A STOUT LITTLE CABIN
Christmas morning! and the bells in St. Luke's pealing the great old
hymn, dear for scores of years to those who had heard it chiming from
the ivy-grown towers--"_Adeste, Fideles_."
_"Oh, come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!"_
Joyful and triumphant, indeed, though yet subdued and humble, since this
paradox may be at times in human hearts, was Richard Kendrick, as he
stood waiting in the vestibule of St. Luke's, on Christmas morning, for
a tryst he had made. Not with Roberta, for it was not possible for her
to be present to-day, but with Ruth Gray, that young sister who had
become so like a sister by blood to Richard that, at her suggestion, it
had seemed to him the happiest thing in the world to go to church with
her on Christmas morning--the morning of the day which was to see his
marriage.
The Gray homestead was full of wedding guests, the usual family guests
of the Christmas house-party. On the evening before had occurred the
Christmas dance, and Richard had led the festivities, with his
bride-elect at his side. It had been a glorious merry-making and his
pulses had thrilled wildly to the rapture of it. But to-day--to-day was
another story.
A slender young figure, in brown velvet with a tiny twig of holly
perched among furry trimmings, hurried up the steps and into the
vestibule. Richard met Ruth halfway, his face alight, his hand clasping
hers eagerly.
"I'm so sorry I am late," she whispered. "Oh, it's so fine of you to
come. Isn't it a lovely, lovely way to begin this Day--your and Rob's
day, too?"
He nodded, smiling down at her with eyes full of brotherly affection for
a most lovable girl. He followed her into the church and took his place
beside her, feeling that he would rather be here, just now, than
anywhere in the world.
It must be admitted that he hardly heard the service, except for the
music, which was of a sort to make its own way into the most abstracted
consciousness. But the quiet spirit of the place had its effect upon
him, and when he knelt beside Ruth it seemed the most natural thing in
the world to form a prayer in his heart that he might be a fit husband
for the wife he was so soon to take to himself. Once, during a long
period of kneeling, Ruth's hand slipped shyly into his, and he held it
fast, with a quickening perception of what it meant to have a pure young
spirit like hers beside him in this sacred hour. His soul was full of
high resolve to be a son and brother to this rare family into which he
was entering such as might do them honour. For it was a very significant
fact that to him the people who stood nearest to Roberta were of great
consequence; and that a source of extraordinary satisfaction to him,
from the first, had been his connection with a family which seemed to
him ideal, and association with which made up to him for much of which
his life had been empty.
A proof of this had been his invitation, through his grandfather, who
had warmly seconded his wish, to Mr. and Mrs. Rufus Gray, to come and
stay with the Kendricks throughout this Christmas party, precisely as
they had done the year before. To have Aunt Ruth preside at breakfast on
this auspicious morning had given Richard the greatest pleasure, and the
kiss he had bestowed upon her had been one which she recognized as very
like the tribute of a son. From her side he had gone to St. Luke's.
"Good-bye, dear, for a few hours," he whispered to Ruth, as he put her
into the brougham, driven by the old family coachman, in which she had
come alone to church. "When I see you next I'll be almost your brother.
And in just a few minutes after that--"
"Oh, Richard--are you happy?" she whispered back, scanning his face with
brimming eyes.
"So happy I can't tell even you. Give my love, my dearest love, to--"
"I will--" as he paused on the name, as if he could not speak it just
then. "She was so glad to have us go to church together. She wanted to
come herself--so much."
He pressed the small gloved hand held out to him. He knew that Ruth
idealized him far beyond his worth--he could read it in her gaze, which
was all but reverential. He said to himself, as he turned away, that a
man never had so many motives to be true to the girl he was to marry. To
bring the first shade of distrust into this little sister's tender eyes
would be punishment enough for any disloyalty, no matter what the cause
might be.
