HE MAKES AN EVENING CALL.
It's very provoking to a bashful man to have the family pew only one
remove from the pulpit. I didn't feel like going to church the day
after the picnic, but father wouldn't let me off. I caught my foot in
a hole in the carpet walking up the aisle, which drew particular
attention to me; and dropped by hymn-book twice, to add to the
interest I had already excited in the congregation. My fingers are
always all thumbs when I have to find the hymn.
"I do believe you did take cold yesterday," said mother, when we came
out. "You must have a fever, for your face is as red as fire."
Very consoling when a young man wants to look real sweet. But that's
my luck. I'll be as pale as a poet when I leave my looking-glass, but
before I enter a ball-room or a dining-room I'll be as red as an
alderman. I have often wished that I could be permanently whitewashed,
like a kitchen wall or a politician's record. I think, perhaps, if I
were whitewashed for a month or two I might cure myself of my habit of
blushing when I enter a room. I bought a box of "Meen Fun" once, and
tried to powder; but I guess I didn't understand the art as well as
the women do; it was mean fun in good earnest, for the girl I was
going to take to singing-school wanted to know if I'd been helping my
ma make biscuits for supper; and then she took her handkerchief and
brushed my face, which wasn't so bad as it might have been, for her
handkerchief had patchouly on it and was as soft as silk. But that
wasn't Belle Marigold, and so it didn't matter.
To return to church. I went again in the evening, and felt more at
home, for the kerosene was not very bright. I got along without any
accident. After meeting was out, father stopped to speak to the
minister. As I stood in the entry, waiting for him, Belle came out,
and asked me how I felt after the picnic. I saw she was alone, and so
I hemmed, and said: "Have you any one to see you home?"
She said, "No; but I'm not afraid--it's not far," and stopped and
waited for me to offer her my arm, looking up at me with those
bewitching eyes.
"Oh," said I, dying to wait upon her, but not daring to crook my elbow
before the crowd, "I'm glad of that; but if you are the least bit
timid, Miss Marigold, father and I will walk home with you."
Then I heard a suppressed laugh behind me, and, turning, saw that
detestable Fred Hencoop, who never knew what it was to feel modest
since the day his nurse tied his first bib on him.
"Miss Marigold," said he, looking as innocent as a lamb, "if you do me
the honor to accept my arm, I'll try and take you home without calling
on my pa to assist me in the arduous duty." And she went with him.
I was very low-spirited on the way home.
"As sure as I live I'll go and call on her to-morrow evening, and show
her I'm not the fool she thinks I am," I said, between my gritted
teeth. "I'll take her a new sash to replace the one I spoiled at the
picnic, and we'll see who's the best fellow, Hencoop or I."
The next afternoon I measured off four yards of the sweetest
sash-ribbon ever seen in Babbletown, and charged myself with seven
dollars--half my month's salary, as agreed upon between father and
me--and rolled up the ribbon in white tissue paper, preparatory to the
event of the evening.
"Where are you going?" father asked, as I edged out of the store just
after dark.
"Oh, up the street a piece."
"Well, here's a pair o' stockings to be left at the Widow Jones'. Just
call as you go by and leave 'em, will you?"
I stuck the little bundle he gave me in my coat-tail pocket; but by
the time I passed the Widow Jones' house I was so taken up with the
business on hand that I forgot all about the stockings.
I could see Miss Marigold sitting at the piano and hear her singing as
I passed the window. It was awful nice, and, to prolong the pleasure,
I stayed outside about half an hour, then a summer shower came up, and
I made up my mind and rang the bell. Jane came to the door.
"Is the squire at home?" says I.
"No, sir, he's down to the hotel; but Miss Marigold, she's to hum,"
said the black girl, grinning. "Won't you step in? Miss will be
dreffle sorry her pa is out."
She took my hat and opened the parlor door; there was a general
dazzle, and I bowed to somebody and sat down somewhere, and in about
two minutes the mist cleared away, and I saw Belle Marigold, with a
rose in her hair, sitting not three feet away, and smiling at me as if
coaxing me to say something.
