NOT MERRY, BUT WEDDING BELLS.
Mrs. Hayne did not feel comfortable over Homer's engagement. It was a
full fortnight before she could make a formal call on Mrs. Piaget. She
had been there on errands, and Sophie and I were often at the Haynes'.
But she stopped for me one day, "since it had to be done," she said,
and we walked down together. She was not at her best, though she had
on her Sunday clothes. Perhaps she would have felt more at ease in
her every-day ones. She was generally so cordial and heartsome that I
noticed and felt sorry for the stiffness.
Of course she said some pleasant things—that she knew Sophie would make
a good, industrious wife, and that was what young men needed. She had
no patience with flyaways, and girls who were too good to work, who were
taking up the new ideas that you must sit in the parlor and play on the
piano, and have lace undersleeves dangling about your wrists, and a tail
to your frock to sweep up the dirt everywhere. Clothes, she took it,
were made for use and comfort.
Women were wearing very full skirts, and all around the back they
"dipped" and had to be held up in the streets. Sleeves were wide and
flowing with lace or fine muslin ruffles inside. Some had an edge of
needlework, but if that came from the convents in Canada it was costly,
and the younger girls were doing it for themselves. They took their work
along when they went to make calls, and calls then were an hour or so
long between friends, and you "laid off your things."
There was coming to be quite a circle of what was considered afterward
"the first people," and who had streets named for them. There were the
Newberrys and Owenses, the Hamiltons and Pecks and Roberts, the Menards
and Nobles, and Baubeins and Kinzies, who seemed the fathers of the
town, and talked of the block house and the few cabins around it, the
attack on the fort, and the Indian skirmishes. When you listened to them
Chicago seemed really old.
Then there was only one set, with the clergymen having the place of
honor. Now there were several circles, not strongly defined, and living
in amity, but each one choosing its own friends. The cream went out
shopping when the new goods came in, and no longer wore homespun. Their
sons and daughters went away for the finishing touches in education.
The Haynes were then in what we should call the middle class. There were
some fine French people, but they seemed a little colony to themselves,
as well as the Germans. I liked all the French people I had met very
much, perhaps I was drawn to them by the thought of Norman in Paris.
I did admire their courtesy and a certain dainty politeness as if they
always knew just the right thing to do, and did it graciously.
Mrs. Piaget brought out her best cake and wine. She had some fine
embroidered napkins, others done in exquisite drawn work, and her
glasses were clear and fine, letting the tint of the wine shine through.
And the cake was delicious. She always flavored it. She had the art
of making flavors and scents, and their clothing had an indescribable
fragrance.
"Well, well," Mrs. Hayne said, when we had left the house, "that's done
with, and I've been dreading it. Sophie will make a nice wife, I dare
say, but I think Homer could have found some good American girl. There's
Kate and Annie Noble. They always ask him to their gatherings, and Mr.
Noble said to father that he was a smart, level-headed fellow, and would
make his mark. I've been counting on my boys marrying, and I've wanted
some one I could company with and feel to like as an own daughter."
"But Sophie is very sweet and affectionate," I ventured.
"She's French. The old saying is that 'blood's thicker 'n water.'
And she'll have her ways, and her friends, and they'll jabber that
everlasting tongue that you can't make head nor tail of until you wish
there hadn't been any Tower of Babel, and everybody had gone on talking
the same language."
I laughed at that. How queer it must have seemed when no one understood
any one else!
"And I s'pose Norman will come home with some fine French body who
can't comb her hair nor put on her stockings nor shoes, and must have
a maid, as old Granny Verrinder talks about. What better off is she for
all the fuss! Granny Pettingill is eighty, and she can spin on the big
wheel, and knit and sew, and is worth a dozen of that other old thing,
that's wearing out her daughter's life. I don't know what you'd do with
a dozen. I'd bundle 'em up in a bag an' drop 'em in the lake."
Mother Hayne was forgetting Ben's training, and dropping back into her
elisions, which showed that she was rather short in the temper.
I was truly sorry about it all. Yet I could not wish it different. And
when Sophie ran over in the edge of the evening I tried to comfort her.
"She doesn't like me, I can see that," she said with a catch in her
breath that was like a sob. "And I feel so sorry for Homer. He has
counted on our all being so happy together, and I would try to be like
a true daughter, only she is so stiff I shall always feel afraid."
"I think she will get over it. She has such a good warm heart. I'm quite
sure it will get settled by the time you are ready to be married," I
said hopefully. I couldn't imagine Mrs. Hayne holding out.
