The weeks which seemed so long to Elise and Hyacinth, and so desperately
crowded to Aunt Gertrude (who was quite as excited and flustered as if
she were going to be married herself) _we_ can skip over at will. It is
enough to say that within them the old house underwent such a cleaning
and scrubbing and furbishing up as it had not known in five and twenty
years. Mr. Lambert talked of building a new wing for the newly married
couple. The floors were scrubbed and freshly oiled, the brass and pewter
was polished until the antique household wares fairly winked at you
through the glass doors of the cupboards. The woodwork was rubbed until
it shone like satin; fresh curtains went up at the windows, carpets were
beaten, the front door and the window frames received a fine new coat of
green paint, and Mr. Lambert himself put on a new latch to the door of
the Bakery. And when these wonders had been accomplished, Aunt Gertrude
entrusted the proprietorship of the Bakery to Hyacinth and Anna, and
solemnly shut herself up to make the wedding cake. It was to be such a
wedding cake as Frederickstown had never seen before--a mammoth
delicacy, destined to be long remembered, composed of spices and raisins
and citron and nuts, all buried under a snowy frosting, and artistic
decorations designed by the versatile Hyacinth, who was allowed to
contribute to this part of it, only.
And then came the day when the Samuel Winklers arrived, and took up
their quarters at the Red Fox Inn, midway between Frederickstown and
Goldsboro. And after they had paid their respects to their cousins, and
presented their daughter-in-law-to-be with innumerable gifts, there was
a party in their honor, at which Granny presided with the greatest
dignity and Mr. Lambert proposed no less than eighteen toasts which were
enthusiastically drunk in blackberry wine. In fact, the wedding
festivities in honor of a union which restored the house of Winkler to
its former state of security threatened to completely disorganize the
delighted community.
At last the sixth of December--the wedding-day--was come.
In accordance with a time-honored custom, the ceremony was performed at
eight o'clock at night. And what a night it was! The first snow of the
winter had fallen, covering streets and house-tops with a thick, soft,
sparkling mantle. And like a Russian bride, Elise returned from the old
church with the sound of sleigh bells jingling in the clear, frosty air.
A beautiful bride she was, too, rosy and golden-haired and blue-eyed;
and as for Hyacinth! with a flower in his button-hole, with his hair all
sleek and glossy, with such an expression of importance and
sedateness--it was no wonder that his parents gazed upon him with eyes
actually moist with pride, and Elise thought him a matchless paragon
amongst men.
No one knows to this day how all the guests that came managed to crowd
themselves into the old house, but they did, and no less than thirty of
them sat down at the table with the bride and bridegroom. There was
scarcely one imprint of footsteps in the new-fallen snow that night that
did not point in the direction of the Bakery.
A little after nine o'clock, the musicians arrived, Tom Drinkwater with
his fiddle, and Mr. Mellitz with his trombone in a huge green felt case,
and Frank Fisher with his harp and old Mr. Gilroy with his cello. They
settled themselves in a corner, tuned up a bit, and then the dancing
began.
It was with immeasurable pride that on this occasion, Mr. Lambert
welcomed Mr. Sheridan amongst his guests--Mr. Timothy Sheridan, nephew
to the late Major, and of a family that had had its roots in
Frederickstown as long as the Winklers themselves, or nearly. Lily was a
bridesmaid, and it was with her that Mr. Lambert himself started the
dancing. Mrs. Deacon was there, gorgeous in purple and plumes, the
Websters in a solid phalanx--in fact there was not a face that was
familiar in Frederickstown that was not to be seen that night glowing
with satisfaction and good will and personal enjoyment under the roof of
the Lambert-Winkler dwelling.
It was when the general merriment was at its height that Jane, laden
with a tray of refreshments approached the overheated musicians who were
scraping and blowing and thumping away in that corner of the dining room
from which Mr. Lambert's desk--as an article that harmonized too little
with the elegance of the occasion--had been temporarily banished.
"In another four or five years or so, we'll be making music at _your_
wedding no doubt--if we live, eh?" said old Elias Gilroy at last laying
aside his cello for a moment, to take a long draught of cider. When he
came out of the mug, wiping his grizzled moustaches delicately on a blue
polka dot handkerchief he winked merrily at Jane, who had sat down
beside him.
