That morning's light could have fallen on no happier house, the world
over, than “Gunn's.” A little child brought back to life, out of the
gates of death; two hearts entering anew on life, through the gates of
love; half a score of hearts, each glad in the gladness of each other,
and in the gladness of all,--what a morning it was!
Doctor Eben and Hetty met at the head of the stairs.
“Oh, Hetty!” exclaimed the doctor.
“Well?” said Hetty, in a half-defiant tone, without looking up. He came
nearer, and was about to kiss her.
She darted back, and lifting her eyes gave him a glance of such mingled
love and reproof that he was bewildered.
“Why, Hetty, surely I may kiss you?” he exclaimed.
“I was asleep last night,” she answered gravely, “and you did very
wrong,” and without another word or look she passed on.
Doctor Eben was thoroughly angry.
“What does she mean?” he said to himself. “She needn't think I am to be
played with like a boy;” and the doctor took his seat at the breakfast
table, with a sterner countenance than Hetty had ever seen him wear. In
a few moments she began to cast timid and deprecating looks at him. His
displeasure hurt her indescribably. She had not intended to offend or
repel him. She did not know precisely what she had intended: in fact
she had not intended any thing. If the doctor had understood more about
love, he would have known that all manifestations in Hetty at this time
were simply like the unconscious flutterings of a bird in the hand in
which it is just about to nestle and rest. But he did not understand,
and when Hetty, following him into the hall, stood shyly by his side,
and looking up into his face said inquiringly, “Doctor?” he answered
her as she had answered him, a short time before, with the curt
monosyllable, “Well?” His tone was curter than his words. Hetty colored,
and saying gently, “No matter; nothing now,” turned away. Her whole
movement was so significant of wounded feeling that it smote Doctor
Eben's heart. He sprang after her and laid his hand on her arm. “Hetty,”
he said, “do tell me what it was you were going to say; I did not mean
to hurt your feelings: but I don't know what to make of you.”
“Not--know--what--to--make--of--me!” repeated Hetty, very slowly, in a
tone of the intensest astonishment.
“You wouldn't say you loved me,” replied the doctor, beginning to feel a
little ashamed of himself.
Hetty's eyes were fixed on his now, with no wavering in their gaze. She
looked at him, as if her life lay in the balance of what she might read
in his face.
“Did you not know that I loved you before you asked me to say so?” she
said with emphasis. It was the doctor's turn now to color. He answered
evasively:
“A man has no right to know that, Hetty, until a woman tells him so.”
“Did you not think that I loved you,” repeated Hetty, with the same
emphasis, and a graver expression on her face.
Dr. Eben hesitated. Already, he felt a sort of fear of the incalculable
processes and changes in this woman's mind. Would she be angry if he
said, he had thought she loved him? Would she be sure to recognize any
equivocation, and be angrier at that?
“Hetty,” he said, taking her hand in his, “I did hope very strongly that
you loved me, or else I should never have asked you to say so; but you
ought to be willing to say so, if it be true. Think how many times I
have said it to you.”
Hetty's eyes did not leave his: their expression deepened until they
seemed to darken and enlarge. She did not speak.
“Will you not say it now, Hetty?” urged the doctor.
“I can't,” replied Hetty, and turned and walked slowly away. Presently
she turned again, and walked swiftly back to him, and exclaimed:
“What do you suppose is the reason it is so hard for me to say it?”
Dr. Eben laughed. “I can't imagine, Hetty. The only thing that is hard
for me, is not to keep saying it all the time.”
Hetty smiled.
“There must be something wrong in me. I think I shall never say it. But
I suppose”--She hesitated, and her eyes twinkled. “I suppose you might
come to be very sure of it without my ever saying it?”
“I am sure of it now, you darling,” exclaimed the doctor; and threw both
his arms around her, and this time Hetty did not struggle.
When Welbury heard that Hetty Gunn was to marry Doctor Ebenezer
Williams, there was a fine hubbub of talk. There was no half-way opinion
in anybody's mind on the question. Everybody was vehement, one way or
the other. All Doctor Eben's friends were hilarious; and the greater
part of Hetty's were gloomy. They said, he was marrying her for her
money; that Hetty was too old, and too independent in all her ways, to
be married at all; that they would be sure to fall out quickly; and
a hundred other things equally meddlesome and silly. But nobody so
disapproved of the match that he stayed away from the wedding, which was
the largest and the gayest wedding Welbury had ever seen. It went sorely
against the grain with Hetty to invite Mrs. Deacon Little, but Sally
entreated for it so earnestly that she gave way.
