HOW DAN GOT MARRIED.
With October, came busy days for Clara. Her mother was in a fever from
the fear that the wedding _trousseau_ would not be ready by the middle
of November, when the wedding was to take place. The twins sewed very
cleverly when the fit was on; but the fits were very uncertain, and Dr.
Delano very imprudently, as Mrs. Forest thought, would call every
evening of his life; but then, men were always so very inconsiderate,
she said. Little bundles of linen exquisitely made up, kept constantly
coming home from some mysterious laboratory. Mrs. Forest was silent,
though she recognized at a glance the deft fingers of Susie; but Clara
said they were made by her good fairy. One day, to facilitate the sewing
operations, Mrs. Forest offered the twins money if they would do certain
work. It had not the least effect. Leila explained shrewdly:
“You know, mamma, you will tell us just how to spend the money—so it
would be just like having you buy things for us.”
“It would be nice,” said Linnie, “to have just a little money to
squander.”
“And what do you do, pray, with all the immense sums you have wheedled
out of your father?” asked the doctor, laughing.
“I hope you are not so spooney, papa”—(spooney was a pet word of
Leila’s)—“as to think we squander it. Why, mamma always directs just
what we shall do with our money. She admits it is our money, and we can
do as we like with it; but you see, papa,” continued Leila, with a sly
little wink at her mother’s expense, “we don’t ever like, you know!”
The doctor laughed, and said: “Now, then, we’ll change the venue. How
much will you sew for by the yard—measuring every inch fairly with your
tape measure—provided you can do just what you like with your money?”
“Will five cents be too much, mamma?” asked both the girls in a breath.
“Not if you pay your board out of it, I think,” said Mrs. Forest,
smiling sweetly.
“No, no,” said the doctor, “we owe you board, and comfortable clothing
and education, from the fact that you were not consulted in the
unimportant matter of being born or not born. I assure you, it is folly
to squander money; but that is one of the things you must learn by
experience. I make you both this offer: five cents for every yard well
done and measured by your mother; and no one shall question what you do
with your earnings; five cents for every yard well done, and for every
dollar earned I will add fifty cents, because this is not shop-work, but
what would come under the head of ‘fine sewing,’ I believe.”
The effect was astounding. Mrs. Forest, before a week ended, had
positively to scold both girls for their assiduity, and Clara’s sewing
went on like magic.
On one of the Sundays between these busy days, Dan came home. He looked
worn and sad, Clara thought, and this was enough to move her gentle
heart. She sang to him a new song, and when she found a moment alone
with him, began to probe him in regard to his sentiments for Susie. She
thought the best thing in the world that could happen, would be the
marriage of him and Susie, being in a condition of mind herself to
consider marriage a panacea and the divinest of all blessings. Dan
expressed a desire to “do the right thing.” Clara snapped at this like a
hungry little fish at a bait. “Why not marry her at once, then?” Dan’s
reply was not wholly satisfactory, but sufficient to induce her to keep
Dr. Delano waiting for her that evening a full half hour, while she was
away, no one knew where, but in fact closeted with Mrs. Buzzell. The
next Sunday, finding home a little more pleasant, Dan appeared again,
and Clara was not long in bringing about a private talk. She repeated
her question, “Why not marry Susie?” Dan had, in fact, been thinking of
Susie with less hard feelings for her crime of loving him too well, and
standing between him and Miss Marston, as he thought. But Susie was the
only woman who had ever loved him, and he was tempted to do the “right
thing” if only to have some one to adore him! Generous man! But then it
must be admitted that he was under a spell he had no power to shake off.
Miss Marston had inspired a stronger passion in him than any one else
ever had, or perhaps could. He could not appreciate the latent qualities
in Susie’s character, and if he could, love does not deal with
qualities, as such. It is mind that does this, and Dan was a creature of
feeling, impulse, rather than of reason. Susie had loved him too fondly,
and only with very superior natures does excess of fondness make the
subject dearer. The great charm in Miss Marston was the impassable
barrier of her total indifference to him; but he could not see the
cause. She was superior to him, and that he knew; so, indeed, was Susie,
and just as far out of his reach by the superiority of her nature,
though not by circumstances.
