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HAD seen Pearl often in hurried visits to Rushwater, but not since
the Erie war began. For three years he had been hard at work in every
department of the growing shop as superintendent. Its voices had turned
from anger to affection; its people loved this man, for the years had
proved him. He was like a father to them. I can think of scores of men
and women who followed his counsel in those days of their youth and
poverty.
I found him, soon after the events I have been describing, ill in his
room at Rushwater. His eyes had been failing; one of his old wounds,
which had cut deep into his head, was giving him sore trouble and
affecting his sight. I was grieved to learn that he could scarcely see
me. A young man from the shop was taking care of him.
I had been thinking of my gains, and they were large, for McCarthy had
been kind and generous, and I was to have one of the highest offices in
the gift of the State. But now, as I saw the failing of my old friend,
I began to think of my losses, and was sorry--sorry that I had missed so
much of the companionship and counsel of one of the greatest men I ever
knew.
“I've missed you, Jake, I've missed you,” he said, with trembling lips,
as he held my hand in his.
I would have given it all then--all the money and the honor which had
been mine--for that I had lost, and I have never changed my mind about
it.
“My friend and fellow-citizen,” said he, cheerfully, after a moment,
“the Committee on Love and Marriage will now report. Has your heart
changed, old boy? Do you still think of Jo?”
“As much as ever,” I said. “Strange how it clings to me!”
“It's the real old-fashioned thing, an' rare as gold,” said he. “I know
what 'tis.”
“I shall never marry,” I said.
“Yes, you will,” said he, with confidence. “Why do you think so?”
“Because she loves you--that's why.”
“But you told me that she was going to be married on their return.”
“So she is; and to you, old boy. You didn't understand me, did ye?”
“No.”
“Wal, I didn't want ye to. I see that Squares had made himself solid
with the Colonel. Squares had prospered, and won the friendship of grand
folks. Squares had flattered the old man and spent loads of money on
him. The Colonel was bound to have Jo marry Squares. I told her to take
her father out of the country and stay until I sent for her. He was
drinking badly, and, anyhow, I thought it would do him good to get away
from his old friends. Jo and he made a kind of treaty: he promised not
to write to Bony, and she promised not to write to you.
“The Colonel wanted to travel, and Jo had plenty of money--her
grandfather left her his fortune. They stayed a year in England, where
Busby was born, and were three years in Italy, India, and Australia.
She wrote me that she'd spent the time in study, and felt sure that you
wouldn't be ashamed of her. Why, Jake, she's never forgotten ye fer a
minute! She was anxious to know whether your love would last or not, and
made me promise to report to her every month, and I did. They've heard
all the news about you and all the news about Bony.”
“Where are they now?”
“On their way to Rushwater,” said Pearl. “They'll be here in this room
at eight o'clock to-night.”
I met McCarthy in the office of the shop, and when our work was finished
we went to Pearl's room. It was 7.30, and I paced up and down, feeling
the slowness of the clock-hands, while the gentleman sat by the bedside
talking with our friend. Suddenly there came a loud rap at the door.
McCarthy opened it, and in stepped the Colonel, erect as a statue, with
his goldheaded cane in one hand and his shiny silk hat in the other.
He was magnificent in a frock suit and silken waistcoat. He bowed and
stepped lightly to the middle of the floor, and stopped as he saw Pearl
lying on the bed. He gave me his hat and cane, and put his arms around
the shoulders of the sick man.
“Old friend, I love you--I love you!” he said.
The Colonel turned with streaming eyes, and in a moment said to us: “My
God, gentlemen, here is old Pearl Brown, the bravest man since Julius
Caesar! There is not one of us that's good enough to black his boots. I
saw him lead a charge at Bull Run when the bullets were trimming him
and cutting his coat to rags; but he didn't mind. He went right on--the
bloodiest thing that ever stood on foot. Went right over the works of
the enemy, and hit a gunner on the head with his flag-staff.
“When we picked him up his clothes were red, and one arm was dangling.
“'Boys,' he whispered, 'they shot my head off back there in the field
somewhere. I saw it fall on the ground, an' I picked it up an' ran like
the devil with it under my arm until I got here. It's right here beside
me, an' I wish you'd bring it along--might need it some day.'
“When he lay sick in the hospital, Lincoln went to see him, and pinned a
medal on his breast.” The Colonel paused.
My dear old friend lay calmly holding the hand of Colonel Busby.
“I'm not to blame for it,” he said, presently. “I didn't know what I was
doin' after that piece o' shell hit me. I thought I saw my head on the
ground, an' that I picked it up and ran as hard as I could, for I heard
you fellows comin' an' thought you'd get it away. I forgot the enemy,
an' was just runnin' to save my head. I struck that gunner because I
thought he would take it away from me. Here is a braver man than I am.”
He took my hand and drew me near him, and added: “Look at the scars on
his face; they're a better badge than I have. Took that blow to save me.
Do you remember him, Colonel? You used to know him as Cricket Heron.”
“To be sure,” said the Colonel; “but I would not have known him, he's
grown so big and tall. If he is your friend, he is mine. Excuse me, I'm
going to get Jo; she's over at the inn. Perhaps you'll have the kindness
to go and fetch her,” he added, turning to McCarthy.
