THE next day was the Sabbath—the third since the arrival of the
Raymonds. Rain fell heavily. There was no church near at hand, and our
friends gathered in the parlors of the house occupied by the Dinsmores,
Travillas, and Raymonds, where a sermon was read, prayers were offered,
and hymns sung. In the evening they held a Bible-reading, and afterward
sang hymns, now selected or suggested by one, now by another.
Croly chose several. He had been with them in the morning and offered
a very feeling, fervent prayer. The first two verses of the last hymn
sung at his request were:
“My days are gliding swiftly by,
And I, a pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly,
These hours of toil and danger.
For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand
Our friends are passing over,
And, just before, the shining shore
We may almost discover.
“Our absent King the watch-word gave,
‘Let every lamp be burning;’
We look afar across the wave,
Our distant home discerning.
For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand,
Our friends are passing over,
And, just before, the shining shore
We may almost discover.”
Monday was a bright, beautiful day, spent by our friends very much as
usual. They had been unusually long without letters from their homes or
that vicinity, and were growing a trifle anxious; Calhoun in especial,
as he felt that he himself had had a good vacation, and it was time
that his brother, the doctor, was taking his turn. Yet there was a very
strong tie binding him for the present to the spot where he was. He and
Mary Keith had come to an understanding and were mutual lovers, only
awaiting the consent of her parents to become engaged. He had written
to Mr. Keith, telling him frankly of his circumstances and prospects,
his love for Mary, and desire to make her his wife at the earliest day
on which her parents could be induced to resign her to him, also of
her willingness to become his; concluding his letter by a reference to
their cousin and his uncle, Mr. Dinsmore, for any desired information
in regard to his character and the correctness of his statements
concerning his ability, present and prospective, to support a wife and
family.
He and Mary walked out that morning soon after breakfast, strolled
along the beach for a time, then seated themselves within sight of
their temporary home.
They had hardly done so, when Walter Travilla came running with letters
which he said had just come from the office.
“There are several for each of you; you are fortunate this morning,” he
added; “however, that depends very much upon what is in them.”
“So it does, Wal,” said Calhoun, glancing at his, and perceiving that
the direction on one of them was in a masculine hand and the postmark
that of the town where Mary’s parents lived.
His pulses quickened at the sight, and his face flushed.
Walter had run away, and Mary was breaking the seal of her own letter
from home; she seemed too busy with it to notice the excitement of her
companion, seeing which he silently opened and read his to himself.
The two epistles were of much the same tone and tenor. The parents,
though feeling it a sore trial to part with their child—their eldest
daughter—gave full consent, since that seemed necessary to her
happiness.
Mary’s feelings as she read were of strangely mingled happiness and
heartache. She loved the man at her side, loved him so dearly that she
could scarce have borne to resign him, yet the thought of leaving the
dear parents who had loved and cherished her all her days was almost
equally unendurable. Her tears began to fall, and the sound of a low
sob startled Calhoun just as he finished the perusal of Mr. Keith’s
letter, which brought only joy to him.
“Oh, dearest, what is it?” he asked, passing an arm about her waist.
“Does that letter bring you bad news? Mine gives me only the joyful
intelligence of your parents’ consent; so that I have a right to
comfort you in any trouble, if it lies in my power.”
“Do not be vexed or offended that the same news is not all joy to me,”
she returned, smiling through her tears. “My father and mother are
very, very dear to me; they have loved and cherished me all my life;
their home has always been mine, and—” but overcome by emotion, she
ended with a sob, leaving her sentence unfinished.
“And you are giving them up for me, a comparative stranger, and far
from worthy of such a prize as yourself,” he said in low, tender
tones, taking her hand and pressing it affectionately in his. “Dear
girl, if love, tenderness, entire devotion can make you happy, you
shall never regret the sacrifice.”
“I have no fear of that,” she returned, smiling through her tears, “for
though but a few weeks have passed since we first saw each other, you
are well known to us through Uncle Dinsmore, Cousin Elsie, and others.
I do not fear to trust you—oh, no, it is not that, but the leaving of
the dear father and mother now—when they begin to grow old and may need
a daughter’s care.”