The wedding was to be at six o'clock. There was nothing about the whole
affair, as it had been planned by Roberta, with his full assent, to make
it resemble any event of the sort in which he had ever taken part. Not
one consideration of custom or of vogue had had weight with her, if it
differed from her carefully wrought-out views of what should be. Her
ruling idea had been to make it all as simple and sincere as possible,
to invite no guests outside her large family and his small one except
such personal friends as were peculiarly dear to both. When Richard had
been asked to submit his list of these, he had been taken aback to find
how pitifully few people he could put upon it. Half a dozen college
classmates, a small number of fellow clubmen--these painstakingly
considered from more than one standpoint--the Cartwrights, his cousins,
whom he really knew but indifferently well; two score easily covered the
number of those whom by any stretch of the imagination he could call
friends. The long roll of his fashionable acquaintance he dismissed as
out of the question. If he had been married in church there would have
been several hundreds of these who must unquestionably have been bidden;
but since Roberta wanted as she put it, "only those who truly care for
us," he could but choose those who seemed to come somewhere near that
ideal. To be quite honest, he was aware that his real friends were among
those who could not be bidden to his marriage. The crippled children in
the hospitals; the suffering poor who would send him their blessing when
they read in to-morrow's paper that he was married; the shop-people in
Eastman who knew him for the kindest employer they had ever had:--these
were they who "truly cared"; and the knowledge was warm at his heart, as
with a ruthless hand he scored off names of the mighty in the world of
society and finance.
"Dick, my boy, you've grown--you've grown!" was his grandfather's
comment, when Richard, with a rueful laugh, had shown the old man the
finished list, upon which, well toward the top, had been the names of
Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Carson. Of Hugh Benson, as best man, Matthew
Kendrick heartily approved. "You've chosen the nugget of pure gold,
Dick," he said, "where you might have been expected to take one with
considerable alloy. He's worth all the others put together."
Richard had never realized this more thoroughly than when, on Christmas
afternoon, he invited Benson to drive with him for a last inspection of
a certain spot which had been prepared for the reception of the bridal
pair at the first stage of their journey. He could not, as Hugh took his
place beside him and the two whirled away down the frost-covered avenue,
imagine asking any other man in the world to go with him on such a
visit. There was no other man he knew who would not have made it the
occasion for more or less distasteful raillery; but Hugh Benson was of
the rarely few, he felt, who would understand what that "stout little
cabin" meant to him.
They came upon it presently, standing bleak and bare as to exterior upon
its hilltop, with only a streaming pillar of smoke from its big chimney
to suggest that it might be habitable within. But when the heavy door
was thrown open, an interior of warmth and comfort presented itself such
as brought an exclamation of wonder from the guest, and made Richard's
eyes shine with satisfaction.
The long, low room had been furnished simply but fittingly with such
hangings, rugs, and few articles of furniture as should suggest
home-likeness and service. Before the wide hearth stood two big winged
chairs, and a set of bookshelves was filled with a carefully chosen
collection of favourite books. The colourings were warm but harmonious,
and upon a heavy table, now covered with a rich, dull red cloth, stood a
lamp of generous proportions and beauty of design.
"I've tried to steer a line between luxury and austerity," Richard
explained, as Hugh looked about him with pleased observation. "We shall
not be equipped for real roughing it--not this time, though sometimes we
may like to come here dressed as hunters and try living on bare boards.
I just wanted it to seem like a bit of home, when she comes in to-night.
There'll be some flowers here then, of course--lots of them, and that
ought to give it the last touch. There are always flowers in her home,
bowls of them, everywhere--it was one of the first things I noticed. Do
you think she will like it here?" he ended, with a hint of almost boyish
diffidence in his tone.
"Like it? It's wonderful. I never heard of anything so--so--all it
should be for--a girl like her," Hugh exclaimed, lamely enough, yet with
a certain eloquence of inflection which meant more than his choice of
words. He turned to Richard. "I can't tell you," he went on, flushing
with the effort to convey to his friend his deep feeling, "how fortunate
I think you are, and how I hope--oh, I hope you and she will be--the
happiest people in the world!"
