half past nine, and there was going to be an "ice cream festival" there
that night. I didn't know what an ice cream festival meant, but Mr.
Trowbridge said I should see for myself, and it would probably be
different from anything I had yet experienced.
Everybody from the farm went except Elisha, who didn't wish to, as he
is not quite happy yet, and is practising the flute of evenings. Mr.
Trowbridge and Mr. Brett and I all drove in the buggy. It was rather a
squeeze in one seat, but it was fun, and we were very merry. I like
buggies, though they do sound almost improper to an English ear, and it
makes it seem more amusing, somehow, because they talk about going for
"a ride" instead of a drive.
The rest all squashed into a big wagon, and sat on the hay. I would
have gone in that way too, but Mr. Trowbridge wanted me to try his
horse; and we could hear the others laughing every minute as they came
jolting on behind us.
It was about seven miles to Hermann's Corners, and after a lovely drive
through charming, peaceful country we arrived just as it was beginning
to be dusk.
I couldn't have imagined such a place as the Emporium, and when I was
in the thick of it I said to myself that it would be worth one's while
coming over to the States just to visit it, if nothing else. If I had
to choose between, I believe I'd rather see it than Niagara Falls; for
one knows Niagara Falls from biographs and things, and nothing short of
actually seeing could give one the slightest idea of Mr. Whit Walker
and his Emporium.
My first impression of the Emporium was a huge, rambling wooden
building rather like a vast barn with a dozen smaller barns tacked on
to it, and windows let in. It is painted pea-green, and has a rough
verandah running partly round it--a high verandah with no steps, or if
any, at such long intervals that you must search for them. But as
there's no pavement we just scrambled out of the buggy and cart onto
the verandah, and there we were landed among the most extraordinary
collection of things I ever dreamed of. The stock in the Emporium
having overflowed from the inside onto the verandah, we stumbled about
among boxes of eggs, sewing machines, crates of dishes, garden tools,
brooms, rocking chairs, perambulators, boots, "canned" fruit,
children's toys, luggage, green vegetables, ice cream freezers, bales
of calico, men's suits, piled-up books, clothes lines, and a thousand
other "goods."
A number of young men were sitting about on the biggest of the boxes,
and on chicken coops, wherever they could clear a space, and had the
air of being in a club. Our party knew them, almost all, and they
exchanged "how do you do's." Mr. Brett seemed the only stranger; but as
he told me, he hasn't often visited his cousins.
From the open doors and windows of the Emporium streamed out the
strangely mingled smells of all the things in the world which happened
to be missing on the verandah, and most of those that were there. As a
fragrance it was indescribable, but it was nice, and rather exciting, I
don't know why, unless there was a quantity of spice in it.
Just as we threaded our way through the groups of young men, who looked
at us a good deal, people were lighting the gas in the Emporium. It was
incandescent, and blazed up suddenly with a fierce light as if it were
a volcano having an eruption. All the women inside (there was quite a
crowd of them, bareheaded, or in perfectly fascinating frilled
sunbonnets), shrieked and then giggled. A man who was surrounded by
girls said something we couldn't hear, which made everybody laugh; and
Mr. Trowbridge exclaimed:
"That's Whit, sure, holding court. Couldn't be anybody else."
"And I guess that's the Honourable," said the voice we had heard--such
a nice voice; it was enough to make you laugh with pleasure just to
hear it--and the head we could see towering over the sunbonnets began
to move towards us. The girls edged away good-naturedly, and there was
a man almost as fine-looking as Mr. Brett, smiling at us, and holding
out his big hand.
Everything was big about him; his voice, his brown throat, his
shoulders, and his good white smile, shining with kindness and two rows
of perfect teeth; his nature, too, as you could see by his beaming,
humorous grey eyes, and the generous dimple in his square chin.
"Whit, this is the little English ladyship I've told you about, who's
staying over at our house," said Mr. Trowbridge. So we were introduced,
and the great Whit shook my hand with a vigorous magnetism which made
me feel I would like to clap, and give him three cheers.
He is the sort of man I should try to make President of the United
States, if I were an American; and I'm sure he would get lots of votes
from his part of the country if he were nominated.