“But they have other daughters?”
“Yes, but I am the eldest, and the one who would perhaps know best how
to make them comfortable.”
“Well, dearest, let us leave that for the present. There is plenty of
room at Roselands, and perhaps—should your father some day retire from
business—they may like to come and make their home with us. If so, we
shall be glad, very glad to have them.”
That was a word of comfort that chased Mary’s tears away, and the rest
of their talk was gay and happy; the principal subject their plans for
the immediate future.
“I ought to be going home,” remarked Calhoun at length, with a slight
sigh, “though the fact is I don’t know how to tear myself away. But I
must, for poor, overworked Art must have his turn. Ah, here’s a letter
from him,” taking up one from the still unexamined, half-forgotten pile
lying on the grass by his side.
Hastily tearing it open, he glanced over the contents. “Why, here is
news!” he exclaimed. “Marian McAlpine has been quite ill, Art attending
her; she’s convalescing, but needs change of climate and scene. Art has
prescribed a few weeks at the sea-shore, and they are coming here—the
whole four of them—Mr. Lilburn and his son, Miss Marian, and Art as her
attending physician. I am commissioned to find a boarding-place for
them. But what are they thinking of? They were to start the day after
this was written, and will probably be here to-night or to-morrow. Oh,
well, there are hotels in the town, and I must just hurry in there,
make inquiries, and do the best I can for them.”
“Yes; let us go back to the house at once,” said Mary. “But ah, here
comes Cousin Elsie,” she added, as they both rose and turned toward the
dwelling.
“You had a letter from Art, I noticed, Calhoun,” said Mrs. Travilla,
hastening toward them, “and I presume it brings the same news as this
one from Cousin Ronald to me,” indicating one that she held in her
hand. “He says Marian has been really very ill, but is convalescing,
and they are bringing her here, thinking the sea-air may do her good.
He says Arthur is coming along as her physician, but agrees with him
that it is not at all necessary for you to hurry home, as Edward is
able and willing to give some little attention to the workers on your
plantation.”
“That is good news,” Calhoun said with a smile, “but I must hurry into
the city and find a boarding-place for them.”
“Why, Cal, you astonish me!” exclaimed Elsie. “Have I ever shown myself
so inhospitable that you have a right to suppose I would let relatives
go to a hotel when I can make room for them in my home?”
“I didn’t think you could, cousin,” he returned.
“I both can and will, if I am allowed the opportunity; it is only a
little crowding that is necessary. Mr. Conly can take his brother the
doctor into his room to share his bed, Cousin Ronald and his son can
share another—and there is a spare room waiting for them—while Marian
can be taken in with some of us. I have not thought it all out yet, but
am confident I can soon arrange it.”
“Oh, easily, cousin,” said Mary, “for Rosie and I could easily
take Lulu or Grace, or both of them, into our room. Crowding at
the sea-shore is nothing new, and I do not think it will be at all
unpleasant to me.”
“You are a dear, good girl, Mary,” was Elsie’s smiling response as she
turned and hastened back to the house.
“She has her full share of the Southern virtue of hospitality,”
remarked Calhoun, looking after her with admiring eyes.
“Do you consider it a specially Southern virtue?” queried Mary with a
little laugh of amusement.
“I beg your pardon,” returned Calhoun gallantly, “and acknowledge that
I have seen no lack of the virtue in question since coming up North,
but I have always heard it spoken of as particularly characteristic of
my native section of the Union, though I dare say that is altogether a
mistake.”
“I shall try to convince you of that one of these days,” she said with
a smiling look up into his eyes.
When Mrs. Travilla reached the house, there was first a short
consultation among the older members of the family, then a pleasant
little bustle of preparation for the expected, welcome guests, who it
was found could be easily accommodated without greatly disturbing or
interfering with the comfort of any one else.
These preparations completed, all gathered on the porch and sat there,
the gentlemen reading, the ladies crocheting or merely chatting to pass
away the time till the dinner-bell should summon them to the table. But
a carriage was seen approaching from the direction of the town.
