'ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.'
When the turmoil and the hideous danger was over, it was very sweet
for these two lovers to sit alone and talk about the past. She had
received his letter, and marvelled what he meant when he spoke of
being detained in some place 'so near and yet so far.'
'Did you, my darling,' he asked her, as he held her hand, with its
crooked little finger--which small deformity I always take as a sign
of gentle blood--in his, 'care for me on that day that separated us
for all this bitter time?'
She put down her head, and looked at him very archly.
'Well, I don't care, my beloved, what you say in answer, but do you
think you love me now?'
For answer, she put her beautiful head upon his breast. I do not
know what they said, but when they stood up--she to answer the door
bell, for the servant was out--they were engaged; and she had his
ring upon her finger.
He was at Aster's own house, sitting with her during the anxious
hours of her father's illness. The shock of the abduction had
actually over-set his reason; and it was not till he saw his daughter
standing over his bed, and felt her hand in his, that consciousness
came back. In a little while he was able to listen to a recital of
the entire story from her lips. When she had ended, tears stood in
the old man's eyes.
'I have treated that young man with cruel injustice. If he wanted to
wed you now, my love, it would give me great joy to say "yes," and
bestow my blessing.'
'He has asked me, papa;' and she hid her head to cover her blushes.
'He now wants only your consent. He is in the house.'
'Send him to me, dear, at once.'
In about a quarter of an hour, Roland returned from the room,
radiant with happiness and leading Aster by the hand.
They were sitting before the cheerful winter-fire, when he asked her,
'What has become of Mr. Ham?'
'O! a fearful vulgar girl named Lydia Estabrooks, a Yankee lass, is
about to become his bride. She covers herself with chains and
ribbons, and her fingers blaze with stones. He has given it out in an
underhand way that he has thrown me over.'
'What?'
'O! pray, love, do not look fierce like that. Nobody but Lydia
believes him. Now that _you_ are back again, I am sure that he
will retract.'
'He shall be notified to do so.'
'There now, surely, darling, you are going to have no more quarrels.
Had I thought this, I never should have told you.'
'Be easy, love, be easy,'--he kissed her between sentences--'there
shall be no more parting for us.'
From all that I can learn, Roland was thenceforth a constant visitor
at the house; and speedily a day was fixed when she was to drop her
maiden name.
'On the first day of sweet May,' she said to herself, 'I shall be
Aster Gray; what a pretty name!' It was agreed that Roland should
come back to Oatlands after his wedding tour and reside there; for on
the marriage day, Mr. Atwell had resolved to endow his son-in-law
with all his houses, every acre, every beast and every head of cattle
that were his.
As for Nancy; Roland accompanied by Aster, went with her to her
father's house, and Roland told the old man the story of his
daughter's life. He at once forgave her and took her to his heart. I
may bound a couple of years ahead and state that Nancy married a
respectable farmer who was pleased enough to get a handsome wife and
a valuable homestead. This couple had a family of four children
afterwards; and one of these is now a member of the Legislature of
Ontario. I shall not say whether he is a Grit or a Tory, for that
would be getting upon too dangerous ground. Nancy died a few years
ago and she sleeps now under the shade of a weeping willow.
Roland induced the officers to shut their eyes while The Lifter
passed over to the States. In that country the smooth-tongued convert
rapidly amassed a fortune. His son is a partner in extensive car
works now, not a thousand miles from Detroit. I have met his
grand-daughter and she is a most bewitching blonde.
The old woman and Silent Poll were caught; and they perished in
prison, to which they were condemned for life. Murfrey was taken,
tried and hanged, and went to his grave without a '_pax vobiscum_'
from man or woman.
But when the officers came to the spot in the woods where Roland had
left the captain tied, they found not that robber. There were marks
of a violent 'personal' struggle, and it was concluded that he had
freed himself. Thereafter he went to another wild place in Upper
Canada, where he gathered two or three desperadoes about him, and the
fame of his doings in that region went far and near. To his actual
deeds were added many legends, and stories imported from English
books, till the man's name was wrapped around by amazing web of
history. I may, some day, sift the grain from the chaff, and make a
book. There is certainly fact enough there, from which to create a
thrilling story.
