"SURE an' it's time they was a-coomin'," said Mrs. Ginniss going out upon the door-stone, and shading her eyes from the level rays of the sunset as she looked steadfastly down the road.
"An' who'll they all be, I'm woondherin'? The missus says fove bids was wanted; an' faith it's well she said no more, for sorra a place 'ud there be to stand anudder in. An' tay ready for eight folks, at sax o'clock. That's it, I belave; though all thim figgers is enough to craze me poor head."
She took a little note from her pocket as she spoke, and, unfolding it, looked anxiously at the delicate letters.
"Sure an' it's all there if on'y I had the sinse to rade it. An' feth, it's the tail uv it I'm howldin' to the top, as I'm a sinner! No' thin: it looks as crabbed this way as that. I'd niver be afther makin' it out if it towld of a fortin coomin' to me for the axin'. Shusin, Shusin, I say!"
"What is it, Mrs. Ginniss?" asked a pleasant voice from within; and Susan, looking a little thinner and paler than when we first met her, came out of the parlor, where she had been picking a few scattered petals from beneath the vases of flowers upon the mantle-shelf.
"An' would ye be plazed to read the missus's note to me wonst more?Me owld eyes are that dim, I can't make it out in the gloamin'."
Susan, with unshaken gravity, took the note, turned it right side up, and read aloud, while her companion craftily glanced over her shoulder to note the position of the words as they were spoken:— "DEAR MRS. GINNISS,—
"We shall be at home on Wednesday evening, at six o'clock, and shall bring some guests. You will please prepare tea for eight persons; and make up five beds, three of them single ones. Tell Susan to make the house look as pretty as she can; and send for any thing she or you need in the way of preparation. "F. LEGRANGE"
"An' faith it's this minute they're coomin!' Look at the jaantin'-cars fur down the road!"
"One's a carryall, and the other's a rockaway," said Susan sententiously.
"Musha, an' what's the odds if they're one thing or the other, so they bring the purty misthress back halesomer than she wint? That's her in the first car: I know her white bonnet with the blue ribbon."
"Yes, there's Mr. and Mrs. Legrange, and a strange lady and gentleman; and the other carriage are all strangers, except Mr. Burroughs. Those young ladies are pretty; ain't they?"
But Mrs. Ginniss was already at the gate, courtesying and beaming:—
"Ye're wilcoom home, missus and masther; an' it's in health an' paceI hope yees coom."
"Thank you, Mrs. Ginniss. We are very well indeed, I believe," said Mr. Legrange, rather nervously, as he jumped from the carriage and helped out his wife, and then Kitty and Mr. Brown. From the other carriage, meantime, had alighted, without the good woman's observation, Mr. Burroughs, Dora, Karl, and another, who, the moment her feet touched the ground, ran forward, crying,—
"O mamma! I've been at this home before."
At the sound, Mrs. Ginniss turned, dropping the shawls, bags, and parasols she held, in one mass at her feet, and then dropping herself upon her knees in their midst; while her fresh face turned of a ghastly yellow, and her uplifted hands shook visibly,—
"Glory be to God, an' what's that!" exclaimed she in a voice of terror.
"Oh, it's mammy, it's mammy! that used to rock me in her lap, and hold my feet, and sing to me! I 'member her now, and Teddy said so too. O mammy! I'm so glad you've come again!"
The sobbing woman opened wide her arms; and Sunshine leaped into them, shouting again and again,—
"It's the good old mammy! and I'm so glad, I'm so glad!"
"O Mrs. Legrange! is it?" exclaimed an agitated voice; and Mrs. Legrange, turning, found Susan standing beside her with pale face and clasped hands, her eyes fixed upon the child with a sort of terror.
"Yes, Susan, it is 'Toinette, her very self. I would not write, because I wanted to see if she would know you both, and you her."
"Oh, thank God! thank God! I didn't believe I'd ever forgive myself for not minding her better; but now I may. Miss 'Toinette, dear, won't you speak to Susan?"
"Susan!" exclaimed the child, struggling out of Mrs. Ginniss's embrace, and leaving that good woman still exploding in a feu-de-joie of thanksgiving, emotion, and astonishment. "Are you Susan? Why, that was a doll!"
"A doll?" asked the nurse in bewilderment, and pausing in act of kissing her recovered charge, not with the rapturous abandonment of the Irish woman, but with the respectful tenderness of a trained English servant.
"She named a doll after you, Mrs. Ginniss says, although she did not remember who you really were," explained Mrs. Legrange. "But come, my friends: we will not wait longer out of doors. Dora, you and Kitty know the way even better than I; and Mr. Windsor"—
"It isn't Mr. Windsor, it's Karlo, mamma," persisted Sunshine, dancing up the narrow path in advance of the party.