“I wonder, now, if it isn’t our party,” said Calhoun, and even as he
spoke it drove up and stopped before the gate; seeing which he, Harold,
and Herbert sprang up and hastened forward to assist the travellers
to alight; for it was indeed the expected party of relatives from the
South.
The gentlemen were all well and in fine spirits, but Marian was much
exhausted and glad to be taken directly to bed. The doctor seemed
very careful of his patient, the other two equally solicitous for her
comfort; as were Mrs. Dinsmore, Elsie, and Violet, all of whom were
ready to do for her anything in their power.
All she wanted, however, was a little light nourishment, then a long
sound sleep, and the next morning she was able to occupy a hammock
swung upon the porch, where she passed her time listening to reading,
generally by the doctor, who rarely left her long for the first day or
two, chatting with the cousins or sleeping; weakness and the sea-air
having somewhat the effect of an opiate.
But both the air and the sleep did her great good, so that in a few
days she was able to take short drives and even walks along the beach
with the support of the arm of one or another of the gentlemen, oftener
that of Arthur than any other. He watched over her with the care and
tenderness of a mother, noticed the first sign of exhaustion, and
it was always he who helped her up the stairs to her bedroom, not
infrequently half-carrying her there.
All the older members of the family noticed his devotion and quietly
remarked upon it among themselves.
“He is really in love with her, I think, but it seems to me the
disparity of years is too great,” remarked Herbert one day when the
matter was under discussion.
“Perhaps, laddie, when you come to be of his age you may see such
matters in a different light,” said Mr. Lilburn in a fatherly tone and
with a kindly smile at his young relative.
“As his mother did before him,” added Elsie, laying her hand
affectionately in that of Herbert, who was as usual close at her side.
“Ah, mamma dear, I quite forgot at the moment that you had married one
so much older than yourself. But my father was no common man.”
“No, nor is Cousin Arthur; at least so we all think, we to whom he has
always been so kind and faithful as both relative and physician.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Dinsmore, “and any one who is so fortunate as to win
his heart and hand will have one of the best, most affectionate, and
attentive of husbands.”
“And the disparity of years will not be so very much greater than
between Cousin Mary and his brother,” remarked Mrs. Dinsmore.
“And they seem a delightfully happy pair; as a certain married couple
of my acquaintance, between whom there must be something like the same
disparity of years, are to my actual knowledge,” remarked Violet with a
bright, fond look up into her husband’s face as he sat by her side with
baby Ned on his knee.
“Quite true, my dear. I could not be induced to exchange my one little
wife for half a dozen women of twice her years, even if the law allowed
it,” returned the captain with a humorous look and smile.
“Nor could I be induced to exchange my one good big husband for a dozen
or more other men of any age, size, or quality,” laughed Violet.
“Wise Vi,” remarked Herbert; “one is plenty; more than one would
certainly be a superfluity. There—look toward the shore, everybody.
Yonder are Cal and his beloved wandering together near the waves,
seemingly in close conversation, while Art and his sit side by side
on two camp-chairs a little nearer here, or a trifle farther from the
water. There is certainly a good deal of love-making going on.”
“At least things have that appearance,” Harold said with a quiet smile
as he and the others followed Herbert’s advice, and gazing out seaward
had a pretty view of the two pairs of lovers.
There was little doubt in any of their minds that Arthur and Marian
belonged in that class, while the other two were openly acknowledged as
such.
But they were somewhat mistaken. Arthur had not yet breathed a word of
love to his young patient, and she thought of him only as her dear,
kind doctor, who had done much to relieve her sufferings and had in
all probability saved her life. She had strong confidence in his skill
and was a perfectly tractable and obedient patient. He assisted her to
her room that evening, as usual, more than an hour before any but the
younger children were ready to retire.
It was a beautiful moonlight evening, and the porches, where most of
the family were gathered, looked very inviting as he came down again
and stepped out upon the one that ran along the front of the house.
His Cousin Elsie invited him to an easy-chair by her side, then
presently proposed that they two should stroll around the porches
together. He caught gladly at the suggestion, rose and offered her his
arm.