“I think if she once sees me with Raby in my arms, may be she'll feel
kinder,” said Sally. James Little had carried the beautiful boy, and
laid him in his grandmother's arms many times; but, although she showed
great tenderness toward the child, she had never yet made any allusion
to Sally; and James, who had the same odd combination of weakness and
tenacity which his mother had, had never broken the resolution which
he had taken years ago: not to mention his wife's name in his mother's
presence. Mrs. Little had almost as great a struggle with herself before
accepting the invitation, as Hetty had had before giving it. Only her
husband's earnest remonstrances decided her wavering will.
“It's only once, Mrs. Little,” he said, “and there'll be such a crowd
there that very likely you won't come near Sally at all. It don't look
right for you to stay away. You don't know how much folks think of Sally
now. She's been asked to the minister's to tea, she and James, with
Hetty and the doctor, several times.”
“She hain't, has she?” exclaimed Mrs. Little, quite thrown off her
balance by this unexpected piece of news, which the wary deacon had been
holding in reserve, as a good general holds his biggest guns, for some
special occasion. “You don't tell me so! Well, well, folks must do as
they like. For my part, I call that downright countenancing of iniquity.
And I don't know how she could have the face to go, either. I must say,
I have some curiosity to see how she behaves among folks.”
“She's as modest and pretty in her ways as ever a girl could be,”
replied the deacon, who had learned during the past year to love his
son's wife; “you won't have any call to be ashamed of her. I can tell
you that much beforehand.”
When Mrs. Little's eyes first fell upon her daughter-in-law, she gave
an involuntary start. In the two years during which Mrs. Little had not
seen her, Sally had changed from a timid, nervous, restless woman to a
calm and dignified one. Very much of her old girlish beauty had returned
to her, with an added sweetness from her sorrow. As she moved among the
guests, speaking with gentle greeting to each, all eyes followed her
with evident pleasure and interest. She wore a soft gray gown, which
clung closely to her graceful figure: one pale pink carnation at her
throat, and one in her hair, were her only ornaments. When Raby, with
his white frock and blue ribbons, was in her arms, the picture was one
which would have delighted an artist's eye. Mrs. Little felt a strange
mingling of pride and irritation at what she saw. Very keenly James
watched her: he hovered near her continually, ready to forestall any
thing unpleasant or to assist any reconciliation. She observed this;
observed, also, how his gaze followed each movement of Sally's: she
understood it. “You needn't hang round so, Jim,” she said: “I can see
for myself. If it's any comfort to you, I'll say that your wife's the
most improved woman I ever saw; and I 'm very glad on't. But I ain't
going to speak to her: I 've said I won't, and I won't. People must lie
on their beds as they make 'em.”
James made no reply, but walked away. It seemed to him that, at that
instant, a chord in his filial love snapped, and was for ever lost.
Moment by moment, Sally watched and waited for the recognition which
never came. Bearing Raby in her arms, she passed and repassed, drawing
as near Mrs. Little as she dared. “Surely she must see that nobody else
here wholly despises me,” thought the poor woman; and, whenever any one
spoke with especial kindness to her, she glanced involuntarily to see if
her mother-in-law were observing it. But all in vain. Mrs. Little's pale
and weak blue eyes roamed everywhere, but never seemed to rest on Sally
for a second. Gradually Sally comprehended that all her hopes had been
unfounded, and a deep sadness settled on her expressive face. “It's no
use,” she thought, “she'll never speak to me in the world, if she won't
to-night.”
Even during the moments of the marriage ceremony, Hetty observed the woe
on Sally's countenance; and, strange as it may seem,--or would seem in
any one but Hetty,--while the minister was making his most impressive
addresses and petitions, she was thinking to herself: “The hard-hearted
old woman! She hasn't spoken to Sally. I wish I hadn't asked her. I'll
pay her off yet, before the evening is over.”
After the ceremony was done, and the guests were crowding up to
congratulate Hetty, she whispered to James:
“Bring Sally up here.”
