The Second Chance
Page 27
CHAPTER XXVII
THE WEDDING
Life? 'Tis the story of love and troubles Of troubles and love that travel together The round world through.
_----Joaquin Miller._
WHEN Arthur and Jack Smeaton arrived at the Perkins home the nextmorning, and announced that the wedding would take place at once,Mrs. Perkins, without waiting for further details, made an emergencyvisit to the hen-house and slew six chickens--there could be nowedding without fried chicken. Then she came back to find out who wasto be the groom.
Mr. Perkins was hurriedly despatched for Pearl Watson, who was to bethe bridesmaid, and Mr. and Mrs. Watson and Aunt Kate, who were to bethe guests. Mr. Perkins, who had refused to leave the house withoutbeing dressed in his "other" suit, was in the hilarious humour thatwent with his good clothes when he reached the Watson home.
"By golly! John," he said, "that Arthur's a game one, and don't youforget it--he's simply handed his girl over to the other fellow; andI tell you he's done it handsome, just as cool and cheerful about itas if he liked the job. The little girl there, that Thursa, she'spretty enough to make men draw their shootin'-irons on each other.I'm fifty-three year old myself, but, by jingo! I was proud to beseen walkin' down the street with her yesterday in Millford; shedrove in with me, and we walked around a bit. She had a hat as big asa waggon wheel, carrying as many plumes as a hearse. Whew! You should'a' seen the people lookin' at us. She took my arm, mind ye, John;and say, now, I can't understand Arthur bringin' that other gentright back with him. Arthur went up to find out about this fellow, ifhe was the straight goods, and all that--she told me the hull thingyesterday. It was a secret, she said, but she just told me and themissus and Martha--she didn't see any one else--and she was that gladto-day when she saw this 'Jack' fellow that she kissed him and kissedArthur, too--a kind of overflow meetin' his was--I stood around handyby, but she over-looked me some way; and then her and Jack went intothe parlour to decide who was goin' to be boss and a few things likethat, and I'll be blessed if Arthur didn't pitch right in to helpMartha and the missus to get dinner ready. Never winked an eyelash,that fellow--the English have great grit, when you get a nice one. Sohurry along now, we'll have to rustle. The minister's comin' attwelve o'clock sharp, and they're goin' away on the afternoon train.He's a right smart-lookin' fellow, this Jack--the little girl's doin'well, all right, all right; he maybe hasn't got as good a pedigree asArthur, but he'll suit her better. She won't sass back to him, I'llbet, the way she would to Arthur. She'd give Arthur a queer old time,I know, but this chap'll manage her; he's got that sort of a way withhim. I could see it, though I was only speakin' a few words to him."
* * *
Pearl was dressed in her cream silk dress, and carried a bouquet ofroses.
"Land sakes!" Aunt Kate exclaimed, "where does anyone get roses atthis time o' year, I'd like to know?
"I lived in Ontario many a year, and that's what I never saw was rosesin December. They must 'a' had a sheltered place to grow in." Andevery person who heard her was too loyal a Manitoban to enlightenher.
Thursa, in a trailing gown of white silk mull, came into the parlourleaning on Arthur's arm, and made the responses as demurely as thestaid Aunt Prudence would have desired. Any one looking at Arthur'sunmoved face would never have guessed at the tragedy that was takingplace in the young man's heart.
The wedding breakfast was a very jolly meal, and everybody, Arthurincluded, was in the best of humour. Young Jack Smeaton clearlydemonstrated that the old lawyer had expressed the truth when hesaid: "Jack Smeaton has a way with him." He discussed the variousknitting wools with Mrs. Perkins, and told Thomas Perkins a new wayof putting formalin on his seed-wheat to get rid of the smut, and howto put patches on grain bags with flour paste. Mrs. Perkins told veryvividly the story of Mary Ann Corbett's wedding, where the bridegroomfailed 'to appear, and she married her first love, who was acting inthe capacity of best man, and the old man Corbett gave them the deedof one hundred and fifty acres of land, and a cow and a feather bed,and some other tokens of paternal affection, and they lived happyever afterward.
While she was telling this, her husband, in his usual graphic way,told his story, which happened to be on this occasion an account ofthe death of his old friend, Tony Miner; which had happened thewinter before.
"The last words Tony said--mind ye, he was sensible to the last--wasto tell his missus not to let the undertaker do her on the price ofthe coffin. He was a very savin' man, was Tony, but he needn't haveworried, for the old lady could see a hole in a ladder as quick asmost people, and even an undertaker couldn't get ahead of her. Theold lady went herself and picked out the coffin. They sent it out ina box, of course, with Tony's name on it in big black letters, andwhen they charged her a dollar for the box she wanted them to take itback, but they said they couldn't when it had the name on it; but Itell you, she's a savin' woman, and no wonder Tony died rich. Shewasn't goin' to let the box go to waste when it cost money, so shemade a door for the hen-house out of it, and there it is yet, with'Anthony Miner' in big black letters on it. Some say she's goin' tomake it answer for a headstone, but I don't know about that. She's afine savin' woman, and no one can say she is superstitious anyway, orfilled with false pride."