"I'm sure you hope that, old fellow," Richard answered, more touched by
this difficult voicing of what he knew to be Hugh's genuine devotion
than he should have been by the most felicitous phrasing of another's
congratulations. "And I can tell you this. There's nobody else I know
whom I would have brought here to see my preparations--nobody else who
would have understood how I feel about--what I'm doing to-day. I never
should have believed it would have seemed so--well, so sacred a thing to
take a girl away from all the people who love her, and bring her to a
place like this. I wish--wish I were a thousand times more fit for her."
"Rich Kendrick--" Benson was taken out of himself now. His voice was
slightly tremulous, but he spoke with less difficulty than before. "You
are fitter than you know. You've developed as I never thought any man
could in so short a time. I've been watching you and I've seen it. There
was always more in you than people gave you credit for--it was your
inheritance from a father and grandfather who have meant a great deal in
their world. You've found out what you were meant for, and you're coming
up to new and finer standards every day. You _are_ fit to take this
girl--and that means much, because I know a little of what a--" Now _he_
was floundering again, and his fine, then face flamed more hotly than
before--"of what she is!" he ended, with a complete breakdown in the
style of his phraseology, but with none at all in the conveyance of his
meaning.
Richard flung out his hand, catching Hugh's, and gripping it. "Bless you
for a friend and a brother!" he cried, his eyes bright with sudden
moisture. "You're another whom I mustn't disappoint. Disappoint? I ought
to be flayed alive if I ever forget the people who believe in me--who
are trusting me with--Roberta!"
It was a pity she could not have heard him speak her name, have seen the
way he looked at his friend as he spoke it, and have seen the way his
friend looked back at him. There was a quality in their mentioning of
her, here in this place where she was soon to be, which was its own
tribute to the young womanhood she so radiantly imaged.
In spite of all these devices to make the hours pass rapidly, they
seemed to Richard to crawl. That one came, at last, however, which saw
him knocking at the door of his grandfather's suite, dressed for his
marriage, and eager to depart. Bidden by Mr. Kendrick's man to enter, he
presented himself in the old gentleman's dressing-room, where its
occupant, as scrupulously attired as himself, stood ready to descend to
the waiting car. Richard closed the door behind him, and stood looking
at his grandfather with a smile.
"Well, Dick, boy--ready? Ah, but you look fresh and fine! Clean in body
and mind and heart for her--eh? That's how you look, sir--as a man
should look--and feel--on his wedding day. Well, she's worth it,
Dick--worth the best you can give."
"Worth far better than I can give, grandfather," Richard responded, the
glow in his smooth cheek deepening.
"Well, I don't mean to overrate you," said the old man, smiling, "but
you seem to me pretty well worth while any girl's taking. Not that you
can't become more so--and will, I thoroughly believe. It's not so much
what you've done this last year as what you show promise of doing--great
promise. That's all one can ask at your age. Ten years later--but we
won't go into that. To-night's enough--eh, my dear boy? My dear boy!"
he repeated, with a sudden access of tenderness in his voice. Then, as
if afraid of emotion for them both, he pressed his grandson's hand and
abruptly led the way into the outer room, where Thompson stood waiting
with his fur-lined coat and muffler.
From this point on it seemed to Richard more or less like a rapidly
shifting series of pictures, all wonderfully coloured. The first was
that of the electric light of the big car's interior shining on the
faces of Uncle Rufus and Aunt Ruth, on Mr. Kendrick and Hugh Benson--the
latter a little pale but quite composed. Hugh had owned that he felt
seriously inadequate for the role which was his to-night, being no
society man and unaccustomed to taking conspicuous parts anywhere but in
business. But Richard had assured him that it was all a very simple
matter, since it was just a question of standing by a friend in the
crisis of his life! And Hugh had responded that it would be a pity
indeed if he were unwilling to do that.
The next picture was that of the wide hall at the Gray home--as he came
into it a vivid memory flashed over Richard of his first entrance
there--less honoured than to-night! Soft lights shone upon him; the
spicy fragrance of the ropes and banks of Christmas "greens," bright
with holly, saluted his nostrils; and the glimpse of a great fire
burning, quite as usual, on the broad hearth of the living-room--a place
which had long since come to typify his ideal of a home--served to make
him feel that there could be no spot more suitable for the beginning of
a new home, because there could be nothing in the world finer or more
beautiful to model it upon.
