such hands as those don't look like near kin to a
washboard;" and she caught mine in hers so large and strong.
They _were_ slim and small. We had not begun to cultivate points of
aristocracy in that early period, or talk of claims to good birth, but
I had often noted that father's hands were small and shapely for all
his hard work, though I am not sure but he managed to get the hardest
and roughest out of other people.
We heard at intervals from Norman, who was busy and full of enjoyment.
Paris was wonderful. The new physician had at first given Mr. Le Moyne
a good deal of hope, except that the treatment could not be rapid. Then
had intervened a really serious illness, and during this time the optic
nerve of one eye had been paralyzed. After that a winter in Spain, which
was enchanting.
"I am afraid I see many years of exile before me," Norman wrote in
my letter. "What can I do? Mr. Le Moyne is the most delightful, the
sincerest and certainly the most generous of friends. Through his
convalescence he has said so many times, 'What could I do without you,
Norman, when I have no son or nephew even?' He has one sister, who is
an invalid from a broken hip and partial paralysis, and her daughter is
a fashionable and titled lady. He is very fond of travelling and enjoys
society, but now he needs some one continually. I know he fears he will
be blind, and he wants to be sure of a permanent stay and solace. Can I
relinquish some of the best hopes of my life—yet I feel that I ought.
It seems as if God had given me this work to do, that it was not of
my own seeking, and I must trust Him to make it right in the end. It
is very hard, but must I not go on in this straight path? Pray that I
may have strength, little girl. If I could not see it so clearly, but
I do, and whatever may be said, remember that I would rather come home
without a dollar and trust for a welcome than remain away years and reap
a fortune."
But I thought even years, five or seven, would not be so very long.
We had been down to the Piagets—Homer and I. Mrs. Piaget was like a
girl in her merry ways. We had some guessing of proverbs and songs, a
cup of tea and cake, both very plain, but with the fun and frolic most
enjoyable. Just as we were saying good-night we crossed hands, Sophie,
Homer, Luther Chandler and I.
"Oh, a wedding, a wedding!" cried Nanette, and we all blushed and
laughed. "Sophie is the eldest, it is her turn first."
Luther was very sweet on Sophie, but I thought she did not care much
for him.
Then Homer and I walked home.
"It's late, but I'm coming in," he exclaimed, and the resolution in his
voice roused me curiously.
Jolette was in her chimney corner. During the cold weather she rolled
herself in a blanket and slept on the old settle.
"Ye'r pop's gone to bed," she said with a sort of grunt.
We went through to the keeping room. She had mended the fire, and it
was now blazing cheerfully. Oddly enough, two chairs stood invitingly
before it, but I knew father did not like company staying late. It
seemed unsocial not to ask him to sit down.
"You make a room look different from any one else, Ruth," he said,
glancing around. "There is always an air about it as if one really lived
on a little higher plane. Who would think of placing those pine boughs
in the corner, and having pictures and books around, and always the
newspaper and little knicknacks and your work basket, and those pine
cones with grass growing in them," as his eyes wandered around.
"Was that what you came in to say?" I asked saucily, for it amused me.
"No, it wasn't." He looked at the fire a moment, then at me. I had both
hands on the back of my low sewing chair.
"Ruth, will you marry me? Could you love me well enough to be my wife?"
I do not think the question took me quite by surprise. Mrs. Hayne had
made suggestions. Father had indulged in a few comments such as "that he
meant to give Homer his walking papers—it was too soon for any fellows
to be hanging round." But we had been such good friends, without a bit
of sentiment, as if a girl of fifteen could understand what sentiment
truly was!
"Oh, Homer!" My voice almost failed in the great tremble of every nerve.
"Oh, what made you ask it?"