"I'm real pleased to meet you," said he, "and I'm honoured to have you
visit my store. Say, I guess some of our American leading ladies will
have to get a hustle on if they want to save themselves now you're over
here. I didn't know they made 'em like that on your side. I tell you
what it is, Honourable, I won't have much use for some of our fellows
if they let her go back, eh? Now, ma'am, you just tell me what handle
I'm to put to your name, so I won't make any fool mistake, and then we
can get ahead like a house on fire."
"I'm usually called Lady Betty," I said, feeling an idiot, as everyone
was standing round in a ring.
"What, at the first go? No, ma'am, I couldn't do it. I haven't got the
cool, ingrowing nerve. Couldn't I make it Countess, to show my
respect?"
"But I'm not a Countess," I laughed.
"Well, I guess I'll just go one better and raise you to Princess, then.
It's the best I can do, having been reared with plain Misses and
Mississes. You look like a Princess, anyhow, and the Queen might be
proud to have you for a cousin. Now we've fixed that up, maybe you'll
let me show you around the premises, and you can tell me if the
Emporium bears any resemblance to your London stores."
"Very well, Prince, I shall be delighted," said I, and he laughed a
nice, mellow roar.
It was a great thing, I soon found, for a visitor to be escorted by the
proprietor of the Emporium. Never was such a popular and
much-sought-for man as he. He was wanted everywhere by everybody.
People felt aggrieved if they had to go away without at least a hearty
"How do you do?" from Whit. There were several attendants, quite
dashing young men, but they were mere ciphers compared to the "boss."
Accompanied by Mr. Walker and Patty, whom he chose as the companion of
our explorations, we went upstairs and downstairs, and left no corner
of the Emporium unvisited.
"Aren't you afraid to leave so many things outside on the verandah?" I
asked. "Suppose they should be stolen?"
The great man only laughed, but a lanky customer who overheard drawled
out:
"What, steal from Whit Walker of Hermann's Corners? Wa'al, I guess the
skunk mean enough to do that would get himself lynched by every decent
chap in this darned county."
"I've got one friend, you see, Princess," chuckled my king of the
Emporium.
"You've got two," said I.
"Well, now, that's mighty pretty of you. Say, do you mean it, honour
bright?"
"Honour bright," I repeated.
"Then I wonder if I might ask a little favour of you?"
"Of course. What is it?"
"I'll tell you before we part. But come on down now, girls. I want you
should both choose a present to take home."
We picked our way down the steep stairs, littered with the overflow
from shelves and counters. In the principal "show room," if one could
call it that, he pressed us to accept some jewellery--poor stuff, but
the best he had, and he ingenuously admired it. We steadfastly refused,
however, and Patty took a Japanese fan, while I selected several choice
specimens of chewing gum, as being novel and characteristic.
By this time the "ice cream festival" was beginning. It was held in a
vacant lot behind the Emporium, and a canvas awning had been put up
over two or three dozen bare tables on the grass. Several employees of
the "store"--extra hands, perhaps--were kept frantically busy ladling
out from huge freezers into earthenware saucers big slabs of frozen
custard. All the gallant young beaux of the neighbourhood "treated" the
girls they wished to favour, and spent ten cents a saucer for the "ice
cream," with a big sugared "cooky" thrown in. The great Whit himself
invited me to sit down with him, so Mr. Brett who had been coming up to
ask Patty and me both, perhaps, whisked Patty away, leaving me to Mr.
Walker.
"Now, I'll tell you that favour I want," said he. "I hope you won't
think I'm presuming too much on a short acquaintance, but it's a mighty
important thing for me. It's about that little gal over there."
"Patty?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Nobody else. There _ain't_ anybody else, so far as I'm concerned;
meaning no disrespect to you, Princess. My old friend the Honourable
says she just worships you, and would lie down and let you walk over
her if you wanted."
"I didn't know," I said.
"Well, it's gospel truth, I guess, and I don't blame her. If you----"
"She has been _sweet_ to me," I interrupted. "Why, what do you think
she did, when I mentioned that the huge bells on Mr. Jacobsen's cows
kept me awake nights? You know how that one field of Mr. Jacobsen's,
which he won't sell, comes into Mr. Trowbridge's farm, and he keeps his
cows there to be disagreeable? Well, Patty got up in the night, and
climbed on the fence and caught the cows by offering them salt. Then
she held on by their ears, and tied rags over their bells--horrid, loud
bells--so they could make no noise. Only fancy, and some of those cows
are awfully fierce. The rags have stopped on ever since; that was the
way I found out, for she didn't tell for days."