Nothing seemed afterward clear in his memory until the moment when he
came from his room upstairs, with Hugh close behind him, and met the
rector of St. Luke's, who was to marry him. There followed a hazy
impression of a descent of the staircase, of coming from a detour
through the library out into the full lights and of standing
interminably facing a large gathering of people, the only face at which
he could venture to glance that of Judge Calvin. Gray, standing
dignified and stately beside another figure of equal dignity and
stateliness--probably that of Mr. Matthew Kendrick. Then, at last--there
was Roberta, coming toward him down a silken lane, her eyes fixed on
his--such eyes, in such a face! He fixed his own gaze upon it, and held
it--and forgot everything else, as he had hoped he should. Then there
were the grave words of the clergyman, and his own voice responding--and
sounding curiously unlike his own, of course, as the voice of the
bridegroom has sounded in his own ears since time began. Then
Roberta's--how clearly she spoke, bless her! Then, before he knew it, it
was done, and he and she were rising from their knees, and there were
smiles and pleasant murmurings all about them--and little Ruth was
sobbing softly with her cheek against his!
It was here that he became conscious again of the family--Roberta's
family, and of what it meant to have such people as these welcome him
into their circle. When he looked into the face of Roberta's mother and
felt her tender welcoming kiss upon his lips, his heart beat hard with
joy. When Roberta's father, his voice deep with feeling, said to him,
"Welcome to our hearts, my son," he could only grasp the firm hand with
an answering, passionate pressure which meant that he had at last that
which he had consciously or unconsciously longed for all his life. All
down the line his overcharged spirit responded to the warmth of their
reception of him--Stephen and Rosamond, Louis and Ruth and young Ted,
smiling at him, saying the kindest things to him, making him one of them
as only those can who are blessed with understanding natures. To be
sure, it was all more or less confused in his memory, when he tried to
recall it afterward, but enough of it remained vivid to assure him that
it had been all he could have asked or hoped--and that it was far, far
more than he deserved!
"The boy bears up pretty well, eh?" observed old Matthew Kendrick to his
lifelong friend, Judge Calvin Gray, as the two stood aside, having gone
through their own part in the greeting of the bridal pair. Mr.
Kendrick's hand was still tingling with the wringing grip of his
grandson's; his heart was warm with the remembrance of the way Richard's
brilliant eyes had looked into his as he had said, low in the old man's
ear--"I'm not less yours, grandfather--and she's yours, too." Roberta
had put both arms about his neck, whispering: "Indeed I am, dear
grandfather--if you'll have me." Well, it had been happiness enough,
and it was good to watch them as they went on with their joyous task,
knowing that he had a large share in their lives, and would continue to
have it.
"Bears up? I should say he did. He looks as if he could assist in
steadying the world upon the shoulders of old Atlas," answered Judge
Gray happily. "It's a trying position for any man, and some of them only
just escape looking craven."
"The man who could stand beside that young woman and look craven would
deserve to be hamstrung," was the other's verdict. "Cal, she's enough to
turn an old man's head; we can't wonder that a young one's is swimming.
And the best of it is that it isn't all looks, it's real beauty to the
core. She's rich in the qualities that stand wear in a wearing
world--and her goodness isn't the sort that will ever pall on her
husband. She'll keep him guessing to the end of time, but the answer
will always give him fresh delight in her."
"You analyze her well," admitted Roberta's uncle. "But that's to be
expected of a man who's been a pastmaster all his life in understanding
and dealing with human nature."
"When it was not too near me, Cal. When it came to the dearest thing
I had in the world, I made a mistake with it. It was only when the boy
came under this roof that he received the stimulus that has made him
what he is. That was sure to tell in the end."
"Ah, but he had your blood in him," declared Calvin Gray heartily.