"Yes, Karl, if you will be so kind," said Dr. Windsor, offering Mrs.Legrange his arm.
"Then Karl will feel himself as much at home here as he ever did, I trust," said the lady cordially.
"It was peeping out at that window I saw you first, Dora; and I thought it must be the sunrise," whispered Tom Burroughs to the lady he escorted.
"I am sorry I should have so put you out of countenance. Perhaps that is the reason you never have seen straight since,—so far as I am concerned at least," replied she.
"One does not care to look straight at the sun: it is sufficient to bask in its light," whispered the lover.
"Oh! very well, if that is what you want—Here, Sunshine! Cousin Tom wants you."
The little girl came bounding toward them; and Dora, with a wicked little laugh, slipped away, and up the stairs, to the room that had been Kitty's, now appropriated to the use of the two young girls.
Soon the happy party assembled again in the kitchen, where stood a tea-table judiciously combining the generous breadth of Mrs. Ginniss's ideas with the more elegant and subdued tastes inculcated upon Susan by a long period of service with her present mistress.
"Mind you tell 'em there's more beyant, on'y you wouldn't set it on all to wonst," whispered the Irish woman hoarsely, as she rushed into the scullery, leaving Susan to receive the guests just entering the kitchen.
"Mrs. Ginniss thought we should arrive with appetites, I suspect," said the hostess, laughing a little apologetically as they seated themselves; and Susan did not think it best to deliver her message.
"And so we have, some of us at least; and I do not believe even the ladies will refuse a bit of this nice tongue, or some cold chicken. What do you say, Dora?" asked Mr. Legrange gayly.
"No tongue for her, please; she is supplied," remarked Mr. Burroughs sotto voce; and Dora, with a little mutinous glance, passed her plate with,—
"A slice of tongue, if you please, Mr. Legrange."
"Never mind: wait a few days, and we will see," murmured Burroughs threateningly; and Dora did not care to retort, but, blushing brightly, began an eager conversation with Sunshine, who had nestled a chair in between those of her mother and Dora, and made lively claims upon the attention of both.
An hour or two later, Mrs. Legrange went to seek her housekeeper, and found her seated upon the step of the back door, her hands clasped around her knees, and softly crooning a wild Irish melody to herself as she rocked slowly backward and forward, her eyes fixed upon the little crescent moon, swimming like a silver boat in the golden sea of sunset.
"An' isn't it a purty sight, you?" asked she, rising as Mrs.Legrange spoke to her. "Sure an' its the hooney-moon for MistherBooros an' the swate young lady that's to marry him."
"Yes, it's their honey-moon; and I believe it will be as bright and as long a one as ever shone," said Mrs. Legrange, smiling tenderly, as happy wives will do in speaking of the future of a bride.
"I came to ask you to go up stairs with me, Mrs. Ginniss," continued she with a little agitation in her sweet voice. "There is something for you to see."
"Sure an' I will, ma'am. Is it the chambers isn't settled to shute yees?"
"Oh, no! every thing is admirable, except that we must contrive a little bed for 'Toinette upon the couch in my room."
"An' faith, that's asy done, ma'am. There's lashin's o' blankets an' sheets an' pillers not in use at all, at all. We've plenty uv ivery thin' in this house, glory be to God!"
Mrs. Legrange smiled a little at the satisfaction with which the Irish woman contemplated a superfluity, even when not belonging to herself; and led the way to her own chamber, where sat Dora, as she had sat many a time within those four walls, holding Sunshine upon her lap, and, while loosening her clothes for the night, telling her one of the stories of which the child was never weary.
"See here, Mrs. Ginniss!" said the mother hastily, as she stripped the frock from the child's white shoulders, and showed a little linen bag hung about her neck by a silken cord. "Did you ever see that before?"
"Sure an' what would ail me owld eyes not to seen it, whin me own fingers sewed it, an' me own han's hoong it aboot the little crather's nick?"
"You are quite sure it is the very same?"
"Quite an' intirely; for more by token the clot' is a bit uv the linen gownd that my mother give me whin I wor married to Michael, an' the sthring wor to a locket that my b'y give me one Christmas Day."
"And what is in it?" asked Mrs. Legrange eagerly.
"The bracelet, uv coorse. Whin Teddy brought her to me the black night he foun' her sinseless in the strate, she had it clinched in the little hand uv her; an', whin she got betther, there wor nought she loved so well to have by her, an' tooch, an' look at. So when she roomed about, an' I wor thinkin' it might be laid asthray, or she might lave it out the windy, or some place, an' not find it, I sewed it in the bit bag, an' placed it round her nick, and bid her niver, niver, niver let it be took off till she coom to her own agin.