When Sally came, Hetty said:
“Stand here close to me, Sally. Don't go away.”
Presently Deacon Little approached with Mrs. Little. Hetty kissed the
good old man as heartily as if he had been her father; then, turning to
Mrs. Little, she said in a clear voice:
“I am very glad to see you in my house at last, Mrs. Little. Have you
seen Sally yet? She has been so busy receiving our friends, that I
am afraid you have hardly had a chance to talk with her. Sally,” she
continued, turning and taking Sally by the hand, “I shall be at liberty
now to attend to my friends, and you must devote yourself to Mrs.
Little;” and, with the unquestioning gesture of an empress, Hetty passed
Mrs. Little over into Sally's charge.
Nobody could read on Hetty's features at this moment any thing except
most cordial good-will and the tender happiness of a bride; but her
heart was fighting like a knight in a tournament for rescue of one
beset, and she was inwardly saying: “If she dares to refuse speak to her
now, I'll expose her before this whole roomful of people.”
Mrs. Little did not dare. More than ever she dreaded Hetty at this
moment, and her surprise and fear added something to her manner towards
Sally which might almost have passed for eagerness, as they walked
away together; poor Sally lifting one quick deprecating look at Hetty's
smiling and inexorable face. Deacon Little hastily retreated to a
corner, where he stood wiping his forehead, endeavoring not to look
alarmed, and thinking to himself:
“Well, if Hetty don't beat all! What'll Mrs. Little do now, I wonder?”
And presently, as cautiously as a man stalking a deer, he followed the
couple, and tried to judge, by the expression of his wife's face, how
things were going. Things were going very well. Mrs. Little had, in
common with all weak and obstinate persons, a very foolish fear of
ever being supposed to be dictated to or controlled by anybody. She
was distinctly aware that Hetty had checkmated her. She had strong
suspicions that there might be others looking on who understood the
game; and the only subterfuge left her, the only shadow of pretence
of not having been outwitted, was to appear as if she were glad of the
opportunity of talking with Sally. Sally's appealing affectionateness
of manner went very far to make this easy. She had no resentment to
conceal: all these years she had never blamed Jim's mother; she had only
yearned to win her love, to be permitted to love her. She looked up in
her face now, and said, as they walked on:
“Oh! I did so want to speak to you, but I did not dare to.”
It consoled weak Mrs. Little, for her present consciousness of being
very much afraid of Hetty, to hear that she herself had inspired a great
terror in some one else; and she answered, condescendingly:
“I have always wished you well,”--she hesitated for a word, but finally
said,--“Sally.”
“Thank you,” said Sally. “I know you did. I never wondered.”
Mrs. Little was much appeased. She had not counted on such humility.
At this moment they were met by the nurse, carrying Raby; and he was a
fruitful subject of conversation. Presently he began to cry; and Sally,
taking him in her arms, said, as if by a sudden inspiration, “I think
I had better take him upstairs. Wouldn't you like to go up with me, and
see what lovely rooms Hetty has given to Jim and me?”
The friendliness of the bedroom, the disarming presence of the baby,
completed Mrs. Little's surrender; and when James Little, missing his
wife, went to her room to seek her, he stood still on the threshold,
mute with surprise. There sat his mother with Raby on her lap; Sally
on her knees by an opened bureau-drawer, was showing her all Raby's
clothes, and the two women's faces were aglow with pleasure. James stole
in softly, came behind his mother, and kissed her as he had not kissed
her since he was a boy. Neither of the three spoke; but little Raby
crowed out a sudden and unexplained laugh, which seemed a fitting sign
and seal of the happy moment, and set them all at ease. When Sally
described the scene to Hetty, she said:
“Oh, I was so frightened when Jim came in! I thought he'd be sure to say
something to his mother that would spoil every thing. But the Lord put
it into Raby's head to go off in one of his great laughs at nothing, and
that made us all laugh, and the first thing that came into my head was
that verse, 'And a little child shall lead them.'”
“Dear me, Sally, does any thing happen that doesn't put you in mind of
some verse in the Bible?” laughed Hetty.
“Not many things, Hetty,” replied Sally. “Those years that I was alone
all the time, I used to read it so much that it 's always coming into my
head now, whatever happens.”