“I want a little private chat with you, Art,” she said, smiling
brightly up into his face.
“I am always glad to talk with you, cousin,” he returned, giving her an
affectionate yet keenly scrutinizing look, “but I hope it is not of any
serious ailment you have to tell me.”
“Oh, no! I am thankful to be able to say that I and all my near and
dear ones are in perfect health so far as I know. It is of yourself and
your dear young patient I would speak. Marian is a sweet girl, lovely
in both character and person.”
“So I think. Ah, cousin, if I were only some years younger!”
“Never mind that, Art; you are young in looks and feeling, and I doubt
if there is any one nearer and dearer to her now than yourself. She
thinks her feeling for you is only the gratitude and affection any
patient might feel for a kind, attentive, sympathizing physician, but
I am much mistaken if on hearing the story of your love from your lips
she will fail to discover that she loves you as a woman should the man
to whom she gives her hand.”
“Do you really think so, cousin?” he asked with a bright, glad smile.
“I do indeed,” she replied, “and if I were in your place I should soon
put it to the proof by offering her my hand and heart.”
He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then heaving a sigh, “Ah, if I
were only sure,” he said—“sure of not, by so doing, losing the place
I can see that I have already won in her heart—the friendship—it may
not, after all, be anything more than that—I should not for a moment
hesitate to make the offer you recommend; for I feel confident that
with mutual love we might be exceptionally happy despite the difference
in our years.”
“No doubt of it,” she returned, “and I hope that before you leave us
you will put it to the proof; because I think it will be for both your
happiness and hers.”
“Thank you very much for both your sympathy and advice, dear cousin,”
he said. “I shall do so to-morrow if opportunity offers, as is likely
to be the case, seeing we are so frequently alone together as patient
and physician. Then if I find she does not and cannot love me in
the way I wish, I shall trouble her no longer with my presence, but
speedily set off for home and its duties.”
“But even in that case you need not entirely despair,” his cousin said
with a bright, sweet look up into his rather anxious and troubled
face, “for she is but young, and clever courting may win her heart
in time. You are such a dear fellow, Art, so kind-hearted, generous,
sympathetic, so unselfish and helpful, that you seem to me to deserve
every good thing in life.”
“Oh, Cousin Elsie, such extravagant praise mortifies me, because I
must acknowledge to myself that it is so far beyond my deserts,” he
returned, blushing like a girl.
“It need not,” she said. “There is an old saying that every one—every
deserving one at least—eats white bread at some time in his or her
life. You have had a hard life so far, but I hope your time for white
bread is now close at hand.”
He laughed a little at that. “Yes,” he said, “Cal and I have worked
very hard for years past, and times do grow easier with us, but whether
I shall ever get so far with the white bread as to win the dear young
wife I covet, I do not know.”
“Well, you have my best wishes,” she returned, “and I shall do what
I can to help the prosperity of your suit by sounding your praises in
the ears of your lady-love. Ah, do not look alarmed, but trust me to
say only enough to interest her, not so much as to weary her of the
subject.”
“Thank you, dear cousin, I know I can trust you fully. And will you not
help me with your prayers that I may, if it be God’s will, succeed in
winning her heart completely?”
“Surely I will,” she said, “and I believe our joint petition will be
granted, if it be for the best.”
Arthur lay awake for some time that night, pondering on Elsie’s advice
in regard to his contemplated suit for Marian’s hand and asking divine
guidance and help.
The next morning, soon after breakfast, he, as usual, asked Marian
if she would like to go down on the beach and get a breath of the
refreshing breeze from the sea.
“Yes, indeed, doctor, if it will not be keeping you from going
somewhere with somebody else,” she answered with a smile.
“Not at all,” he returned. “I have no engagement, and shall be glad not
only to help you to a breath of sea-air, but to take one myself.”
He brought a light shawl and wrapped it about her, saying the breeze
was rather fresh for her, while her Cousin Elsie tied on her hat and
veil. Then with a thick shawl over one arm, he offered her the other,
saying, “Walter has run on ahead with a couple of camp-stools for us,
and this heavier shawl is to wrap around you in case you find the other
not warm enough.”