"Because I wanted to know. Surely, Ruth, you will tell me the truth,
the whole truth. I've always been fond of you, and it seems as if Norme
left you to us when he went away. You were only a little girl, and
he has companied so much with high and mighty folks that I suppose he
will be miles and miles above anybody here. But mother's heart is set
upon you, and she's nagged me lately, as if she thought I wasn't—well,
forward enough. We're all fond of you, you know. If you could—only I'm
afraid—" hesitatingly, "that you _don't_ love me. A girl always shows
it a little. We seem just good friends—"
"Oh, that is all we are, Homer!" I cried, but my face was scarlet with
blushes, and my heart gave a great throb of thankfulness. For I knew by
some sure insight, girl that I was, that he had no best of all love to
give me.
Then he reached over and took my hand.
"I think I could love you dearly, and oh, little Ruth, I'd carry you in
my arms or let you walk over me, and spend my whole life thinking how
I could make you happy. I'd work day and night that you should have the
things you enjoyed. All that would be nothing if you did not love me."
"Yes, yes, you understand. And so let us keep friends. I think there
is some one who could love you very dearly, who would be glad of your
love, and you would be very happy. I think you are saved for that."
He turned scarlet first, then deadly pale. "Sophie," he murmured just
under his breath.
"Yes, it is Sophie. Homer, I have been hoping this long while——"
"Mother would never forgive me if I passed you by," he interrupted. "You
see, I had to ask you. And if you had said yes I should have bent every
energy toward making you happy. Yes, I would have done it. But you're
not quite—not like—"
"Not in love," I said smilingly. "That makes everything easy, levels
all inequalities, I have read somewhere. Then I am still a little girl.
I didn't want to be grown up. I don't want any real lovers this long,
long while. And I shall be so glad for Sophie. She's seventeen and just
the right age, and so dear, and sweet, and wise, and such a splendid
housekeeper! Oh, you will be so happy, and she will just run over with
joy."
"What I wanted to say, though I do not know as I can put it in the
right words, is that you are not quite like other girls. You're like
a choice china cup, while the every-day earthen wouldn't mind the
dishwater so much, you see," and he laughed. "Ben understands. He said
it wouldn't be fair, that you ought to have a gentleman who loved books
and cultivation, and all that. And though I hope I'll be well-to-do
some day, I shouldn't ever care for the fancy things. Still I wouldn't
grudge them to the woman I loved. And you ought to have the best—which
isn't always money either."
I didn't want to hear about myself, though I knew then there was a great
gulf between Homer and me that only love could bridge over. Yet I did
love him dearly at that moment.
"And Sophie?" I interposed.
"It's queer, isn't it? And they say girls are always jealous of each
other. Ruth, you are the sweetest little thing in the world. If Sophie
didn't love you, I don't know as I could ask her. And I shall tell her
just how it was. Of course, mother—she must know, too, that I asked you.
I like everything open and above board. And I guess the sign will come
right—that crossing of hands," smiling.
"And you'll ask her soon? I want her to be happy." I know my face was
all eagerness.
"You may trust me for that."
The clock struck eleven.
"Ruth!" exclaimed a peremptory voice.
"Yes, sir." Children said sir and ma'am in those days long after they
were grown up.
We went through the old kitchen. Jolette was snoring, but covered up
head and ears, and the embers covered over likewise. I let Homer out
and fastened the door. Then I went back to father. He was leaning on one
elbow, his head tousled and his eyes almost fierce, but I did not mind.
"Was that Homer Hayne making a night of it?"
"Yes, father," and I couldn't help a mirthful sound.
"Did he ask you to marry him—the truth, child."
"Yes," and I could not forbear laughing. "But he is in love with Sophie
Piaget, only his mother wanted him to—to—"
Then father laughed and gave me a hug.
"Yes, I knew that was in the air, but I thought I'd head it off.
Sophie! Well, she will make just the right sort of wife for him. Ruth,
chickabiddy, you're too young to get tangled up in such things. You're
not to have any lovers for years yet. Do you hear?"
"Oh, father, I don't want any. I couldn't be any happier if I had a
dozen."