After the last guest had gone, Doctor Eben and Hetty stood alone before
the blazing fire. Hetty was beautiful on this night: no white lace, no
orange blossoms, to make the ill-natured sneer at the middle-aged bride
attired like a girl; no useless finery to be laid away in chests and
cherished as sentimental mementos of an occasion. A substantial heavy
silk of a useful shade of useful gray was Hetty Gunn's wedding gown; and
she wore on her breast and in her hair white roses, “which will do for
my summer bonnets for years,” Hetty had said, when she bought them.
But her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, and her brown curls lovelier
than ever. Dr. Eben might well be pardoned the pride and delight with
which he drew her to his side and exclaimed, “Oh, Hetty! are you really
mine? How beautiful you look!”
“Do you think so?” said Hetty, taking a survey of herself in the
old-fashioned glass slanted at a steep angle above the mantel-piece. “I
don't. I hate fine gowns and flowers on me. If I'd have dared to, I'd
have been married in my old purple.”
“I shouldn't have cared,” replied her husband. “But it is better as it
is. Welbury people would have never left off talking, if you had done
that.”
They were a beautiful sight, the two, as they stood with their arms
around each other, in the fire-light. Dr. Eben was tall and of a
commanding figure; his head was almost too massive for even his broad
shoulders; his black hair was wellnigh shaggy in its thickness; and his
dark gray eyes looked out from under eyebrows which were like projecting
eaves, and threw shadows on his cheeks below. Hetty's fair, rosy face,
and golden-brown curls, were thrown out into relief by all this dark
coloring so near, as a sunbeam is when it plays on a dark cloud. The
rooms were full of the delicate fragrance of apple blossoms. The corners
were filled with them; the walls were waving with them. Sally had begged
permission to have, for once, all the apple blossoms she desired; and,
despite groans and grumblings from Mike, she had rifled the orchards.
“Faith, an' a good tin bushel she's taken off the russets,” Mike said to
Norah; “an' as for thim gillies yer was so fond of, there's none left to
spake of on any o' the trees. Now if she'd er tuk thim old blue pearmain
trees, I wouldn't have said a word. But, 'Oh no!' sez she, 'I must have
all pink uns;' an' it was jest the pink uns that was our best trees;
that's jest as much sinse as ye wimmin 's got.”
“Wull, thin, an' I'm thinkin' yer wouldn't have grudged Miss Hetty
her own apples, if it was in barrls ye had 'em,” replied the practical
Norah, “an' I don't see where 's the differ.”
“Yer don't!” said Mike, angrily. “If it had ha plazed God to make a man
o' yer, ye'd ha known more 'n yer do;” and with this characteristically
masculine shifting of his premises, Mike turned his back on Norah.
Neither Hetty nor Doctor Eben had ever heard that lovers should not
wed in May; and, as they looked up at the great fragrant pink and white
boughs on the walls, Hetty exclaimed: “Nobody ought to be married except
when apple-trees are in bloom. Nothing else could have been half so
lovely in the rooms, and the fire-light makes them all the prettier.
What a genius Sally has for arranging flowers. Who would have thought
common stone jars could look so well?”
Sally had taken the largest sized gray stone jars she could buy in
Welbury, and in these had set boughs six and seven feet long, looking
like young trees. On the walls she had placed deep wooden boxes with
shield-shaped fronts; these fronts were covered with gray lichens from
the rocks; the rosy blossoms waved from out these boxes, looking as much
at home as they did above the lichen-covered trunks of the trees in the
orchard.
“Poor dear Sally!” Hetty continued, “she had a hard time the first part
of the evening. That stony old woman wouldn't speak to her. But I took
her in hand afterward. Did you observe?”
“Observe!” shouted Dr. Eben. “I should think so. You hardly waited till
the minister had got through with us.”
“I didn't wait till then,” replied Hetty, demurely. “I was planning it
all the while he was telling me about my duty to you. I didn't believe
he could tell me much about that, anyway; and the duty that weighed on
my mind most at that minute was my duty to Sally.”