On the day of Aster's rescue, the magistrate came to Roland.
'I understand,' he said, 'that one of these robbers is at large; the
fellow who goes masked as a Wesleyan preacher.'
'Yes; he is holding "revival" meetings at the Don. I shall go with
you and your _posse_, if you wish it.'
When they reached the church door, a little church looking upon the
Don River, they found a great number of people assembled. On enquiry
they learnt that the Rev. Mr. Jonas had not yet arrived, but that he
was expected every minute. Roland stood behind the door, and the
magistrate and the constables mixed for the nonce with the crowd.
Presently a murmur went round.
'Mr. Jonas is coming;' and peeping out, Roland saw that saintly
individual in a pung, sitting in pious state beside the foremost
class-leader of the church. He bowed cordially to all as he drew
near, and as he passed through each knot of people he gave some such
salutation as:
'I hope God is blessing you,' or 'Is the good work improving?' or
'Shall many declare for Emmanuel to-day?'
He passed into the pulpit, and stood there, his eyes closed, while
he uttered some silent prayers.
The magistrate and the police had obtained a position directly under
the pulpit, and just as Mr. Jonas opened his book, and after the
usual notification read the line:
'God moves in a mysterious way.'
The former jumped upon the dais, and holding a large sealed paper in
his hands said:
'Jud Sykes, I arrest you for murder, robbery, and divers other
crimes.'
No thunderbolt that ever fell could have created sach a sensation as
this.
Not one in the congregation believed the charge. Indeed, amazement
had stupefied everyone, and there was no reasoning about the matter.
They simply believed in their gifted and saintly preacher.
Roland now stepped forward.
'I know this man;' then turning he looked Mr. Jonas full in the
face. That stare was as fatal to the preacher as a musket ball. He
said nothing, but folded his hands, which the next moment were bound
together affectionately with wristlets of steel. There is no need to
chronicle anything further respecting this event. Three months
afterwards this pious servant of God was publicly executed at the
town of Little York.
Mr. Ham was anxious to proceed at law against Roland for having
challenged and wounded him, but the lawyer to whom he applied said:
'By the way, Ham, Gray was wounded, too. They also say that you
fired first. Besides, your _acceptance_ makes you equally
culpable with the challenger.'
Mr. Ham went away and continued his preparations to marry the
glittering Miss Estabrooks.
When news reached the Hams that Roland and his beloved Aster were
wedded, Lydia, who was by this time likewise a wife, said:
'I don't envy that 'ere one her bargain. _You_ would never now,
would you, dear, ask anybody out to fight a dool?'
Lydia, at least, told the truth.
Aster lived very happily with Roland, and she still retains the
beauty for which, in those olden days, she was so noted. Before
handing this manuscript to the publishers, I went to her dear, cosy
old home and read the sheets.
'Why,' she said,' you have it all down just as accurately as if you
had been with us during that dreadful time. But you make me too
beautiful; that is the only fault. I want you to look up my grandson;
he attends college at Toronto.'
Kissing her dear hand, I said good-bye; and I beg likewise to say
good-bye to my readers.
THE END.
MARY HOLT'S ENGAGEMENT
BY CATHERINE OWENS
'And I am really engaged! I can hardly believe it. How often I have
thought and wondered who my husband would be, or if I ever should
marry. But I suppose all girls have the same thoughts; at all events
my future is now settled. I wonder if Tom will always care as much
for me as he does now?'
Mary Holt sat in the bright firelight, watching the flickering
flames, and thinking of her new position.
She was very young and inexperienced, and Tom Cowell's declaration
of love and somewhat masterful wooing had taken her by storm. She had
hardly realized that he was dear to her beyond friendship, when he
asked her to be his wife, and, in spite of the suddenness of her
betrothal, if the bright, dimpling smile and sunny eyes might be
taken as a sign, she was a very happy little woman indeed.
Tom had not been very long in Mapleton when he met and fell in love
with Mary, who, for her part, much as she liked his great broad
shoulders and honest, handsome face, was long before she could
believe that she, who was said to be the prettiest and most admired
girl in that part of Pennsylvania, could ever love such a very
different man from the one she had pictured as her conquering hero.