"We're going to have a betrothal party. Mother was waiting for her call
to settle that, and Mr. Hayne has given Homer a lot. It's almost out
on the prairie, but if the Wrights don't mind living there we oughtn't.
We've been planning it—he's going to build two rooms quite to the middle
of the lot, and when he gets forehanded, as you Americans say, he will
put up a nice front."
Father thought that an excellent idea. Homer came and talked it over
with him, and I think he was much pleased.
Then there was the betrothal party. They had a new priest now at St.
Mary's—Father Fischer, and he was very gracious and kindly. The ceremony
seemed as solemn as a marriage to me. But it was true that most of the
guests were French. I was beginning to talk quite well, and felt really
at home among them.
"I don't know what we should do without you," Homer said, squeezing my
hand. "You must coax up mother, and we will try to do our best. Sophie's
the one girl in the world to me, and yet I love you just the same. But
the sweetest of all is having the girl glad to come to you."
After Père Fischer had given them a second blessing and gone, with some
of the elders, old Billy Griffin came in with his violin, and we had
some dancing, with plenty of cake and a kind of cordial made out of
spiced fruits, that was quite harmless.
Dan had come in and seemed a good deal interested. I danced with him,
but Sophie said it was long and short division. I was still growing and
almost as tall as Sophie.
After that we began to plan for the wedding outfit. The night of her
betrothal Mrs. Piaget had given Sophie her string of gold beads. She
had one of not very choice pearls, but pretty, I thought, which would be
Nanette's, six of her silver teaspoons, three tablespoons with the mark
of a Paris silversmith on them, and some quaint china dishes, as well
as a fine pewter basin. Then there was a cream silk gown with dainty
flowers sprinkled over it, some of her mother's youthful finery, that
would be made over into the wedding gown.
As for sheets and blankets and table linen, they were to be evolved
somehow, and pretty underwear, so dear to a girl's heart. There was
still a scarcity of money about, and so one had to exercise one's wits.
The town was thrown into quite a ferment that entirely eclipsed our
simple engagement. A Frenchman, one Pierre Maseurier, had been up
to Chicago some weeks. He was much interested in the canal and trade
generally, and had a large place at Vincennes, as well as some sugar
interests in Louisiana. Small, old, but sharp and eager, as if he were
just beginning life, instead of having it more than half spent. What
brought him into contact with Granny Verrinder no one could explain, but
he was quite a frequent caller. Suddenly the little town was astonished
at another betrothal. Whether Polly Morrison had captured him, a widower
of long standing, with two married sons, or whether he had tempted her
with the brilliant prospect, no one could tell. She curtly dismissed her
old admirers, there was an elaborate wedding gown sent for, and Polly,
dressed in sumptuous furs and covered with a white wolf robe, was driven
about as if she were a queen.
Two days after a night's debauch, Dan Hayne left for Buffalo. He knocked
down a friend who offered him a teasing condolence, but vouchsafed no
explanation to any one. Then there was a wedding at St. Mary's, with a
nuptial mass and all the accessories of state. Bishop Quartier came up
to marry them, and the lovely Saint Palais, who was afterward Bishop
of Vincennes. It was a grand affair, and it seemed as if the whole town
turned out. Polly looked as handsome as if she had just stepped out of
a picture, and most people wondered afterward, for she had never been
considered a beauty.
Mrs. Hayne felt so much relieved that she began to take a warmer
interest in Sophie and the new house. There were other mothers who
gave thanks, no doubt, for wild, wilful Polly had been a terror to
them. First it was one lover sighing at her feet and then another. She
certainly did delight in using her wiles on other girls' lovers, not
that she wanted the admirers either, but just to try her power. There
was only one man who won her heart as I came to know afterward, but
money and position outweighed love.
Of course she had taken M. Maseurier for the luxury he could give her.
No girl of eighteen would be likely to marry a wizened-up old man past
sixty if he were poor. Everybody settled to that.
About six weeks afterward Granny Verrinder died very suddenly, though
she was past ninety-six. She had been taken to her granddaughter's
marriage, lifted in and out of a coach, and so bundled up that no one
saw much of her except two staring black eyes. It was supposed Mrs.
Morrison would rejoin her daughter, but whether granny had more money
than any one thought, or that the wealthy son-in-law had made provision
for her, no one was quite certain. She repaired and renovated her
house, built on another room, distributed the furniture around more
comfortably, took in an old negro woman, and though she did not enlarge
the borders of her friendship, she came to look less careworn, went to
church occasionally, and perhaps found a little happiness. At least,
she was exempt from care.