Dan said this time, in answer to his sister’s question, half in fun,
half in earnest, that Susie didn’t care much for him, and that he had
“had about enough snubbing lately from women.”
“Oh, how little you know of women!” was Clara’s response.
Dan defended himself, and a lively discussion ensued, in which Clara
illustrated her position by an allusion to his old habit of holding her
hands and laughing at her helpless rage. “If you had known the nature of
girls you would never have done such a thing,” she said, “for it made me
hate you, and to this day I cannot think of it without indignation,
though we should not remember wrongs done us by children.”
“You were pert and saucy,” said Dan, “and put on airs of superiority,
because you got your lessons and were petted by the teachers.”
“And you wished to show your superiority in something, I suppose. Well,
we will not think of disagreeable things. You are my only brother, and
are going to be just and kind to Susie, so we shall never quarrel any
more;” and Clara, putting down all hard feelings caused by Dan’s
betrayal and desertion of Susie, passed her hand affectionately through
his arm, and then submitted to being hugged, though she could not
forbear a little resentment at his roughness. “No woman of refinement
will ever love such a bear,” she said.
“Nonsense! women like to be handled roughly.”
“That shows how much you know about it—about refined women, at least. Do
you think Miss Marston—”
“D—n Miss Marston!”
“I am ashamed of you.”
“Of course: you always were. Your big snob, Delano, would not say
‘mill-dam,’ I suppose. You’ll get enough of him, or I’m greatly
mistaken. _He_ is one of the kind that understands women, no doubt.”
Clara was very angry, but for Susie’s sake and the object she had set
her heart upon, she controlled the expression of it. She had succeeded
in making Dan promise to call on Susie that very evening, and both she
and Mrs. Buzzell had urged Susie to marry Dan if he proposed it, and he
had already assented. Clara went over to Mrs. Buzzell’s with Dan, and,
leaving him in the parlor, sent Susie to him, kissing her, and saying,
“You know it is not wholly for your own sake, dear, or we would not have
urged it.”
As Susie entered, he rose and took her hand. She gave his the faintest
little pressure, and left him no time for preliminaries, but said at
once, “You know the one cause that has made me yield, against my better
judgment, to the desire of your sister and my good friend, Mrs. Buzzell.
Understand well, I do so on this condition, which I imagine,” she added,
a little bitterly, “you will have no objection to—that you never
recognize me as your wife in any way. I, on my part, shall never claim
any legal rights any more than if you were actually dead.”
“That seems to me all bosh. We are not to live together, and that is
enough. Of course, I marry you because I wish to save you from bearing
all the brunt of the battle.”
“The worst is over. All that I can suffer from disgrace I have already
suffered; but I have not lost my self-respect, low as I may be in your
esteem; and I shall not, thanks to the noble hearts that came to me when
I thought God had forsaken me as well as you.”
When Susie said, “low as I am in your esteem,” she had had a sudden hope
that it might reveal his unnatural conduct toward her in so terrible a
light that he would hate himself, and exhibit some sorrow for the misery
he had caused, if not a desire to atone by trying to call back to her
his wandering heart—love is so blind, so foolish, in its way of hoping
against hope! She had decided that the marriage should be only a legal
act, to make her child what society calls legitimate; but oh! it would
have been so sweet to her to be forced to change that decision through a
tender appeal from Dan—through anything that showed he held her love
precious, and would not lose it after all; but no such sign came. He
only said, in a way that wounded her deeply, “I don’t see the use of
harping on what is past, nor in getting married, if you are not to have
the advantage of being known as a wife.”
It cost Susie a terrible effort to not spurn him and his offer with
contempt, for her mood was rapidly passing from the negative to the
positive; but she was in a peculiar position. Clara and Mrs. Buzzell
expected her to take a certain course, and she could make any sacrifice
rather than disappoint them. She said, therefore, very calmly, “I have
said that it is not for myself that I assent to your marrying me; the
child might not live; and then I should regret that you were obliged to
be known as the husband of Susie Dykes. Unless it lives, this ceremony
will never be made known by my consent.”
“No danger of its not living. That is not the kind that has a weak hold
on life. Well, have it all your own way,” he added, cowardly letting
every responsibility fall upon her.