Thus, all about them, in many quarters, were the young pair
affectionately discussed. Not the least eloquent in their praise were
the youngest members of the company.
"I say, but I'm proud of my new brother," declared Ted Gray, the picture
of youthful elegance, with every hair in place, and a white rose on the
lapel of his short evening-jacket. He was playing escort to the
prettiest of his girl cousins. "Isn't he a stunner to-night?"
"He always was--that is, since I've known him," responded Esther, Uncle
Philip's daughter. "I can't help laughing when I think of the Christmas
party last year, and how Rob made us all think he was a poor young man,
and she didn't like him at all. All of us girls thought she was so queer
not to want to dance with him, when he was so handsome and danced so
beautifully. I suppose she was just pretending she didn't care for him."
"Nobody ever'll know when Rob did change her mind about him," Ted
assured her. "She can make you think black's green when she wants to."
"Isn't she perfectly wonderful to-night?" sighed the pretty cousin, with
a glance from her own home-made frock--in which, however, she looked
like a freshly picked rose--to Roberta's bridal gown, shimmering through
mistiness, simplicity itself, yet, as the little cousin well knew, the
product of such art as she herself might never hope to command. "I
always thought she was perfectly beautiful, but she's absolutely
fascinating to-night."
"Tell that to Rich. I'm afraid he doesn't appreciate her," laughed Ted,
indicating his new brother-in-law, who, at the moment being temporarily
unemployed, was to be observed following his bride with his eyes with a
wistful gaze indicating helplessness without her even for a fraction of
time.
Roberta had been drawn a little away by her husband's best man, who had
something to tell her which he had reserved for this hour.
"Mrs. Kendrick," he was beginning--at which he was bidden to remember
that he had known the girl Roberta for many years; and so began again,
smiling with gratitude:
"Roberta, have you any idea what is happening in Eastman to-night?"
"Indeed I haven't, Hugh. Anything I ought to know of?"
"I think it's time you did. Every employee in our store is sitting down
to a great dinner, served by a caterer from this city, with a Christmas
favour at every plate. The place cards have a K and G on them in
monogram. There are such flowers for decorations as most of those people
never saw. I don't need to tell you whose doing this is."
He had the reward he had anticipated for the telling of this
news--Roberta's cheek coloured richly, and her eyes fell for a moment
to hide the surprise and happiness in them.
"That may seem like enough," he went on gently, "but it wasn't enough
for him. At every children's hospital in this city, and in every
children's ward, there is a Christmas tree to-night, loaded with gifts.
And I want you to know that, busy as he has been until to-day, he picked
out every gift himself, and wrote the name on the card with his own
hand."
It was too much to tell her all at once, and he knew it when he saw her
eyes fill, though she smiled through the shining tears as she murmured:
"And he didn't tell me!"
"No, nor meant to. When I remonstrated with him he said you might think
it a posing to impress you, whereas it simply meant the overflow of his
own happiness. He said if he didn't have some such outlet he should
burst with the pressure of it!"
Her moved laughter provided some sort of outlet for her own pressure of
feeling about these tidings. When she had recovered control of herself
she turned to glance toward her husband, and Hugh's heart stirred within
him at the starry radiance of that look, which she could not veil
successfully from him, who knew the cause of it.
It was the Alfred Carsons who came to her last; the young manager
beaming with pleasure in the honour done him by his invitation to this
family wedding, to which the great of the city were mostly intentionally
unbidden; his pretty young wife, in effective modishness of attire by no
means ill-chosen, glowing with pride and rosy with the effort to
comport herself in keeping with the standards of these "democratically
aristocratic" people, as her husband had shrewdly characterized them. As
they stood talking with the bride, two of Richard's friends standing
near by, former close associates in the life of the clubs he was now too
busy to pursue, exchanged a brief colloquy which would mightily have
interested the subject of it if he could have heard it.
"Who are these?" demanded one of the other, gazing elsewhere as he
spoke.
"Partner or manager or something, in that business of Rich's up in
Eastman. So Belden Lorimer says."