We heard that Polly was living in great style and had everything heart
could wish.
Dan came back three or four weeks afterward and went about his business
as if nothing had happened, held up his head and was in no wise broken
hearted. Indeed, I thought him improved. He took a real interest in
Homer's house, advanced him some money, so that he could meet bills
promptly, and was pleasant and brotherly to Sophie, who had always felt
a little afraid of him.
It was a very delightful spring and early summer to me. Father was
prosperous and jolly, and we were so interested in completing the
trousseau and house equipment. When one goes out and orders a long list,
has them sent home and put in their places, one misses the delight and
interest of real home-making.
Then the wedding day was set. It would be in the church, of course,
and that did fret Mrs. Hayne. There was no great fuss about mixed
marriages then, though good Père Fischer hoped in his pleasant manner
that sometime Homer would be numbered among those of the true faith.
Nanette and I were bridesmaids. I had a sheer white muslin frock and a
wide white satin sash that came down to the very bottom of the skirt.
There were no picture hats, but we each wore a wreath, and Sophie her
mother's wedding veil, that then was folded up and laid away in a box
for Nanette, who was free to have lovers now.
The wedding was at noon, and Mrs. Hayne gave a generous dinner, tables
being set in both rooms. Sophie made a sweet and blushing bride, Homer
was fine and manly. Dan made the speech of the occasion, and everybody
drank to the health of the bride and groom and wished them children and
grandchildren.
About mid-afternoon the procession started for home. Dan took Nanette,
Ben and me in his two-seat wagon. There was to be an evening company, an
"infair," as it was called, in the new house. The bedstead and bedding
had been stored in the shed, the two rooms were decorated with vines
and flowers and hanging candlesticks and lamps, so that in the evening
the lights would be in no one's way.
Randolph Street was a lane then with but few houses, and out beyond
stretched the prairie that was to be a compact city long before the
century ended.
"Oh, I do hope you won't be lonesome way out here," I said to Sophie.
"Why, I shall have Homer, you know," opening her eyes wide as if she
thought my wish inconsequent.
"But not in the daytime."
"Then I shall be busy about my work."
"Why I thought we had done sewing enough to last seven years," I said
gayly.
"Well—there will be cooking for a hungry man, and I don't mean that
Homer shall wish for his mother when meal time comes. And Mr. Hayne
thinks it will be a good thing for Homer to bring his shop over here.
Chicago is building up so fast, and it will have to stretch out every
way. Then a good deal of the time he will be home to dinner. You and
Nan and the girls will visit me—oh no, I shall not be lonesome."
She was so happy. And though it had not the brightest beginning, Mother
Hayne came to take great comfort in her daughter.
We had a merry time with some new plays and dancing. Mr. Hayne took
several of the older people home, then his wife, Nanette and myself.
"Well, they've had a very nice time and started fair, and they'll get
along all right," said the satisfied motherly voice.
"Homer has a long head. I shan't have made a fortune, but I look for
my sons to be some of the rich men of Chicago. Dan knows how to make
money, and if he learns how to keep it, he'll be all right. I dare say
that blind Frenchman will do well by Norman, and Ben's steady going. I
shouldn't wonder if Chris turned parson," and he laughed.
"Dan's like his old self," returned Mrs. Hayne. "I don't know when I've
set so much store by him as I have this last week. That girl was a sort
of a witch, I do believe, and she just upset every man that she set her
eyes on. There's 'Lias Gordon gone to the dogs, hasn't drawn a sober
breath since her wedding day. 'Twas said she promised to marry him, but
I don't believe that. She was looking for the best chance. And I don't
just see how all this good luck came to her. But she'll have to carry
herself mighty straight, or that old fellow will beat her, you could
see it in his eye, and 'twould serve her just right. I give thanks, like
good old David, seven times a day that she's out of Dan's way."
I missed Sophie and the excitement, though some new girl friends came
in, and Ben was my devoted cavalier. But one night he surprised me by
a very naïve confession. Were the Haynes, little and big, bound to own
me?
He had been descanting on Homer's happiness, which was ideal, of course.