"Quite a shower?" I remarked.
"Indeed--is it raining?" said she.
"Yes, indeed," said I; "it came up very sudden."
"I hope you didn't get wet?" said she, with a sly look.
"Not this time," said I, trying to laugh.
"Does it lighten?" said she.
"A few," said I.
Miss Marigold coughed and looked out of the window. There was a pause
in our brilliant conversation.
"I think we shall have a rainy night," I resumed.
"I'm _so_ afraid of thunder," said she. "I shall not sleep a bit if it
thunders. I shall sit up until the rain is over. I never like to be
alone in a storm. I always want some one _close by me_," she said,
with a little shiver.
[Illustration: "I'M SO FRIGHTENED, MR. FLUTTER," SAID SHE; "I FEEL, IN
MOMENTS LIKE THESE, HOW SWEET IT WOULD BE TO HAVE SOME ONE TO CLING
TO."]
I hitched my chair about a foot nearer hers. It thundered pretty loud,
and she gave a little squeal, and brought her chair alongside mine.
"I'm so frightened, Mr. Flutter," said she: "I feel, in moments like
these, how sweet it would be to have someone to cling to."
And she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.
"Dear Belle," said I, "would you--would you--could you--now--"
"What?" whispered she, very softly.
"If I thought," I stammered, "that you could--that you would--that it
was handy to give me a drink of water." She sprang up as if shot, and
rang a little hand-bell.
"Jane, a glass of water for this gentleman--_ice_-water," in a very
chilly tone, and she sat down over by the piano.
Bashful fool and idiot that I was. I had lost another opportunity.
After I had swallowed the water Jane had left the room. I bethought me
of the handsome present which I had in my pocket, and, hoping to
regain her favor by that, I drew out the little package and tossed it
carelessly in her lap.
"Belle," said I, "I have not forgotten that I spilled lemonade on your
sash; I hope you will not refuse to allow me to make such amends as
are in my power. If the color does not suit you, I will exchange it
for any you may select."
She began to smile again, coquettishly untying the string and
unwrapping the paper. Instead of the lovely rose-colored ribbon, out
rolled a long pair of coarse blue cotton stockings.
Miss Marigold screamed louder than she had at the thunder.
"It's all a mistake!" I cried; "a ridiculous mistake! I beg your
pardon ten thousand times! They are for the Widow Jones. _Here_ is
what I intended for _you_, dear, dear Belle," and I thrust another
package into heir hands.
"Fine-cut!" said she, examining the wrapper by the light of the lamp
on the piano. "Do you think I chew, Mr. Flutter?--or _dip_? Do you
intend to willfully insult me? Leave the hou----"
"Oh, I beg of you, listen! Here it is at last!" I exclaimed in
desperation, drawing out the right package at last, and myself
displaying to her dazzled view the four yards of glittering ribbon.
"There's not another in Babbletown so handsome. Wear it for _my sake_,
Belle!"
"I will," she sighed, after she had secretly rubbed it, and held it to
the light to make sure of its quality. "I will, John, for your sake."
We were friends again; she was very sweet, and played something on the
piano, and an hour slipped away as if I were in Paradise. I rose to
go, the rain being over.
"But about that paper of fine-cut!" she said, archly, as she went into
the hall with me to get my hat; "do you chew, John?"
"No, Belle, that tobacco was for old man Perkins, as sure as I stand
here. If you don't believe me, smell my breath," said I, and I tried
to get my arm about her waist.
It was kind of dark in the hall; she did not resist so very much; my
lips were only about two inches from hers--for I wanted her to be sure
about my breath--when a voice that almost made me faint away, put a
conundrum to me:
"If you'd a kissed my girl, young man, why would it have been like a
Centennial fire-arm?"
"Because it hasn't gone off yet!" I gasped, reaching for my hat.
"Wrong," said he grimly. "Because it would have been a blunder-buss."
I reckon the squire was right.