"'That manes hivin, mammy, don't it?' axed the darlint in her own purty way; an' so I says, 'Yis, that manes hivin; an' don't ye niver be lettin' man, woman, nor child, be knowin' to it, till ye git to hivin'.' For sure I knowed she must be some person's child that 'ud one day give their hearts out uv their buzzums to know for sure that she wor their own."
"And that is the reason she never would let me look at it, or open it," said Dora. "She always said, when I asked about it, that it was to go to heaven with her; and, when she got there, she'd open it. So I supposed it was a charm or relic, such as some of our soldiers used to carry about their necks; and I never meddled with it."
"And I, although I knew what it must be, wanted to hear Mrs. Ginniss say that it was the very same bag and all, that she put about the darling's neck soon after she went to her. But now"—
The quick snip of the scissors finished the sentence, and the bag lay in Mrs. Legrange's palm. Sunshine's little hand went up rather forlornly to her bosom, robbed of what it so long had cherished; and Dora clasped her tighter, and kissed her tenderly: but neither spoke, until Mrs. Legrange drew from the bag, and held before them, the coral bracelet, with its linked cameos, broken at one point by the force with which Mother Winch had torn it from the child's shoulder, and with the clasp still closed.
Mrs. Legrange opened it, touched the spring, causing the upper plate to fly up, and silently showed to Dora the name "Antoinette Legrange" engraved within.
"Not quite two years since it was engraved, and what a life of sorrow!" said she softly.
Then, going to her jewel-case, she took out the mate, saved as a sacred relic since the day it had been found upon the floor in the drawing-room after 'Toinette's flight, and handed it to the child, saying,—
"Here is the other one, darling; and you may, if you like, give it to Dora for your wedding-present. This one, that has showed the wanderings of my poor little lost lamb so long, I shall keep for myself."
"Will you take it, Dora, and some love, ever so much love, along with it?" said Sunshine, trying to make her little offering in somewhat the form she had heard from older people, but finishing with a sudden clasp of her arms about Dora's neck, and a shower of kisses, among which came the whispered words,—
"I love you ever and ever so much better than Cousin Tom does, Dora.Be my little wife, and never mind him; won't you?"
"MAKE haste, Mr. Sun, and get up! Don't you know it is my birthday, and, what is better, it is Dora's wedding-day? So jump up, pretty Sunny, and be just as bright as glory all day long!"
And the sun, hearing the appeal, stood suddenly upon the summit of the distant hills, shooting playful golden arrows into the child's merry eyes, and among her floating hair, where they clung glittering and glancing; while to her mind he seemed to say,—
"Oh, yes, little namesake! I know all about it; and I promise you sha'n't find me backward in doing my share towards the entertainment. As for a glare of light, though, I know a trick worth two of that, as you shall see. But, first, here is my birthday-kiss. Don't you feel it warm upon your lips?"
"O papa!" shouted Sunshine, as the fancy whirled through her busy little brain, "it seems just as if the sun were kissing me for my birthday."
"If the sun does, the father must; and it ought to be twice over, because last year he lost the chance. Eight! Bless me! where shall I put them all? One on the forehead, two on the eyes, one on the tip of that ridiculous little nose, two on the rose-red cheeks, one in that little hollow under the chin, and the last and best square on the lips. Now, then, my Sunshine, run to mamma, who is waiting for you."
The sun meantime, after a brief period of meditation, took his resolve; and, sending back the brisk October day that had prepared to descend upon earth, he summoned, instead, the first day of the Indian Summer, and bade her go and help to celebrate the bridal of one of his favorite daughters, as she knew so well how to do.
So, summoning a south-west wind, still bearing in his garments the odors of the tropic bowers where he had slept, the fair day descended softly in his arms to earth, and, seating herself upon the hills, wove a drapery of golden mist, bright as love, and tender as maidenhood. Then, wrapped in this bridal veil, she floated, still in the arms of the gentle wind, through the forests, touching their leaves with purer gold and richer crimson; over the harvest-fields, whose shocks of lingering corn rustled responsive as her trailing garments swept past; over wide, brown pastures, where the cattle nibbled luxuriously at the sweet after-math; over lakes and rivers, where the waters slept content, forgetting, for the moment, their restless seaward march; over sheltered gardens, where hollyhock and sunflower, petunia and pansy, dahlia and phlox, whispering together of the summer vanished and the frosty nights at hand, gave out the mysterious, melancholy perfume of an autumn day.