"And why aren't you twirling round with the boys, my lassie?" he went on
affectionately, now helping himself to a gigantic slice of cake.
"I came over to watch you--and besides, I'd rather look on," said Jane,
carefully smoothing out the skirt of her new blue silk dress. "Shall I
get you some more cider, Mr. Gilroy?"
"Well--I'll not trouble you," said he, uncertainly, "though if there's
plenty to be had--"
"There's lots. There's lots and lots of everything!" cried Jane. "I'll
bring a pitcher!"
When the enthusiastic musicians had had "fresh heart put into 'em" as
Mr. Gilroy said, she stood by watching them tune up their instruments
for a new onslaught on the famous, lively measures of "Old Uncle Ned."
"Oh, I _do_ wish I could make music out of that big thing!" she cried
pointing to the cello.
"You have to be born to it," replied Mr. Gilroy solemnly, sawing away
with all his might. "It's an easier matter to blow a tune through
that--" he jerked his head in the direction of Mr. Mellitz's gleaming
trombone, whose huge tones fairly drowned out the voices of the other
instruments. Mr. Mellitz, though he might have taken offense at the
disparaging manner in which his colleague referred to his instrument,
seemed not to have heard Mr. Gilroy's remark. He sat behind the other
three, directly under the window, staring fixedly down the shining tube
of the trombone at his music;--a meager, melancholy looking man, little
given to sociable conversation, with a tallow-colored face which just
now was swollen out as he forced all the breath in his lean body into
the mouthpiece.
"Why," wondered Jane, "did he choose to play the trombone?"
With her hands folded in her lap, she sat watching him fixedly, as he
pushed his slide up and down. All around her people were dancing,
eating, drinking, talking, laughing. People were leaving, people were
coming--she was not thinking about them--she was not even thinking about
solemn Mr. Mellitz nor of how Mr. Gilroy coaxed his deep, sweet tones
out of the frayed strings of his old cello.
She was wondering where Paul was. The very gaiety of the family reunion
made her feel the absence of the outcast all the more keenly. Her
cheerful hope of his return had waned steadily during the past weeks.
There was no news of him, although Mr. Lambert himself had tried to
trace him. No, he was gone.
"Well, my lassie, if you watch us hard enough no doubt you'll learn a
thing or two about it," remarked Mr. Gilroy, when the music came to a
stop at the end of the dance, and the musicians mopped their perspiring
faces. "Here, take this bow, since you're so curious, and have a try at
it, while I breathe easy a moment or two." He put the neck of his cello
into her hand, and showed her how to press her fingers on the strings.
"Now, just take the bow so--like this, see? That's better--and _bite_
the string with it--"
Jane laughingly tried to do as she was told, but the sound that the
instrument emitted under her touch showed only too plainly that sweetly
as it could sing under the fingers of Mr. Gilroy it had a very different
temper for rash amateurs.
As she looked up, laughing, into the old man's face, she suddenly caught
her breath in a gasp. Through the window, just behind the long head of
Mr. Mellitz, it seemed to her that she had seen a face--though the next
moment it had disappeared.
"What is it?" inquired Mr. Gilroy, noticing her frightened expression.
"Aren't seeing ghosts are ye?" he added jocosely.
Jane shook her head, but she looked again, uneasily, at the window.
There was nothing there but the reflection of the interior of the
room--Anna taking plates of the table, two or three older men standing
by the fire, the silhouettes of the musicians' heads, her mother
hurrying in to see about something and then hurrying out again, people
moving past the door.
Then, all of a sudden, there it was again! Fantastically white, it
seemed to Jane, and apparently without any body accompanying it, so that
it looked like a mask suspended outside the window. She sprang up in a
fright, not thinking for a moment that it might be no more than the face
of some inquisitive wayfarer, who had stolen into the garden to peer in
upon the festivities.
All at once, hope, fear, doubt and joy broke over her.
_"Paul!"_
The cello fell over onto the floor with an indignant "thrum-m!" as she
darted forward. The next moment, she had opened the door, and stood upon
the snowy step, looking eagerly about in the shadows of the garden.
"Paul! Paul! Are you there?"