Susie was sick at heart, and longed to end the meeting. She had heard
enough. She rose, to signify the fact. Dan took his hat, and, as he did
so, said, “There’s no use crying over spilled milk. We will be friends,
at least. Kiss me, Susie.”
“Why should I kiss the lover of Miss Marston? I confess I had rather
not. But do not think me angry, or that I have any desire to reproach
you. I know you could not resist a powerful attraction like that, and
from my very soul, Dan, I wish I were dead and you her husband;” and
controlling her emotion, she smiled and gave him her hand cordially. He
was tempted greatly to draw her towards him and kiss her, whether she
desired it or not; but something in her face he had never seen there
before—something of firmness and womanly dignity that awed him—prevented
him, and, pressing her hand hurriedly, he left the house. When he was
gone, of course Susie gave way utterly to her sorrow. She had thought
lately, that in her reading and study, in her work and in present and
prospective cares, she had finally escaped most of her suffering; but
this evening had revealed more clinging to straws, more feeding the
hungry heart upon dry husks, to use the doctor’s words. The process of
robbing the heart of its illusions is long and tedious. Let us have
patience with Susie. There is something rare and fine in her nature that
begins to show itself through all her hard conditions; and despite the
low surroundings of her childhood, she has grown already above that,
like the sacred lotus above the mud; and as the mud nourishes and
develops the beautiful lily under the sunbeam, so the sad memories of
Susie’s early life, aided by the vivifying influence of the kindly human
sympathy she has won, will nourish and develop a grace and beauty of
soul that will fit her for the work she has to do.
Passively, Susie submitted to the judgment of Clara and Mrs. Buzzell,
and a day or two later the marriage was to take place, in a distant town
at the terminus of Dan’s railroad route, where he had “six hours off,”
he said, and that was “time enough to do considerable damage.” Clara was
to accompany her friend, and to see her safely home again. She arrived
at Mrs. Buzzell’s some time before the train left, but found Susie
ready, even to her hat and gloves, but looking, as she declared, a
picture of gloom. She was dressed entirely in black.
“Well, then,” said Susie, trying to smile, “my looks do not belie my
feelings. I feel a presentiment that something bad is going to happen.”
“I begin to think,” remarked Mrs. Buzzell, as she insisted upon Susie’s
swallowing a glass of her currant wine, “that we have done wrong to urge
the poor child to this step. I’m afraid no good will come of it.”
“Come! let us be off at once,” said Clara, gayly. “I don’t like this
aspect of indecision in Mrs. Buzzell. It means anything but business.”
Dan came occasionally and sat near them during the journey. He said he
had “seen the parson and arranged everything all right.” Susie kept her
veil down all the time. On arriving at the terminus, Dan sent them to
the ladies’ room in the station, having some matter of business to
attend to, and then joined them and conducted them in a carriage to a
hotel, though the distance was exceedingly short, and into a fine
private room, where an elegant dinner for three was already waiting.
Clara tried to be gay, and really could have been so but for Susie, who
trembled like a leaf and looked very pale. Clara removed Susie’s hat and
shawl, and said a thousand reassuring words. Susie tried hard to
respond. Clara saw with pain the effort, and pitied Susie more than
ever. Here the waiter appeared, his napkin over his arm, and asked if he
should serve the dinner. Clara whispered to Dan to put it off, if he
could, a few minutes, and for mercy’s sake to say something comforting
to Susie.
“You may wait ten minutes,” said Dan to the waiter; “but bring the wine
at once.”
“Gay wedding, sis. Don’t you think so?”
“Oh, don’t mind my feeling a little ill,” said Susie, with an effort. “I
feel a little better already.” Dan expressed himself as being “hungry as
a wolf,” and no doubt he was. He had, in the simple ignorance of his
nature, thought a nice dinner would please Clara and Susie, and felt a
little savage to have it put off; therefore, more perhaps from hunger
than anything else, he went and sat down by Susie, and took her hand in
his. Tears, tears forever! What could the poor child do but cry? Dan was
a little touched, and made a very praiseworthy attempt to soothe her.
“Oh, I wish I could cry them all out,” said Susie, wiping her eyes. “You
are so good, both of you, to have so much patience with me. There!” she
said, laughing dismally, “I believe there are no more.”