"Bright looking chap--might be anybody, except for the wife. A bit too
conscious, she."
"You might not notice that except in contrast with the new Mrs.
Kendrick. There's the real thing, yes? Rich knew what he was doing when
he picked her out."
"Undoubtedly he did. The whole family's pretty fine--not the usual sort.
Watch Mrs. Clifford Cartwright. Even she's impressed. Odd, eh?--with all
the country cousins about, too."
"I know. It's in the air. And of course everybody knows the family blood
is of the bluest. Unostentatious but sure of itself. The Cartwrights
couldn't get that air, not in a thousand years."
"Rich himself has it, though--and the grandfather."
"True enough. I'm wondering which class we belong in!"
The two laughed and moved closer. Neither could afford to miss a chance
of observing their old friend under these new conditions, for he had
been a subject of their speculations ever since the change in him had
begun. And though they had deplored the loss of him from their favourite
haunts, they had been some time since forced to admit that he had never
been so well worth knowing as now that he was virtually lost to them.
"Oh, Robby, darling--I can never, never let you go!"
So softly wailed Ruth, her slim young form clinging to her sister's,
regardless of her bridesmaid's crushed finery, daintily cherished till
this moment. Over her head Roberta's eyes looked into her mother's.
There were no tears in the fine eyes which met hers, but somehow Roberta
knew that Ruth's heartache was a tiny pain beside that other's.
Richard, looking on, standing ready to take his bride away, wondered
once more within himself how he could have the heart to do it. But it
was done, and he and Roberta were off together down the steps; and he
was putting her into Mr. Kendrick's closed car; and she was leaning past
him to wave and wave again at the dear faces on the porch. Under the
lights here and there one stood out more clearly than the rest--Louis's,
flushed and virile; Rosamond's, lovely as a child's; old Mr. Kendrick's,
intent and grave, forgetting to smile. The father and the mother were in
the shadow--but little Gordon, Stephen's boy, made of himself a central
figure by running forward at the last to fling up a sturdy arm and cry:
"Good-bye, Auntie Wob--come back soon!"
It had been a white Christmas, and the snow had fallen lightly all day
long. It was coming faster now, and the wind was rising, to Richard's
intense satisfaction. He had been fairly praying for a gale, improbable
though that seemed. There was a considerable semblance of a storm,
however, through which to drive the twelve miles to the waiting cabin on
the hilltop, and when the car stopped and the door was opened, a heavy
gust came swirling in. The absence of lights everywhere made the
darkness seem blacker, out here in the country, and the general effect
of outer desolation was as near this strange young man's desire as could
have been hoped.
"Good driving, Rogers. It was a quick trip, in spite of the heavy roads
at the last. Thank you--and good-night."
"Thank you, sir. Good-night, Mr. Kendrick--and Mrs. Kendrick, if I may."
"Good-night, Rogers," called the voice Rogers had learned greatly to
admire, and he saw her face smiling at him as the lights of the car
streamed out upon it.
Then the great car was gone, and Richard was throwing open the door of
the cabin, letting all the warmth and glow and fragrance of the snug
interior greet his bride, as he led her in and shut the door with a
resounding force against the winter night and storm.
It had been a dream of his that he should put her into one of the big,
cushioned, winged chairs, and take his own place on the hearth-rug at
her feet. Together they should sit and look into the fire, and be as
silent or as full of happy speech as might seem to befit the hour. Now,
when he had bereft her of her furry wraps and welcomed her as he saw
fit, he made his dream come true. He told her of it as he put her in her
chair, and saw her lean back against the comfortable cushioning with a
long breath of inevitable weariness after many hours of tension.
"And you wondered which it would be, speech or silence?" queried
Roberta, as he took that place he had meant to take, at her knee, and
looked up, smiling, into her down-bent face.
"I did wonder, but I don't wonder now. I know. There aren't any words,
are there?"
"No," she answered, looking now into the fire, yet seeing, as clearly as
before, his fine and ardent, yet reverent face, "I think there are no
words."