Her ideal had been such a very superior creature--quite unlike
good-natured, handsome, but, to Mary's eyes, who judged by the
Mapleton standard, somewhat common-place Tom Cowell.
He had seemed to her, too, to have an unpleasantly good opinion of his
own people and his home, which was Limeton--as every one knows, much
behind Mapleton in culture and refinement, although it could boast of
its greater wealth; but wealth in such a sooty atmosphere lost all
attraction for Mary. Yet he quoted Limeton, and, what the Limetonians
did, thought, and intended to do, and the effect of their intentions
on the coming election for President, which was exasperating to Mary,
who, like all loyal Mapletonians, was quite sure their own city was
the brain of the State, even if Limeton did represent its wealth; so
that what the former said and thought was of far more importance to
the country, and she would smile at the purse-proud ignorance of
Limeton.
Even when she saw Tom's honest admiration for herself, and found
that she enjoyed his visits and attentions, she believed it was only
the magnetism of his good humour, and breezy, healthy nature that
pleased her; she was sure it was nothing more.
And yet the day came, as we see, when she had been brought to know
that she loved him, and to look forward to being his wife as her
greatest good. But then, in his growing affection for her, and his
absorbing anxiety as to its being returned, he had left off quoting
'my mother' and Limeton quite so often; and Mary flattered herself it
was because he was beginning to see the superiority of Mapleton, and
thus tacitly acknowledged it.
A few days after her betrothal she received a letter from Mrs.
Cowell, inviting her to go and stay with her for a few weeks, in
order that they might become better acquainted.
The letter was kind and motherly, and Mary felt that it was so: but
although there were no actual faults of spelling, it was evidently
not the production of a cultured woman, and she thought with some
dread of her future mother-in-law. It would all be very tolerable if
Tom did not think so over much of his own kin, but he evidently
looked on his women-folk as the most superior of their kind.
However, she had to meet them sooner or later, and as Tom was so
anxious, it was best to go.
Tom was delighted when she told him she would accept his mother's
invitation. His face glowed with satisfaction as he expressed his
thanks.
'You will like my dear mother so much, Mary, and Louise will be a
delightful companion for you, darling. She is such a sweet, sensible
girl, and a prodigious housekeeper. You will learn a great deal from
her.'
'I have no doubt I shall like your mother,' says Mary, not very
enthusiastically, it must be confessed.
Tom's face falls.
'And Limeton, Mary; it's such a splendid city--quite different from
this place.'
Mary fancies she detects a slight deprecatory tone in the way he
says 'this place.'
'Yes, I suppose it is very different. Horridly dirty, isn't it?
'Not more dirty than a prosperous manufacturing city must inevitably
be, and within a mile all round there is the loveliest scenery you
can imagine. Our place is about a mile from the city, so the dirt
will not annoy you; and you will meet such pleasant people there that
you will not mind the smoke. I am sure, Mary, you will come away
quite in love with Limeton, and prefer it to this prim old place.'
'Prefer it to Mapleton? Never.'
'Well, well, we'll see;' and in his proud confidence he kissed her
and left her.
Mary felt indignant.
'I'm sure we shall never get along if Tom remains so wrapped up in
his mother, and sister, and Limeton. A great deal to learn from
Louise, indeed!'
Mary could not get it through her little Mapleton head hut that she
was about to honour Limeton infinitely by going there, and that her
Mapleton manners and dress would be envied and copied by its
unsophisticated people and now to be told that she was to learn from
Louise!
Of course, she had a little cry, and made several foolish resolutions,
and then set about her preparations for an early departure with a
heavy heart.
A week later Mary was whirling along to Limeton, wondering what
Tom's relations would be like, and whether they were like
him--unpolished diamonds. Could he think so much of them if they were
not very nice? And although the people she knew from Limeton except Tom,
had been suggestive of smoke and petroleum to her, they surely would
be exceptions.
Mary's heart sank within her as the train neared the depot; such
miserable shanties formed the outskirts, such gloom hung in the air,
that she shuddered at the thought of having to stay even a week in
such a place. Her spirits did not revive when she saw Mrs. Cowell and
Louise, who were waiting to receive her, and welcomed her with much
cordiality.