When the champagne came—of course Dan had provided that—he poured it out
copiously and dismissed the waiter. He insisted upon both Susie and
Clara drinking, and, fearing to displease him, they assented. No sooner
were their glasses half empty than he refilled them; and then the soup
was served. With the second course the waiter brought more champagne,
and when he left Clara exclaimed, good-naturedly, “Mercy! Dan, you are
not expecting us to drink any more?”
“Why not? It seems we need something to keep our courage screwed up to
the sticking point.”
“Oh, our courage is in no danger of failing, is it, Susie? Think of it!
In an hour or so you will be a lawful and wedded wife; and oh! you don’t
know how much more _I_ shall respect you! Only a nice little bit of
juggling, and honor will come out of dishonor, like Jack out of his
box.” After awhile Susie talked a little, though she could eat nothing
after the soup. Dan’s spirits rose mightily with the second bottle of
champagne, and he began to be even sentimental to Susie, who took the
liberty, after a while, to beg him to not drink any more champagne.
“What’s two bottles of champagne on your wedding-day?” he roared. “Did
you ever hear how they drink whisky in Texas? A friend of mine was
traveling out there last winter, and he stopped at a half-way house, and
found they had not a drop; but they told him the widow Smith, living a
mile further on, had a barrel the Saturday before. He would get plenty
there. So he rode on, and driving up to the door, sung out. A woman
poked her head out of the door and asked what he wanted. He told her he
wanted something to drink. She told him she had not a thing to drink in
the house. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘they told me back here that you had a barrel
of whisky last Saturday.’
“‘Well, so I did; but what’s one barrel of whisky with five little
children and the cow dry?’” Dan laughed vociferously at his story, and
his guests laughed also, but more to please him, for they were both a
little serious over his drinking. They kept him, however, from ordering
a third bottle; but in revenge he visited the bar-room on their way to
the carriage, which was waiting at the door. On the way to the
minister’s house Susie whispered to Clara, without Dan’s perceiving it,
“I should have heeded my presentiment, and stayed at home.”
At the minister’s house they were shown into the parlor, where they were
kept waiting some time, Susie growing more and more agitated every
moment; but Dan seemed to be quite sober, and behaved very well until
the minister came. He was a tall, fat, pompous man, with a face that
repelled Clara instinctively. He noticed Susie’s agitation, and asked
some questions that Dan took offence at, but he really only
remonstrated, Clara thought, in quite proper terms, under the
circumstances; but the functionary grew very red in the face, and said:
“Your conduct, sir, allow me to say, is exceedingly improper. Allow me
to say, sir, I doubt if you are a fit subject for this solemn service.”
“I know my own business, and don’t want any palavering. You do your own
business, and I’ll do mine, without your preaching.”
“My business, as you call it, is not at your service to-day,” he said,
rising. “I order you to leave the house. I have nothing to do with low
ruffians.”
“You shall have something to do with a gentleman though, once in your
life,” said Dan, approaching him threateningly. Clara and Susie were
already in the hall. Clara called Dan imperatively, and proceeded to the
door, supporting Susie, who was ready to faint. They heard the minister
say a very insulting thing in reply to Dan’s threat, and the next moment
a fall like a sack of wheat was easily interpreted. Dan had applied his
“science,” and the fat man was sprawling on the carpet. Before any of
the family appeared, the carriage drove off. Dan raved and swore, though
he was sober enough so far as the effects of his drinking went. To
Clara’s utter astonishment, Susie seemed perfectly recovered from all
her anxiety, and even smiled.
“We can get the four o’clock train,” said Clara, looking at her watch.
“We will not wait for yours, as we intended.” Dan savagely changed the
order to the coachman. At the station Clara would not speak nor look at
her brother, with whom she was infinitely disgusted; but Susie shook
hands with him, and said, “I was ashamed of you for being so violent,
Dan, but I am happier than I have been since I saw you last.”
“I think you are a fool,” he said, sullenly.
“May be I am, dear, but I am not your wife.” She said this without the
slightest anger, and smiled on him like a seraph, as she entered the car
which was just moving.
Thus ended Dan’s marriage.