"It's just like that pretty, quiet little thing," said Mr. Walker. "I
wish she'd be that sweet to me. I want her mighty bad to have me,
Princess, but she's read novels, I guess, and anyhow, she doesn't think
I'm romantic enough. I was always kind of afraid there was somebody
else. Now I shouldn't wonder if it ain't that good-looking young cousin
of the Trowbridges. Couldn't you find out for me, as she thinks such a
lot of you? And if she hasn't got her heart too much set on anybody
else, could you try to use your influence for me? You see, you're a
travelled lady, though you're so young, and if you could say I was a
man, in your opinion, it might make all the difference."
"You can depend on me to do my best," I said. But I didn't feel amused
and full of fun any more, as I looked over at Patty and Mr. Brett. If
she admires him--and how could she help it?--there's no reason why he
shouldn't admire her, when one comes to think of it. She is pretty and
sweet, a perfect little lady, and an heiress.
I can't get used to the idea. The cowbells didn't ring at all last
night, but I couldn't sleep for thinking of it, and for telling myself
that perhaps this is why Mr. Brett looked queer when I spoke of Patty
marrying a farmer.
XIX
ABOUT GETTING ENGAGED
I felt when I got up this morning that I was in a dreadfully
embarrassing and uncomfortable position about Patty and my promise to
Mr. Walker. If I kept it, and tried to use my influence with her, it
might be that I would be working against Mr. Brett. It would be hateful
to do that, as we are such friends; but I was afraid there must be
something rather catty in my nature, (though I never thought so before)
because I could not approve of a marriage between him and Patty. My
private opinion was that Patty wasn't at all the sort of girl to make
him happy; but I didn't dare to depend too much on the wisdom of my
opinion, lest it should be biassed by prejudice. It is so hard when you
have a friend who has been all yours, to see that some other girl may
be more congenial to him than you are, and that the best thing for him
would be to fall in love with her.
Mr. Brett has known Patty for a long time, and though he hasn't been
here often, he has made flying visits sometimes, I know; and even Patty
and Ide both call him "Jim"; never Mr. Brett. I reminded myself as I
thought it all over, that probably one reason why he wanted to stay
with his cousins now was to see Patty again, not in the least because
of his friendship with me, which is quite a recent thing compared to
his acquaintance with Patty. I had to admit that though we have been
such friends, all he has done for me could easily be accounted for by
that American chivalry to women, on which the men over here are so keen
as a nation, rather than any particular liking for me as a girl. And I
must have a horrid, exacting disposition, because discovering this made
me feel absolutely ill. I was so jealous of Patty, because she could
perhaps take away my best friend and have him for her lover, that all
her pretty little ways and looks quite annoyed me, and I felt I could
have slapped her.
Such feelings made me hate myself, for it is so unpleasant finding out
suddenly that you are a brute; yet I would not indulge my wicked heart
by telling Patty that she ought to marry Mr. Walker. I could scarcely
eat any breakfast or dinner, and early in the afternoon I crept out of
doors, very miserable. I felt that Vivace was the only being on earth
who really cared for me, and even he was more interested at the time in
a rabbit hole he had found than in my society. He wouldn't come away
from it when I called, so I bundled him under my arm, and walked off
with him to the sugar camp, where I could be alone, and think things
over, without having people say I looked pale, and ask whether the ice
cream festival at Hermann's Corners had given me a headache.
Patty and Ide had decided to make maple candy and "chocolate fudge"
after dinner, so that we could have it to eat in the evening, and Mr.
Brett and I had promised to help. American girls always seem to make
candy if they have nothing else more interesting to do, and usually I
think it very entertaining. Carolyn Pitchley's often went wrong, and
she would keep several servants busy clearing away plates and spoons,
bringing fresh ones, and cleaning out the chafing dish which she had
burnt. But Patty and Ide are cleverer; they do everything for
themselves; and I should have enjoyed helping, if I had been in a
different mood. As it was, I would have realised that I was an
outsider, and that maybe they would be gayer without me, though they
are always so polite. I had slipped away without speaking to anyone,
and as I was pretty sure that no one would come to the sugar camp at
this time of day, I could let myself be as gloomy as I liked.