A figure moved out of the darkness, into the shaft of light that
streamed through the open door.
"Janey!" She heard the unmistakably familiar short laugh as she flung
herself into his bear-like hug.
"You've come back! I knew it! I knew you would!" she cried, patting his
shoulders and the wet, rough sleeves of his shabby coat in a perfect
ecstasy of delight. "Oh, Paul--come in! come in quickly!" But he drew
back.
"No, no Janey. I can't do that. But what's going on, anyway?"
"Why, Paul--don't you know? It's Elise--Elise's wedding. And what do you
think? There's another Winkler after all--Oh, you've got to come in,
Paul--"
"No; Janey--I can't," he repeated firmly. "I'll come back again some
day, as I promised--but not now. I can't do it now. I only stopped to
look in--I'm on my way down to Riverbury--there's a fellow down there
who says he has some work for me, if I want to come. I--I just stopped
to peek in, thinking that perhaps I'd see you all sitting around the
fire. A fine wedding guest I'd make," he added laughing. "I'd be a worse
mortification to Uncle Peter than ever I was. No, Janey, I can't. Walk
in there like this? The black sheep of the family coming in like a
vagabond at the wedding feast?"
Indeed, he was shabby enough--and in his laugh was a tell-tale note of
something like shame. It stung his pride not a little to have even Janey
see the plain evidences of the rather unsuccessful struggle he had been
waging with circumstances. He wore the same old seaman's cap, the same
old short, thick jacket--but frayed edges, patches, and empty
buttonholes did not escape Janey's eyes, and he knew it, and tried to
draw out of the light. He was much thinner too, and even a trifle
taller, so that his garments, which had never fitted him kindly were now
still looser in the places where they had once been much too loose and
tighter where they had once been much too tight. He felt also that the
light showed only too plainly the traces that actual hunger had drawn in
his face, and of these he was more ashamed than of his clothes.
"You mustn't stand out here, Janey--you're shivering in that thin dress.
And I must say good-bye--you've left the door open, and here come some
people."
Janey glanced over her shoulder. Through the door from the hall, her
father was entering the dining room, with Elise, followed by Hyacinth
and Aunt Gertrude, and then the remaining guests. The ceremony of
solemnly drinking the bride's health was about to take place. Granny sat
at the head of the table.
"How lovely Elise looks," said Paul, "and how nice it is to see them
all. There's Mrs. Deacon--and Lily and Mr. Sheridan--and there's my
friend, Amelia. Is that fellow with the beard the bridegroom?"
"That's Hyacinth. And he's a Winkler--a real true Winkler, Paul. I found
him."
"Did you?" said Paul, laughing, "I'm not surprised."
"Only I didn't know he was a Winkler--so it doesn't count--"
"Here comes Uncle Peter! He's seen you, Janey. Good-bye, dear." But she
held both his hands tightly.
"I won't let you go! I won't, Paul! You don't understand. It's all
right--"
Just then, Mr. Lambert pushed the half-open door wide.
"Jane! What are you doing? Come in at once--you've chilled the whole
house!"
Everyone had turned, and was staring in amazement, as Jane pulled Paul
to the threshold, under her father's very nose.
"What's this?" cried Mr. Lambert, seizing his nephew by the arm.
"It's--me, Uncle," said Paul. "I am going. I only--"
"Going!" cried Mr. Lambert. "Going! Not at all! Come in! Come in!"
The next thing that the bewildered Paul was conscious of was that he was
standing inside the room, facing the table full of guests, with his
uncle's arm jovially embracing his shoulders, Jane clinging to his hand,
and everyone exclaiming over the returned prodigal.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" announced Mr. Lambert, but his speech was cut
short, as Aunt Gertrude rushed forward to kiss the utterly dazed,
uncomprehending, and horribly embarrassed boy.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Mr. Lambert began again, "you are aware, I
think, of the recent honor bestowed upon my nephew--an honor which is
shared not only by his family, but by this community of which he is a
part!" The remainder of the speech, no less than its resounding
introduction was pure Greek to Paul, who stood with his long arms
dangling, helplessly, and with open mouth, gazing from face to face, as
if trying to piece out the solution of the mystery.