"The right thing for a man to do is to get married when he reaches a
certain place," began Ben gravely. "And I've some plans—I'm going in
Hamilton's real estate and law office. They want a clerk. There isn't
any more money in it, but I'm going to study law. I've been thinking of
it this good while. I've listened to the men talking politics, and I'm
awfully interested in that smart Stephen A. Douglas. Ruth, this is going
to be a great country, and it will need more and more people to govern
it. A State can have only two senators, but as her population increases
she has more representatives, and that takes a man to Washington. Then
there are judges and governors of States."
"And Presidents," I laughed.
"Only one every four years. Seems to me they tie his hands behind
his back, and then grumble because he doesn't pull up every weed. He
doesn't have so much power, after all. But I'd like to be in public life
somewhere, to work on the souls or beliefs of men. It's a grand thing!"
"Oh, Ben!" I was amazed. Quiet, apparently contented Ben!
"Yes, I'm going to set out for that. If you don't put up a mark you
can't help shooting at random. Of course it will take a long while and
hard study, but one reason why I like you so much is that you're fond of
books, and have more real sense than most girls. And, Ruth, you could be
a perfect lady. It's born in some people, and when it isn't they never
get quite up to the mark."
"Oh, thank you," I returned, amused, as he made a little pause. "On what
pedestal am I to be put?"
I had no idea of what he would say, and somehow I was not a little
bewildered by his ambitious projects.
"Well, when I get up to the place where I can care for a wife, I want
you. You would read and study and talk with a fellow, and keep him up
to the mark, too. I was glad you didn't want to marry Homer, not but
what he will make a splendid, devoted husband, but house and wife and
children will be his boundaries. He will vote the Democratic ticket
because his father did, not from any principle or conviction. Oh, do
you remember how you and Norman once quarrelled about politics?" and he
laughed.
"But, Ben—I—"
He made a gesture with his hand, and I never understood before how much
fine dignity Ben possessed.
"After all this, if you haven't really fallen in love with any one else,
I shall ask you. But if you do meet with any one you prefer this must
not stand in the way. I don't believe you will be the kind of girl who
is always reaching out after lovers. Your father will want to keep you."
"Oh, that is it," I interrupted. "Father has forbidden my having any
lovers for a long while yet."
"We will be friends just as we have been. I'll come and talk over my
plans with you. Mother, you see, wouldn't understand. I like your
father's bright, trenchant remarks, too. There's some width to his
brain. But all the other will be put off until the right time comes—laid
away on the shelf of the future, not to be meddled with. And now if
father scolds about my throwing up a good business chance, you will
understand why I do it."
I could not have helped admiring Ben. He had such a good, strong face.
All the boys were well looking, none as handsome as Dan, but it seemed
to me later on in life as if each to a certain degree carried his
character in his face.
"So now we have had a good talk," continued Ben—he had done all the
talking—"and we understand the ground we go upon. You know you are the
dearest girl to all of us. I shall never forget the night you came. And
we will be the best of friends."
Could I refuse when the tender eyes looked up so confidently?
"The best of friends," I returned, and I felt the solemnity of my own
voice.
It was true that Ben's new plans were rather frowned upon. His employer
was sorry to lose him.
"There's lots of money made in speculation," said Mr. Hayne, "and
lots lost as well. Stands to reason values can't always increase, and
immigrants can't always come in. We have a big country, with other lakes
and rivers, and the whole Atlantic coast for shipping. Then it seems
rather shifty business to me for steady company."
Ben did not mind, however. There were some new and exciting questions
to greet the new President and his Cabinet. The boundary of Oregon and
British America almost stirred up warfare, and a new difficulty loomed
up when the State of Texas, an independent principality, asked to enter
the Union. Mexico objected, and there was a talk of war. We had many
things on hand, streets and the muddy old river, and at last the canal
that was going to do so much for us approaching completion. Every year
a greater demand for wheat and corn and live stock. Father added field
to field, it seemed a passion with him.
The next spring there came a little girl to Homer and Sophie Hayne. I
think Mrs. Hayne was the gladdest of all. The little girl of her own
blood that she had so longed for. A sweet, good little thing who seldom
cried and smiled readily.
They were all prosperous. Homer began to build houses and sell them.
Dan was steady, and turning his attention largely to cattle raising
and buying, and had an interest in packing. He had a room now at the
hotel, and seemed to care little for girls, though he was not averse to
social pleasures. His one passion was Chita, who was kept beautifully
groomed. He raced her now and then. She was the mother of a splendid
colt. He used to talk to her as if she was a human being, and I think
she understood every word.
As for Mr. Le Moyne, the treatment had failed. Norman had promised to
remain with him. They would reside in Paris and travel.