As they rode home in the dusty 'carry-all,' Mrs. Cowell was evidently
studying Mary's elegant and expensive travelling-dress, from her
Russia leather satchel to her dainty boots and gloves, while Mary had
taken in at a glance the terribly dowdy appearance of Louise and her
mother--the old lady's black alpaca suit, made evidently at home and
Louise's Scotch plaid dress, and dyed, and too scant silk overekirt;
and yet, with such toilets, it was a relief to her to find they were
not coarse.
As they passed through the town Mrs. Cowell and Louise pointed out
some of the attractions, which they considered must astonish their
visitor, and were evidently disappointed at the equanimity with which
she regarded them. Mary, however, could be very sweet; and, although
an idea was forming in her mind that Mrs. and Miss Cowell could never
become relatives of hers, she exerted herself to charm them, and
succeeded. The old lady thought she was a giddy young thing, quite
unused to travelling, or she would never wear a dress beautiful
enough for gala day attire on the cars, but that when she became
toned down by Louise's example all would come right; but at the same
time she determined herself to give her a few hints on extravagance,
especially on the folly of wearing an Irish poplin dress to travel in.
The Cowells lived in a large, comfortable house, with fine old trees
around it, and Mary began to hope, when she saw the wealth of sylvan
beauty, that her visit might not be so unbearable as she had feared.
The interior was not so promising; it was Mrs. Cowell and Louise
over again--plain, sensible, thrifty, but perfectly unendurable to
luxurious Mary, who was accustomed to elegance and loved it.
She sighed as she sat on the hard, hair-cloth easy-chair, and trying
the harder sofa, found it utterly impossible to adapt her round
little figure to its angles.
No wonder Louise was so prim if she had been brought up amid such
furniture! And then her thoughts turned to Tom. He was not prim. But
even in that short time she had come to the conclusion that he was
not like the rest of his family. Then why, oh! why, did he quote them
so often? Could it be possible that he would expect her to live in a
similar fashion? Perhaps that was why he had told her she could learn
housekeeping from Louise.
Whatever Tom's idea on the subject may have been, it was evident
that his mother meant to make her visit an apprenticeship to the
future life she expected her son to lead.
Conversation had not been very brisk hitherto, and when tea was
announced, Mary, determined to make talk, praised the biscuit, the
cake, and the delicious butter.
'Yes, my dear, Louise's butter is excellent, although I say it. I
suppose you know how to make butter? But I could take a hint myself
from Louise, and it will do you no harm to learn some of her
housekeeping wrinkles. Tom has always been accustomed to fine butter,
and I hear in Mapleton they churn up the milk with the cream.'
'I am sure I know nothing about it,' said Mary, forgetting her
resolve to be amiable.
However, Mrs. Cowell seemed almost pleased to know that Louise's
instructions would be given where they were most needed.
'Never mind, my dear; you are quick, I'll be bound, and we'll soon
make a good housekeeper of you. There's one thing to begin on: if you
travel in your handsome dresses you will never have anything decent
to wear. Get yourself a nice, neat black alpaca, that will never show
dirt, and last for years.'
Mary listened for a moment in speechless indignation, and then said:
'But I wish to be as well dressed when I travel as at home; any lady
must do so.'
'Ah! you will soon lose that notion when you are married. Limeton
ladies are much more sensible.'
Mary was prudently silent. It was evidently useless to argue with
the old lady. After tea Mrs. Cowell went to sleep in her chair, and
Louise took her visitor to Tom's own room, showed her his wonderful
juvenile achievements in drawing and calligraphy, and seeing Mary was
somewhat silent, said suddenly:
'You most not mind what mamma says, dear Mary; she is old-fashioned
in her ideas, and I have been brought up to be something-like her,
but we can't expect every one to be cut out after our own pattern.
Tom is not.'
The intention was, no doubt, very kind, but the tone seemed to Mary
one of tolerance. She fancied Louise meant to patronize her, making
allowance for her short-comings, and she could not brook that in her
present mood, so she answered, somewhat tartly:
'I am afraid I should not meet the expectations of any of you, not
having been cut out by any pattern at all, that I know of.'