"A dozen! I hope it will never come to that. Not even one in ever so
long. There, little girl, give me a good-night kiss and go to bed."
He held me in his arms for some seconds. Perhaps it wasn't the fashion
in those days, but people were not generally effusive.
It rained the next day. I spun with a light heart, looked after my hens
and then knotted some fringe for my curtains in a pretty way Sophie
had taught me. Father read the paper aloud. There was an Indian war
in Florida now, and some important political questions discussed in a
rather heated manner.
I really wanted to run down to the Piagets, the next morning, but I
resolutely refused myself. It was clear and cold. Jolette made mince
pies. Father had brought the love of pie from his native State. What an
appetizing fragrance they diffused.
About mid afternoon I caught sight of Sophie slipping about the frozen
path full of hummocks, but she balanced herself with a fascinating art.
I ran to the door.
"Oh, I wanted to see you so, I hoped you would come. Of course you
know. I am the happiest girl in all Chicago! But if you had loved
him—and often I thought he loved you, and I stood no chance. I wouldn't
let mother speak—that is the French fashion, you know—I was so afraid
he might be affronted. Luther had asked mother's permission, and she
thought it was time I was betrothed. But I couldn't make up my mind to
that. I've been gay and full of fun, but sometimes my heart ached for
very dread. Only you are such a child!"
"Why, yes, it was ridiculous."
"But Mrs. Hayne loves you so. You'd do worlds better for Ben."
"I don't want to do for anybody."
"But Ben isn't grown up."
"And there's Chris, if Ben won't have me," I said, with a sense of
amusement at being handed down. "And you understand—Homer asked me to
please his mother. Of course he likes me, but that isn't marrying love."
"Yes, you are going to be the dearest little sister to us. Oh, I do
wonder if Mrs. Hayne will truly like me?"
"Yes, she will when she comes to know you well. She has hoped so that
Dan would marry, only she didn't want Polly Morrison."
"And now they're at it again. This time everybody thinks it will make a
match. I don't like Dan. He's the great Mogul, and he flirts awfully. I
wouldn't be his wife for half Chicago. But Homer is so sweet and patient
and tender. He has some of your ways," smiling generously, "and he will
build his house at once. Oh, won't it be just splendid! I shall go to
work immediately. What a delight it must be to make up one's trousseau.
I have yards and yards of lace knit, and fringe made. I shall not sell
any more. Oh, Ruth," studying me intently, "are you quite sure you are
happy over it? For you could have taken him—and I don't see how you
escaped loving him."
"Then you would have been unhappy. Now we are both happy and content."
I came to know afterward that there were women who fancied you were
dying for their particular lover, and it vexed me, and men who thought
your world could easily have been bounded by them.
I made Sophie stay to supper. Homer was not coming that evening. He
wanted to explain to his parents and make some arrangements. Father
wished her all good fortune and teased her a little, admitting that she
would have one of the best of husbands.
I hesitated to make my weekly visit to Mrs. Hayne, and the day I set it
stormed. But I walked over with Ben and Chris after Sunday School.
"You naughty girl," Mrs. Hayne began. "I don't know when I can forgive
you. I suppose you _were_ ashamed."
"What did she do?" asked Chris, eager eyed.
"Oh, she knows. There, you two boys, run off. I want to talk to her and
I don't want you catching gabble seed."
They went reluctantly.
"I hoped he'd wait for you, he would have been young enough then, and a
chit like you don't know her mind, though many a girl has been married
at fifteen. Sophie Piaget is a nice enough girl, industrious and all
that, but he might have looked higher. I don't quite like the French of
it, and the Catholic, though I'm not bigoted. I never supposed you were
helping things along, or I'd put my finger in the pie sooner."
Had I helped it along? I had a guilty feeling.
"Father wouldn't hear to my being engaged or having a real lover," I
said with some dignity. "And—I don't want one, I don't care about being
married."
"You'll sing another tune presently. Though after all," in a softer
tone, "there is plenty of time."