I sat there in the deep green shade of the maples, on the log where Mr.
Brett and I had talked the first day I came to the Valley Farm. All the
disagreeable things that ever happened to me since I was a child took
this opportunity to stir in their graves and come to life again. Then
they sat down in front of me in a dreary semicircle, staring me in the
face until I couldn't stand it any longer, and began to cry. Vivace was
very much surprised, and jumped up with his paws in my lap, as if he
were saying, "What _is_ the matter?" This was a comfort, and I put my
head down on his, with my arms round his neck, and cried more.
If you once let yourself go, like that, you can't stop. Hearing your
own little chokes and gasps makes you pity yourself so much that your
heart nearly breaks. I was sobbing out loud, presently, which made
Vivace whine, and I had almost begun to enjoy my utter forlornness and
the distinction of being the most miserable person in the whole world
when a distracted voice exclaimed:
"Why, Lady Betty, Lady Betty, for heaven's sake what's happened?"
I looked up all teary and flushed, and there was Mr. Brett, staring at
me with horrified eyes, and his face as desperate as if he had found me
struck by lightning or gored by the black and white bull.
I was so ashamed and confused that I couldn't speak, but just sat there
gazing up helplessly at him with tears running down my cheeks, and my
lips trembling. The most awful look came into his eyes, and he went as
pale as I was red.
"My precious one, my darling!" he stammered, and dropping down on one
knee by the big log, he put his arms round me.
"Oh!" I said. And then my head was nestling down into his neck, and
instead of being wretched I was perfectly happy.
"Who has dared to make you cry?" he asked, holding me close.
"You," I answered.
"I?"
"I thought you were only being kind to me because--because you're an
American and it's your duty to a foreigner."
He laughed at that--an excited, happy laugh, with a queer break in it.
"I've been half out of my mind with love for you, ever since the first
day I saw you looking down at me in the steerage. Am I _quite_ out of
it now, or can it be true that you care for me--just a little, little
bit?"
"I care for you, _dreadfully_," said I. "Why, this isn't friendship, is
it? It's being in love."
"I should think it was--with me," he said. "It's all of me, heart, soul
and body, drowning in love."
"Don't drown," I whispered to him. "I--can't spare you."
After that we didn't say a word, but I hadn't supposed it was possible
for any human creature to feel so seraphically happy as I did. I don't
know how long a time passed before we even spoke, but it seemed only a
minute--a minute stolen straight out of heaven. And he was so handsome
and dear that I would have kept that minute forever if I could, for it
was impossible to believe that another could be so perfect.
But by and by it did merge into sister minutes, just as good, and we
began to talk and tell each other things.
He told me again how he'd loved me from the very first instant, and I
told him that after the day on the dock, if not before, I'd never quite
had him out of my thoughts for a moment.
"There has always been a sort of _undertone_ of you," I went on, "no
matter what else I was thinking of, just as Sally says, when you are
near the sea you hear it through every other sound."
He liked having me say that, and his eyes _are_ too glorious when he
likes things that I say.
"I loved you so much," he answered, "that I felt my love _must_ have
some power over your heart; it couldn't go for nothing. I knew I wasn't
worthy of you, but the love was, for no man in your own world could
offer you a greater one. That's my justification for asking you to put
your hand in mine. But am I asking too much? Are you sure you won't
regret anything you may have to give up?"
"There's nothing I wouldn't give up to be with you always," I assured
him. "But I don't see that I shall have to give up much that I really
care for. We shall be poor, of course, but I shan't mind that a
bit--with you. We can live in a sweet little cottage somewhere, can't
we? Or if you have to be in a town, we shall have a wee, wee flat, and
it will be such fun looking after it, just like having a doll's house,
only a hundred times better. I've never been rich, you know; it's
always been rather a struggle, and ever so many of my dresses have been
made out of Mother's or Victoria's. I shall learn to cook and sew."
"If I were so poor as all that, darling, I shouldn't be asking you to
marry me," said Jim. "I'm better off than you think, for as I told you,
I've been doing fairly well lately, and I guess if one of us two ever
has to cook it will be I. We might have to do that sometimes, but it
will only be if we're camping somewhere."