'There, you are offended, and I am sorry. But mamma meant well, and
so do I,' she added, after a pause.
Now, Mary prided herself upon being exceedingly reasonable, and so
she reflected that Mrs. Cowell and Louise had acted according to their
lights. It was not to be expected that they should understand her, so
she graciously said:
'Don't speak of it any more. We see things from such different
points of view that it is scarcely likely we could agree on such a
subject I can see that you are very kind, Louise,' she added, putting
forth her little white hand, which Louise clasped in her shapely
brown ones; and then they joined Mrs. Cowell, who had just awakened
from her nap.
During the next few days Mary learned to appreciate the character of
Louise, without being in the least desirous of emulating her
housewifely virtues. Limeton did not meet with her approval. She
could scarcely repress her disgust as she walked the grimy streets,
saw the pretentious, over-dressed people, who thus flaunted their
wealth in the faces of their less fortunate neighbours, and then
thought It might have been her home. To change clean, beautiful
Mapleton for Limeton!
Tom had told her he would like their home Limeton, but had said that
if she would be happier in Mapleton he would forego his wish. His
business permitted him to live in either place. Not to be outdone in
generosity, Mary had declared her happiness was to be with him, no
matter where. The subject had not been renewed, but Mary had now
quite decided that Limeton _could never_ be her home. She had,
indeed, balanced whether Mrs. Cowell could ever be her mother-in-law,
but as she thought of Tom, she felt that infliction could be
borne--away from Limeton.
Tom was to come the following Saturday, and spend a few days at home
before she went back to Mapleton, and she awaited his coming with
eagerness. She wanted to let him know that she could never make her
home in Limeton, before he could make any plans with his mother.
When Saturday came, she told Louise she thought of going to the
depot to meet Tom; and Louise, with more delicacy than Mary had given
her credit for, said:
'Oh! that is just the thing. I have so many things to see to that I
would rather not go, and yet we could not let him arrive without some
of us going.'
She also managed to keep Mrs. Cowell at home, feeling sure that Tom
would enjoy Mary's company alone better than with them.
Mary almost forgot all about Mrs. Cowell in the pleasure of meeting
Tom, but after he had asked her a dozen questions, about herself, he
said:
'And how do you like Limeton, Mary?'
'Oh, perfectly detestable! I cannot think how anybody can live there.'
'Ah! I see you have still those Mapleton ideas, Mary. Now, I hate
Mapleton, and am always glad to get out of it, the people are such
snobs. You are the only pleasant person I ever met there. Limeton
people are substantial, true-hearted, and--and, in short, Mary, I am
much disappointed that you don't like the finest city in the State.'
'Finest city in the State, indeed!' says Mary, stung by his
disparagement of her native city. 'It is a most unpleasant place,
smoky, grimy, and unhealthy, and the people, as far as I have met
them, may be substantial enough, but they are dreadfully tiresome and
uninteresting. I don't mean you, Tom,' she adds, seeing him glare
down upon her in angry astonishment.
'I am much obliged, I am sure, that you make an exception in my
favour, but I cannot take credit myself at the expense of my mother
and Louise.'
'Oh! I like Louise.'
'And not my mother, I infer?
'No.'
Mary had not intended to tell him this point-blank, but he had taken
such a line with her for not liking Limeton that she felt indignant,
and not inclined to mince the facts at all. The result was what may
have been expected: Tom stalked on in solemn silence, while she, all
of resentment, held her little head very much in the air.
When they arrived at the house, Louise saw, notwithstanding Mary's
unusual animation, that something had gone wrong between them, but
chose the wise part of silence. Mrs. Cowell saw nothing but that her
son was not much in love, as she feared he would be, with Mary. She
had not found the latter as tractable as she had hoped in the way of
imitating Louise, and had discovered that she had not that admiration
of frugality and thrift, that befitted the future wife of her son;
therefore she was contented to see that son's cool politeness to
Mary, which she took as a proof that he was not likely to be led away
by her caprices.
The next morning Tom joined Mary in the garden, and said:
'Under the impression that you would like Limeton, I had written
about a place here I wanted to buy, but from what you said last night
I conclude that any plan of that sort is useless.'