Then everyone began to clap their hands. His appearance had for the time
being absorbed all interest. Granny, almost hidden behind the towering
wedding cake, which had just been brought on to be cut, pulled him to
her, and kissed him. Carl, looking very clean and spruce in his new
suit, and snowy collar and polished shoes, shook hands with him. Elise
embraced him, regardless of her silk dress, and her flowers and her
veil; Hyacinth, looking abnormally solemn and important--the exuberant
nature lover and enemy of civilization had miraculously vanished to give
place to one of the most civilized and sedate of young men--Hyacinth
shook his hand, and said something very incoherent and flowery about the
pleasure and honor of meeting his distinguished cousin, and about their
being in some sense, kindred spirits.
And then Paul, understanding nothing whatever, not at all sure that he
was not dreaming, but feeling as happy as he was puzzled, took his place
beside his uncle, to drink the health of the bride, and long life to the
name of Winkler. It was nice to be there, to see all the familiar faces,
to hear the familiar voices--above all it was good to have his part in
this celebration of family happiness, to feel that these were his kin
folk whose joys and sorrows must affect his life just as his affected
theirs. But why was it that the glances that he met shone with pride?
What had _he_ done? Why were they not ashamed of him as he stood there,
tattered and muddy--the very picture of the aimless, shiftless wanderer
that his father had been before him? He blushed for himself, feeling
vaguely that he ought not to be there, after all, that he should have
resisted Jane and Mr. Lambert and gone his way. He looked around the
familiar room,--above the chimneyplace hung the old, clumsily executed
portrait of Great-grandfather Johann, in his snuff-colored Sunday
suit--a severely pleasant-looking old man, with a constant expression of
honesty and self-respect--who now seemed to gaze down placidly and
commendingly upon the united gathering of his descendants. He had worked
for them, had old Johann Winkler; it was his industry, his self-respect,
his respect for the opinions of his fellow-citizens that had laid the
foundations of their comfort and prosperity and their good standing in
the community; from him had come the simple principles upon which they
lived and worked together. And Paul felt, as he looked up into the
painted blue eyes that old Johann would have dealt harshly with those
who disregarded family responsibilities, or brought any shadow of public
censure upon the name. And there, under those keen little blue eyes, he
stood, ragged and disreputable-looking, and the keen little blue eyes
seemed to ask him, "What does this mean, sir?" Yet, Uncle Peter had
bidden him to the feast, and was even now filling the glass in front of
him.
And then the toasts were drunk, and the glasses clinked, and the wedding
cake was cut. And after that, Elise went up to her room to change her
dress, for the sleigh was at the door, and it was high time that the
bride and bridegroom should be on their way. Of peculiar interest, the
fact should be chronicled that when the ascending bride tossed her
bouquet over the bannisters into the midst of her maids, Dolly and
Amelia, and Lily, and Annie Lee, it was Amelia who caught the nosegay!
And at last, the sleigh with its jingling bells had driven swiftly away
over the snowy road. The last handful of rice had been flung; the last
guest had gone, and Aunt Gertrude stood laughing and weeping over the
flight of the first of her little flock--though indeed Elise and her
Hyacinth were going no farther than Salisbury, and would be back in two
days!
Paul and Jane stood side by side on the rice-strewn steps looking up the
moonlit street.
"Mr. Daniels is building a porch on his house, isn't he?" remarked Paul,
quickly detecting the little alterations that had occurred on that
familiar street since his going.
"Come in, children," said Aunt Gertrude, "come in, my dears, and let me
count you all to make sure that no more than one has run away from me!"
And when they had all gathered around her in the old dining room in the
midst of the gay disorder of the wedding-feast, she made a pretense of
counting them, laughing and crying at the same time.
"Here is my Jane and my Carl, and my two sleepy twinnies! That's
four--and here's my missing fifth!" And she gave Paul an extra kiss.
Paul looked around him. Then turning to his uncle he said;
"Uncle Peter, you've been very kind to me. I had no intention to come in
here to-night--I only stopped to look in at you all--and I'm afraid I
wasn't anything to be proud of at Elise's wedding--"
"Come, my boy, no more of that!" said Mr. Lambert briskly; then he came
closer to Paul, and laying his hand on his shoulder looked keenly into
the lean, and somewhat haggard face.