"I do hope so. It would be glorious!" I exclaimed.
"We can have the cottage or the flat all right, or maybe even both if
things go on as well as they're going now," he said, "and there's
nothing on God's earth I won't do to make you happy. Heavens! I should
think so, after what you're doing for me--trusting me, without knowing
any more of me than you've seen in these few weeks----"
"I'd have trusted you to the world's end, after the day you jumped
overboard and saved the little boy. Besides, you were _you_; and I'd
have trusted you just the same if you hadn't."
"Bless you, my angel. But think of the marriages you might have made."
"I couldn't have made more than one, at least I hope not," said I,
flippantly. "I could _never_ have married anyone but you, so I should
have had to be an old maid if you hadn't asked me, and think how awful
that would have been. You _don't_ regret asking me, do you?"
"Regret? Well--it doesn't bear talking of. I suppose I ought to be able
to say that I'd meant to keep my love to myself, and it only sprang out
on an ungovernable impulse. But it wouldn't be true if I did. I always
meant to ask you, from the very first--though I had little enough hope,
even up to to-day, that it would be anything more than friendship on
your part. But oh, how hard I did mean to try for you. My one virtue
was to wait until you had seen enough of other men--men of a different
sort--for you to be sure you didn't prefer one of them. And when
accident had put you very near me, I did manage not to lose my head and
speak, while you were, in a way, under my protection, for that would
have been brutal. But Heaven knows--and Miss Woodburn knows--that I
came mighty near it once or twice. I'm thankful I didn't. Now you know
the best and worst of the other sort of man, and the best and worst of
me. You see the kind of people whose blood runs in my veins, and still
you are ready to say that my people shall be your people. I'm not
afraid of anything that can happen now."
"You needn't be," I said, slipping my other hand into his--for he had
one of them already. "Mother may be vexed with me for going against her
wishes, but she will have to forgive me--or even if she doesn't, I
shall have you."
"I think she will forgive you, darling," said Jim. "I will make her
forgive you."
"I believe you could make anybody do anything!" I cried. "Sally will be
glad about this, I know. I can see now that she must always have hoped
for it to happen, though I didn't realise what she meant at the time.
But we had _such_ a talk in the Park the day we met you, about marrying
for love. And she advised me that it was the only thing to do. Oh, I am
sorry for everybody who isn't in love, aren't you? And that reminds me,
I must try and make dear little Patty in love with Mr. Walker. You'll
help me, won't you?"
The rest of the day was perfectly divine, and it is almost as
delightful to live it over again as I am doing now, in writing the
story of it, after we have said good-night.
We forgot all about going back to the house, until some one came out
and rang the bell for tea in the field, where we couldn't help hearing.
Then we told the cousins our news, and they were immensely pleased.
They seemed to think that Jim and I were made for each other, and Mrs.
Trowbridge said she had seen that it was coming, all along.
After tea we walked over to call on Sally, and she was just as glad as
I thought she would be.
"You are going to marry one of the finest fellows on earth, I believe,"
said she, "and I congratulate you as well as him."
I do love Sally!
XX
ABOUT JIM AND THE DUKE
It was a very different waking up the next day. My first thought was:
"Can it be really true or is it only a dream that I'm engaged to Jim?"
And I almost cried for joy when I was quite sure it was true.
We both wrote letters to my mother, and so did Sally. I didn't see
theirs, but I could guess what they said, and I could trust Sally to
praise Jim. Still, all the praises in the world wouldn't reconcile
Mother to what I was going to do. I could hear her saying: "Who _is_
he?" And I was sure she would add, "How much has he got?" But whatever
happened, we were not going to give each other up.
Jim had promised Mr. Trowbridge to pronounce judgment on a horse which
he thought of buying, and the man who wanted to sell the creature
brought it to the farm about eleven o'clock. Sally had come, to tell
about the letter she had just posted to Mother, and Jim was in the
sitting room writing his. I think he had forgotten about the horse,
until Mr. Trowbridge appeared, looking rather excited.
"Say, Jim," he exclaimed, "Jake Jacobsen's here with the horse. He's
round by the barn now, and you might as well have a look at it; but
it's an awful brute, and I ain't going to take it, at any price."
"What's the matter with the horse?" asked Jim, sealing up his letter,
and looking interested.