'Quite useless,' said Mary decidedly; 'and I really think, Tom, that
you had better decide your future without reference to me. I--that
is--there are several things that would, I think, prevent our being
happy together.'
'In short, you are tired of our engagement?'
'If you take it that way, yes.'
'Oh, you women, you women!' said Tom, bitterly; 'but Mary had walked
off, and he did not follow her.
Later that day Mary said she thought her presence was required at
home. Louise looked sad, but no one made any remark on her sudden
leave-taking. Only Tom, when he drove her to the depot, talking
painfully small talk as they went, to avoid past and gone topics,
wringing her hands as the train moved off, said:
'Heaven bless you, Mary; I hope one of your Mapleton fellows will
make you as good a husband as I should have wished to be.'
'Thank you; I must take my chance,' says Mary, forcing back her
tears till he is gone; then, dropping her veil, she cries her way
home.
* * * * *
A year later Mary is alone in the world. She has lost her father,
and as she sits in her mourning dress she thinks of the past, and is
not afraid to tell herself now, that but for her own folly she might
have had good, true-hearted Tom Cowell to help her in her trouble;
that, grieved as she would have been at her father's loss, she could
never have been alone in the world as long as Tom had lived; and now
she would be alone for ever, for, disguise it from herself as she had
tried to do, she knew she loved Tom still; all other men seemed poor,
weak things to her, and for Tom's sake even Mapleton did not seem
such a very superior place as it had done, and in consequence,
Limeton was not so horrible. She knew in her heart she had been
somewhat prejudiced, and told herself that the unpleasantness of it
should have counted as nothing compared with Tom's love, All this she
had seen long before she confessed it even to herself; probably, but
for the grief that had lowered her pride, she never would have so
confessed.
She sat musing in the firelight as she had done a year ago, when a
card was brought to her.
'Mrs. Henry Carlton! I know no one of that name. Show the lady in.'
A lady, dressed handsomely, but with Quaker-like simplicity, then
entered, and Mary recognised Louise Cowell.
After the first embarrassment of meeting had passed, Louise told
Mary of her marriage with one of the 'dearest men in the world,' that
they had just returned from their wedding trip, and had so timed
their arrival as to meet Tom on his return from Europe.
'It was only last night we heard of your father's death, and then,
dear Mary, I could not refrain from coming to tell you how sorry I
am.'
'Tears filled Mary's eyes at the mention of her father.
'I am very much obliged to you, Louise, and heartily glad to see
you. Are you going to stay here long?'
'Yes, we shall pass the winter in Mapleton, and being a stranger
here, I shall often inflict my company on you if you will have me.'
'The oftener the better, dear Louise,' replied Mary, sincerely.
She liked Louise. At the same time, she thought with some trepidation
that these visits from Louise must result in her meeting Tom again,
which she felt very reluctant to do; but pride came to her aid, and
she asked herself why she could not meet a man with indifference, who
could so meet her?
And so she resolved to avoid neither Louise nor him.
Perhaps Louise had a little project of her own. At all events, she
appeared to have much satisfaction when she found Mary did not shrink
from the mention of Tom's name, and accordingly he became her chief
topic of conversation. She even hinted at his unhappiness, and her
fears that his disappointment would be a life-long sorrow.
'Ah! you dear, innocent Louise. Shakespeare knew men better than
you, and he says:
"Men have died from time to time,
And worms have eaten them, but not for love."'
Mary said, with forced gaiety.
At last Tom and Mary did meet, and then Mary found all her fortitude
necessary, for Tom evidently had no intention of carrying matters off
with dignity, but rather showed her in every word and look that she
was the one woman in the world for him.
Can't everyone guess the end? That Tom took an early opportunity of
calling himself a fool and begging Mary's forgiveness, and Mary
contradicted him, and with many tears shed on his vest declared
herself an unreasonable little vixen, not worth his love, and that
she was willing to live in the very heart of Limeton if necessary.
'Too late, my dear,' says Tom, merrily, 'for I have my eye on a
lovely little nest in Mapleton, and I am not going to have my plans
upset a second time.'
Then Louise came into the room.
'Blessed are the peace-makers,' said Tom, going to his sister and
kissing her.
THE END.