And from forest and field, and pasture and garden, and from the sleeping waters, the dreamy day culled the beauty and the grace, the perfume and the sweet content, and, floating on to where the bride awaited her coming, dropped them all, a heavenly dower, upon her head; wrapped the bright veil caressingly about her; and so passed on, to lie reclined upon the hills, dreaming in luxurious beauty, until the night should come, and she should float once more heavenward.
But the south-west wind lingered a while, kissing the trembling lips of the bride, fanning her burning cheek, and dallying with the floating tresses of her hair; then, whispering farewell, he crept away to hide in the recesses of the wood, and sigh himself to sleep.
"Dora, where are you, love? Do you hide from me today?" called a voice; and Dora, peeping round the stem of the old oak at whose foot she sat, said shyly,—
"Do you want me, Tom?"
"Want you, my darling? What else on earth do I want but you? And how lovely you are to-day, Dora! You never looked like this before."
"It never was my wedding-day before," whispered Dora; and, like the summer day and the west wind, we will pass on, leaving these our lovers to their own fond folly, which yet is such wisdom as the philosophers and the savans can never give us by theory or diagram.
As the fair day waned to sunset, they were married; Mr. Brown saying the solemn words that barred from his own heart even the unrequited love that had been a dreary solace to it. But Mr. Brown was not only a good man, but a strong man, and one of an iron determination; and so it was possible to him to say those words unfalteringly, and to look upon the bride-lovelier in her misty robes of white, and floating veil, than he had ever seen her before-with unfaltering eyes and unchanging color. No great effort stops short at the end for which it was exerted; and the chaplain himself was surprised to find how calm his heart could be, and how little of pain or regret mingled with his honest admiration and affection for Thomas Burroughs's wife.
The carriage stood ready in the lane, and in another hour they were gone; and let us say with Mrs. Ginniss,—radiant in her new cap and gown,—
"The blissing of God go with 'em! fur it's thimsilves as desarves it."
To those who remain behind when an absorbing interest is suddenly withdrawn, all ordinary events seem to have lost their connection with themselves, and to be dull, disjointed, and fatiguing.
Perhaps that was the reason why Kitty, as soon as the bridal party was out of sight, crept away to her own chamber, and cried as if her heart would break; but nothing except the natural love of mischief, inherent in even the sweetest of children, could have tempted 'Toinette, after visiting her, to go straight to Mr. Brown,—strolling in the rambling old garden,—and say,—
"Now, Mr. Brown! did you say that you despised Kitty?"
"Despise Kitty! Certainly not, my dear. What made you think of such a thing?"
"Why, she said so. She's up in our room, crying just as hard! And, when I asked her what was the matter, she hugged me up tight, and said nobody cared for her, and nobody would ever love her same as Cousin Tom does Dora. And I told her, yes, they would, and maybe you would; and then she said, 'Oh, no, no, no! he despises me!' and then she cried harder than ever. Tell her you don't; won't you, Mr. Brown?"
The chaplain looked much disturbed, and then very thoughtful; but, as the child still urged him with her entreaties, he said,—
"Yes, I will tell her so, Sunshine, but not just now. And mind you this, little girl,—you must never, never let Kitty know that you told me what she said. Will you promise?"
"Yes, I'll promise. I guess you're afraid, if she knows, she'll think you just say so to make her feel happy. Isn't that it?"
"Yes: that is just it. So remember!"
"I'll 'memberer. Oh, there's Karlo! I'm going to look for chestnuts with him to-morrow. Good-by, Mr. Brown!"
"Good-by, little Sunshine!"
And, for a good hour, Mr. Brown, pacing up and down the garden-walk, took counsel with his own heart, and, we may hope, found it docile.
The next day, he said to Kitty,—
"I have been telling your brother that he had better let you board at Yellow Springs this winter, and attend the lectures at the college. Should you like it?"
"Oh, ever so much!" exclaimed Kitty eagerly. "But we were to keep house together at Outpost."
"Karl thinks it will be as well to shut up the house and leave farm-matters to Seth and Mehitable, until spring, when Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs return. He will prefer for himself to spend the winter in Greenfield, perhaps in Dr. Gershom's family. If you are at Antioch College, I can perhaps help you with your studies. I take some private pupils."
Mr. Brown did not make this proposition with his usual fluency. Indeed, he was embarrassed to a considerable extent; and so, no doubt, was Kitty, who answered confusedly,—
"I could try; but I never shall be fit for any thing. I never-I never shall know much; though, if you will try to teach me"—
"I will try, Kitty, with all my heart. You have excellent abilities, and it is foolish to say you 'never can be fit' for almost any position."