And thus, in the flickering fire-light and the apple-blossom fragrance,
the two wedded lovers sat talking and dreaming, and taking joy of each
other while the night wore on. There was no violent transition, no great
change of atmosphere, in the beginnings of their wedded life. Dr. Eben
had now lived so much at “Gunn's,” that it seemed no strange thing for
him to live there altogether. If it chafed him sometimes that it was
Hetty's house and not his, Hetty's estate, Hetty's right and rule, he
never betrayed it. And there was little reason that it should chafe him;
for, from the day of Hetty Gunn's marriage, she was a changed woman in
the habits and motives of her whole life. The farm was to her, as if it
were not. All the currents of her being were set now in a new channel,
and flowed as impetuously there as they had been wont to flow in the old
ones. Her husband, his needs, his movements, were now the centre around
which her fine and ceaseless activity revolved. There was not a trace
of sentimental expression to this absorption. A careless observer might
have said that her manner was deficient in tenderness; that she was
singularly chary of caresses and words of love. But one who saw deeper
would observe that not the smallest motion of the doctor's escaped her
eye; not his lightest word failed to reach her ear; and every act of
hers was planned with either direct or indirect reference to him. In
his absence, she was preoccupied and uneasy; in his presence, she was
satisfied, at rest, and her face wore a sort of quiet radiance hard to
describe, but very beautiful to see. As for Dr. Eben, he thought he had
entered into a new world. Warmly as he had loved and admired Hetty, he
had not been prepared for these depths in her nature. Every day he said
to her, “Oh, Hetty, Hetty! I never knew you. I did not dream you
were like this.” She would answer lightly, laughingly, perhaps almost
brusquely; but intense feeling would glow in her face as a light shines
through glass; and often, when she turned thus lightly away from him,
there were passionate tears in her eyes. It very soon became her habit
to drive with him wherever he went. Old Doctor Tuthill had died some
months before, and now the county circuit was Doctor Eben's. His love
of his profession was a passion, and nothing now stood in the way of his
gratifying it to the utmost. Books, journals, all poured in upon him.
Hetty would have liked to be omniscient that she might procure for him
all he could desire. Every morning they might be seen dashing over the
country with a pair of fleet, strong gray horses. In the afternoon, they
drove a pair of black ponies for visits nearer home. Sometimes, while
the doctor paid his visits, Hetty sat in the carriage; and, when she
suspected that he had fallen into some discussion not relative to the
patient's case, she would call out merrily, with tones clear and ringing
enough to penetrate any walls: “Come, come, doctor! we must be off.” And
the doctor would spring to his feet, and run hastily, saying: “You see I
am under orders too: my doctor is waiting outside.” Under the seat,
side by side with the doctor's medicine case, always went a hamper which
Hetty called “the other medicine case;” and far the more important it
was of the two. Many a poor patient got well by help of Hetty's soups
and jellies and good bread. Nothing made her so happy as to have the
doctor come home, saying: “I've got a patient to-day that we must feed
to cure him.” Then only, Hetty felt that she was of real help to her
husband: of any other help that she might give him Hetty was still
incredulous; intangible things were a little out of Hetty's range.
Even her great and passionate love had not fully opened her eyes to all
love's needs and expressions. All that it meant to her was a perpetual
doing, ministration, a compelling of the happiness of the loved object.
And here, as everywhere else in her life, she was fully content only
when there was something evident and ready to be done. If her husband
had taken the same view of love,--had insisted on perpetual ministerings
to her in tangible forms,--she would have been bewildered and
uncomfortable; and would, no doubt, have replied most illogically: “Oh,
don't be taking so much trouble about me. I can take care of myself; I
always have.” But Doctor Eben was in no danger of disturbing Hetty in
this way. Without being consciously a selfish man, he had a temperament
to which acceptance came easy. And really Hetty left him no time,
no room, for any such manifestations towards her, even had they been
spontaneously natural. Moreover, Hetty was a most difficult person for
anybody to help in any way. She never seemed to have needs or wants: she
was always well, brisk, cheery, prepared for whatever occurred. There
really seemed to be nothing to do for Hetty but to kiss her; and that
Doctor Eben did most heartily, and of persistence; and Hetty liked it
better than any thing in this world. With his whole heart and strength,
Eben Williams loved his wife; and he loved her better and better, day
by day. But she herself, by her peculiar temperament, her habits of
activity, and disinterestedness, made it, in the outset, out of the
question that any man living with her as her husband should ever fully
learn a husband's duties and obligations.