“Thank you,” she returned, smiling up into his face. “I am sure it is
not every patient who has so good and kind a doctor as mine.”
“I do certainly want to be kind to all my patients,” he said
pleasantly, “yet cannot deny that some are greater favorites with me
than others. Besides, I have, you know, but the one here to devote
myself to.”
“Fortunately for me,” she returned laughingly. “And I assure you I do
enjoy having my doctor all to myself. One likes to be treated as a
person of importance, you know.”
“You are such to me,” he said, “especially as you have not yet fully
recovered your strength, and I must leave you soon to return to the
care of other patients left behind in the South.”
She started and looked up half-entreatingly into his face, but said
nothing, for at that moment Walter came running up to them.
“Cousin Arthur,” he said, “I placed the stools about where you usually
sit, I think; but if they are not just where you want them, they are
easily moved.”
“Yes; thank you,” replied the doctor, and Walter ran on to the house.
He seated Marian comfortably, then took the chair beside her.
“Must you go very soon?” she asked, trying to swallow a lump in her
throat.
“I am afraid I must, on account of the other patients, though it seems
decidedly hard for me to leave this delightful spot and pleasant
company.”
“Yes, sir; and I really think you ought to have a longer rest after
working so hard and long. I—I am afraid I have been a great deal of
trouble and the cause of much weariness. And—and I can never begin to
pay you for it all.”
“O Marian, dear girl, you can far more than repay me if—if only you can
find it in your heart to love and trust me well enough to give your
dear self into my care for the rest of our two lives,” he said in low,
eager tones, bending over her and taking her hand in his.
She did not withdraw it, but neither did she speak, but bending low to
catch sight of her face, he saw that her tears were falling fast.
“O my darling, I did not mean to distress you so,” he said in moved
tones. “I see that you cannot give me that kind of love, so forget that
I have asked it.”
“Forget!” she exclaimed in low, tremulous tones, “forget the sweetest
words I ever had spoken to me? Oh, no, no! But I don’t know how you can
give such love to me—a poor, ignorant girl, whose own father cares so
little for her that he would sacrifice her happiness for life.”
“No, no,” he said, gathering her in his arms, “the sweetest, dearest,
loveliest one that ever crossed my path. And you can love me. Ah,
darling, you have made me the happiest of men; you do not deny that you
love me; and you are to me the dearest of all earthly creatures.”
He held her close, while she dropped her head on his breast and wept
for very joy and thankfulness. For Elsie was right; he had won her
heart and was dearer to her than all the world besides.
Many low-breathed, comforting, endearing words fell from his lips as
he held her close in such loving embrace as she had not felt since her
mother’s death, till at length her tears ceased to fall and she was
able to speak again.
“Oh, I never dreamed,” she said, “that one so wise and good could ever
care in that way for me. My heart is so full of joy and gratitude to
God and to you that words would not express the half of it. But are
you not afraid that you may some day weary of a companion for life who
knows so much less than you do that she is but a child in comparison
with you?”
“Ah, no,” he answered with a smile; “I have only feared that your youth
and my years might stand in the way of my winning you; that a girl so
sweet, fresh, and young would feel herself thrown away upon a man of
my age. It would be but natural that you should prefer a much more
youthful and finer-looking man.”
“I do not know where I could find a finer-looking one,” she answered
with an earnest sincerity that made him smile. “Your face is so
benevolent in expression, so full of goodness and kindness, that I
could not help loving and trusting you from the first.”
“Ah, darling, those are sweet words,” he said, his eyes shining. “And
you I found so patient and uncomplaining under suffering, so grateful
for any and every kindness done you, every effort to give you relief,
that I could but admire and end by loving you as I never loved before.
Ah, dearest, that you return my love and have given yourself to me has
made me the happiest of men! What a joy it will be to have you for my
very own to love, cherish, and provide for!”
“And how sweet to me to belong to one who is so good and kind,” she
exclaimed, half-hiding her blushing face on his shoulder. “Oh, never
before in all my life was I so happy as I am at this moment!”