"O Mr. Brown! it seems to me as if I was such a poor sort of creature, compared with almost any one!"
"Dora, for instance?"
"Yes. I never can be Dora: now, could I?"
"No, any more than I could be Mr. Burroughs. But perhaps Kitty Windsor and Frank Brown may fill their places in this world, and the next too, as well as these friends of theirs whom they both admire."
"O Mr. Brown! will you help me?" asked Kitty, turning involuntarily toward him, and raising her handsome dark eyes and glowing face to his. He took her hands, looked kindly into her eyes, and said both tenderly and solemnly,—
"Yes, Kitty, God helping me, I will be to you all that a thoughtful brother could be to his only sister; and, what you may be to me in the dim future, that future only knows."
And Kitty's eyes drooped happily beneath that earnest gaze, and upon her cheeks glowed the dawn of a hope as vague as it was sweet.
KARL TO DORA. GREENFIELD, IOWA, march 15. MY DEAR COUSIN,—
YOURS of the 10th duly received, and as welcome as your letters always are. So you have seen the kingdoms of the world and the glory thereof, and find that all is vanity, as saith the Preacher. Do not imagine that I am studying divinity instead of medicine; but to-day is Sunday, and I have been twice to meeting, and taken tea with the minister besides.
But to return to our mutton. Nothing could be more delightful, or, on the whole, more probable to me, than your decision to return to Outpost, instead of settling in Boston or New York. I can hardly fancy my cousin Dora changed into a fine lady, and fretting herself thin over the color of ribbon, or the trail of a skirt; and I am not surprised that she finds what is called "society" puzzling and wearisome. Your life, Dora, began upon too wide a plan to bear narrowing down into conventional limits now; and I feel through my own heart the thrill with which you wrote the words,—
"I long for the opportunity of action and usefulness; I long for the freedom of the prairie, and the dignity of labor; I long to resume my old life, and to see my husband begin his new one."
But, to be quite frank, I was a little surprised that Mr. Burroughs should enter so heartily into your plan of resuming the farm. To be sure, I suppose the land-agency, and the practice of his profession, will occupy most of his time; and his principal concern with the estate will be to admire your able management of it. You and he, my dear Dora, seem to form not only a mutual-admiration, but a mutual-encouragement and mutual-assistance society; and I wish my partnership with Dr. Gershom was half as satisfactory an arrangement.
Yesterday, after receiving your letter, I rode directly to Outpost, and communicated your wishes to Seth and Mehitable. The former threw the chip he was whittling into the fire, and said,—
"Miss Burroughs coming back? Waal, then, I'll stop; but I own, doctor, I wouldn't ha' done it ef she hadn't. It's took all the heart out o' the place, her bein' gone so."
And Mehitable and he joined in a chorus of praises and reminiscences, which, pleasant though I found it, I will not put you to the blush by repeating. Both, however, promised faithfully that the house and farm should be ready for you by the middle of April; and Seth says he can take hold "right smart" at helping put up the new house, as he was "raised a carpenter," in part at least.
You ask about me, my dear cousin; but what have I to tell? I work hard at my profession, and take nearly all the night-practice off Dr. Gershom's hands; so I have very little leisure for any thing besides: and you say to be useful is to be happy; so I suppose I am happy; but, if I may be allowed the suggestion, it is rather a negative kind of bliss, and will be decidedly augmented when Outpost is once again open to me as a second home (I assure you I shall be a frequent visitor), and when Burroughs comes to occupy an office beside my own.
As for the rumor of my engagement to Sarah Gershom, it is quite unfounded. I am not thinking of marrying at present.
A letter from Kitty, received a few days since, brings very satisfactory accounts of her progress in learning and in life. She is as happy as possible in her engagement to Frank Brown, and improves, under his tuition, beyond my wildest hopes. She has a strong nature and a deep heart, has Kitty; and I believe Brown understands and can guide them both. Kitty tells me, also, that Theodore Ginniss is taking high honors in his class, and is one of the most promising fellows at Antioch College. He will yet become man of mark, and Mrs. Legrange may well be proud of her protg. Give her my regards, please; and a thousand kisses to Dolce, whom I thank most humbly for her kind message to her poor old Karlo. I hope to see her again in my little vacation next summer. Remember me, too, most kindly to your husband, upon whose coming to Greenfield I am depending a good deal, as I do not suffer, like you, from too much society; and I shall be glad to associate with one man who does not chew tobacco, or sit in the house with his hat on.
And now, dear Dora, good-night, and good-by for a little while.
Always your affectionate cousin,