They came in five minutes, the gentleman and Jo, and never have I seen
the like of her. She was twenty-four past that day, and stood tall and
erect, with glowing cheeks and eyes, in the full splendor of her young
womanhood. I was ashamed to show my scarred face to her, and yet I would
have travelled half my life to do it and know what she would say. She
could not hide her joy, nor I mine. Our eyes filled as we greeted each
other, and, somehow, I felt the truth in her little right hand--that she
loved me.
Pearl made me blush with praise, and when I tried to disclaim the credit
which he put upon me--knowing how small a thing it was--Jo commanded me
to be silent, and said that I had no right to belittle her pride in
a friend. The Colonel rose and stood erect, and stroked his white
imperial.
“Attention!” he commanded, with that fine military manner of his.
“Heron, old boy,” he went on, as he touched his forelock and swung his
hand in the air, “I salute you, and apologize for all the indignities
of the past; and, dear friends, while we are giving out the medals of
honor, I would respectfully invite your attention to this young lady.
She is the greatest of all women--the dearest daughter in the land.”
He turned to me, and continued: “You will remember, sir, my fondness
for the flowing bowl and my many follies, which I would blush to
mention. She--she, sir, with the tenderness of true womanhood, with the
love that passeth all understanding, has lifted me up and made a man of
me.”
The Colonel was interrupted by applause, led by the gentleman, who rose
and said:
“Mr. Chairman, I move that we give the young lady a vote of love and
honor, and that we recommend her for promotion from daughter to wife,
with the title of Mrs. and the rank of a great-hearted woman, as soon
as we can find a man worthy of her. Greater than the man of the sword is
the heroine of the home who has subdued its enemies with the strong hand
of love.”
“I second the motion,” said Pearl.
“Question,” I urged.
The Colonel bowed low, and in look, word, and manner rose to greatness,
it seemed to me.
“Those in favor will salute her with a kiss,” said the old gentleman, as
he embraced his daughter.
Then he led her to Pearl, who recorded his vote, after which he pinned
one of his medals on her waist, and then the hand-made gentleman
supported the motion. It was my turn next.
She laughed and turned away from me, her cheeks red as roses. Then she
ran to the corner of the room, and hid her face in her handkerchief and
cried a little, and I stole up and kissed her cheek and led her back to
her chair, and every man of us had wet eyes for some reason.
“Now,” said the Colonel, cheerfully, as he rose and went to the
fireplace, “with your kind indulgence, I will sing you a song.”
He sang an old lyric entitled _The Man of Scars_, pointing at Pearl
and me as he roared along, and, really, it took all the shame out of
me which had come of my injured looks. I sat down by her, and we had a
little talk of “old times,” as we called them.
Some one spoke of Bony.
“By the blood of the martyrs,” said Colonel Busby, “he hasn't a scar on
his body, and never will have unless he meets with an accident!”
“Which he has done,” said the Pearl of great price, as he smiled at
McCarthy.
“I think we'd better go,” said the gentleman. “I'm afraid that our dear
friend on the bed there is growing weary.”
We shook his hand and bade him good-night, and then McCarthy and I
walked to the inn with Jo and the Colonel. They were to start for
Merrifield at six o'clock in the morning.
“You should see our shop before you leave here,” I said.
“You take my father to see the shop, and I'll try to entertain Mr.
McCarthy while you're gone,” she suggested.
The Colonel and I went together to the shop, then running night and day.
We tramped through its long, busy floors, and by-and-by sat down, with
our cigars, in the office.
“My friend,” said the Colonel, presently, “I should be proud to have you
visit me at Merrifield.”
“That cannot be,” I said, “until I have your permission to propose to
Jo.”
“Heron, I've been a fool,” he said. “I hate to confess, but I can't help
it, and then it doesn't matter much, for the fact is generally known.
Forgive me, sir, and, believe me, I should be proud to have you for a
son-in-law.”
We returned to the inn.
“Mr. McCarthy has been telling me about his stables,” said Jo to her
father. “Perhaps he would be kind enough to show them to you.”
“Glad to take you there,” said the gentleman, as he went away with the
Colonel.
“Did he invite you to Merrifield?” Jo asked. “Yes, and more. He has
consented--”
“Merrifield is delightful,” she interrupted. “We live in the old house
that was built by my grandfather. I've always said that if I ever had
the luck to be engaged and married, I'd like it all to happen there.”
I took her hand and said: “Look here, young lady, I've made up my mind
that I shall turn the key in that door and keep you a prisoner until
you've promised to marry me. You've established a sort of precedent in
your treatment of poor Sam--don't you remember it?”
“Dear old Sam!” she exclaimed. “I couldn't have forgotten you if I had
tried. He was forever talking about you, and to every letter he added
a postscript, which contained the last news of C. H. He's watched your
career very closely.”
I sat down by her side, and drew her close to me.
“I really cannot wait,” I said.
“Nor I,” she whispered; and then I felt her soul in her lips, and I need
say no more of that day, best of these many of which I have tried
to tell you, save this: Jo sad her father promised to delay their
home-going to meet my mother and sister, who would be with us in the
morning.