"You've not found life easy since you went away?" he asked kindly.
"Not too easy, sir--and not so bad either," returned Paul, sturdily.
"I've been out of luck a bit lately, but I'm on my way now to Riverbury.
There's a man there that has good, honest work for me. With a little
time, sir, I hope--"
"Why should you be on your way to Riverbury for work when there's work
enough in this town, and a comfortable home for you?"
Paul looked uncertainly from face to face, and then at his uncle again.
"It's here that your people have lived these many years," went on Mr.
Lambert. "It's here that those who are proud of you live now,--"
"_Proud_ of me?" repeated Paul; then he hung his head as he said in a
low voice, "It is not long since that you showed me you had good reason
to be ashamed of me, sir. I was only hoping that in a little I might
do--I might be of some account, sir--as _he_ would expect," and he
jerked his head as he spoke toward the picture of old Johann.
"My boy, I do not say but that I may have judged you over-harshly for
what to other men might seem a light enough indiscretion. I thought
you--a scatter-brained lad that thought too little of things that old
men know to be worth valuing. I had but little sympathy with your
notions, and was angered that you should prattle of pictures and
what-not when--ah, well, let all that be forgotten."
"But Daddy!" cried Jane suddenly, "Paul doesn't know!"
"Doesn't know what?"
"Let _me_ tell him! Let me tell him! It's your picture, Paul--"
"What picture?" asked Paul, with a puzzled frown, looking down at her
eager little face.
"It won, Paul! Don't you understand--it won! And we're all so proud of
you--and it was in the papers--only we didn't know where you were,
and--"
"What _are_ you talking about, Janey?" demanded Paul, cutting short this
rush of breathless words. "_My_ picture won? What picture? Won what?"
"The other one--the one that wasn't burnt--oh, don't _anybody_ interrupt
me! I want to tell him every bit. And they said that 'in spite of many
something-or-other faults it showed'--I've forgotten what--they said it
was awfully, awfully good--oh, I don't know where to begin!"
"Begin at the beginning, darling. No one will interrupt your story,"
said Aunt Gertrude, drawing Jane to her. "And Paul's not going to run
away."
So Janey took a deep breath and commenced afresh; while Paul listened,
first growing pale, and then blushing a deep red. He felt the glow
rushing all over him, and when she had finished, he could not say a
word. They were all looking at him with eyes full of that warm pride
that only a family can feel, and it seemed to him that his triumph had
brought more happiness to them even than to himself. He could not think
of anything to say to them all, and presently he got up, and walked over
to the window, where he stood looking out into the cold little garden.
But what he saw was only the reflection of the group around the
fire--that very group which he had so often pictured to himself with
such homesick longing during his months of exile. He thought of his
lonely father, and his aimless wanderings, and then he knew that he was
glad to have come home again. The world could teach him no more than he
could learn by working and growing and thinking among his own people,
and the world could not give him any praise half so sweet, or half so
inspiring as their simple pride.
Suddenly he felt a warm little hand slip into his. It was Janey.
She looked up at him timidly--his serious profile seemed quite stern to
her.
"Paul, what are you thinking about now?" she asked plaintively.
Then he laughed, and looked more like his old self.
"I was thinking that I shall _not_ go away--if Uncle Peter means that I
needn't. And I was thinking how unpleasant things might be if you,
ma'am, attended strictly to your own affairs!"
"And I," said Mr. Lambert, "am thinking that it is time we all went to
bed. Gertrude, my dear, I hope that Anna will be able to get everything
into order to-morrow. I shall want my desk to be in place especially.
And--er--Breakfast at seven, as usual."
----
And now the doors and windows were locked, and the lights were put out,
and the household was silent and slumbering. But the pale reflection of
the moonlit snow glimmered through the window upon the scene of the late
revelry, and a red glow still shone among the ashes of the fire,
throwing a faint red light through the shadows that deepened over the
painted face of Great-grandfather Johann. And a well-contented
expression that plump, ruddy old face wore--a comfortable, benevolent
patriarchal look, as if that excellent old lover of law and order were
saying, "And now I think everything is quite as it should be!"
THE END