The two stories ran concurrently and filled in most of the time atthe table. Mr. Perkins did not believe in having awkward pauses orany other kind.
Pearl could not help noticing the glow "on Martha's cheek and thesympathetic way she had of watching Arthur.
"My, but women are queer," Pea thought to her self. "Here's Martha,now, glad as glad that the other fellow has got Thursa, and stillfeelin' so sorry for Arthur she can't eat her vittles. Wasn't it finethat Martha had so' much good stuff cooked in the house and was ableto set up such a fine meal at a minute's notice? I wonder if it everstrikes Arthur what a fine housekeeper she is? I'll bet MissThursa'll never be able to bake a jenny Lind cake like this, or jellred currants so you can cut them with a knife."
Thursa and Jack left on the five o'clock train. It was a heavy, mistyday, the kind that brings a storm, and the loose snow that lay on theground needed only a strong enough wind to make a real Manitobablizzard.
The bride and groom, with Arthur and Martha, drove in the Perkinsdouble cutter. Dr. Clay, who had not been able to come to thewedding, came out afterward, and he and Pearl drove behind.
At the station there was only time for a hurried good-bye. Thursaseemed to take a more serious view of life, now that the real partinghad come. She held Arthur's hand in a close grasp. "You've behavedawfully decent, Arthur," she said earnestly.
Arthur smiled bravely and thanked her.
The last to say good-bye were Jack and Arthur. It was an embarrassingmoment for both of them, but their handclasp was warm and genuine,and Jack said in a low voice: "I'll try to be worthy of her, old man,and of you."
Arthur spoke not a word.
The train pulled out of the station and made its way slowly over thelong Souris bridge. They watched it wind up the steep grade until itwas hidden by a turn of the hill, and even then they stood listeningto the hoarse boom of the whistle that came down the misty valley.The wind, that seemed to be threatening all day, came whistling downthe street, driving before it little drifts of snow as they turnedaway from the station platform.
Dr. Clay took Pearl over to Mrs. Francis, where she was to stay forthe night. Arthur and Martha drove home in silence. When they reachedthe door Martha said: "Come in, Arthur, and stay; don't try to getyour own supper to-night."
Arthur roused himself with an effort. "I think I'll go home, Martha,thank you."
Mr. Perkins came out and helped Arthur to put away the team. Marthastood watching him as he walked across the field to his own littlelonely house. The snow was drifting in clouds across the fields, andsometimes hid him from sight, but Martha stood straining her eyes forthe last glimpse of him. Her heart was full of tenderness for him, agreat, almost motherly tenderness, for he was suffering, and he waslonely, and h
er heart's greatest desire was to help him.
Arthur went bravely back to his own desolate house--the house that hehad built with such loving thoughts. The fire was dead, like his ownfalse hopes, and the very ticking of the clock seemed to taunt himwith his loss. The last time he had been here she was with him. Itwas there beside the window that she had told him about this man; itwas there she had kissed him, and he had held her close to his heartfor one sweet moment; it was there he had fought so hard to giveher up. But he loved her still, and would always love her, theviolet-eyed Thursa, the sweetheart of his boyish dreams.
He made an attempt to light the fire, but it would not burn--it waslike everything else, he told himself, it was against him. He wentout and fed his horses and made them comfortable for the night, andthen came back to his deserted house, dark now, and chilly andcomfortless.
With the light of his lantern he saw something white on the floor.He picked it up listlessly, and then the odour of violets came tohim--it was Thursa's hand-kerchief, that she had dropped that day. Heburied his face in it, and groaned.
The wind had risen since sunset, and now the snow sifted drearilyagainst his windows. Down the chimney came the weird moaning of thestorm, sobbing and pitiful sometimes, and then angry and defiant. Hesat by the black stove with his overcoat on, holding the littlehandkerchief against his lips, while the great, bitter sobs ofmanhood tore their way through his heart.
All night long, while the storm raged around the little house andrattled every door and window, he sat there numb with cold and dumbwith sorrow. The lantern burned out, unnoticed. At daylight he threwhimself across the bed, worn out with grief and loneliness, and slepta heavy sleep, still holding the violet-scented handkerchief to hislips.
* * *
When Arthur woke the sun was pouring in through the frosted windows.He got up hastily and took off his overcoat; he was stiff anduncomfortable. He went hurriedly out to his little kitchen, thinkingof the horses, which needed his care. An exclamation of surpriseburst from his lips.
A bright fire was burning in the stove, and a delicious odour offrying ham came to his nostrils. His table was set with a whitecloth, and on it was placed a dainty enough breakfast to tempt theappetite of any man.
He went hurriedly to the door and looked out--there were tracksthrough the high drifts of snow! He turned back to the table andpoured himself a cup of steaming coffee. "Dear old Martha," he said,"she is a jolly good sort!"
Arthur was gloriously hungry, and ate like a hunter. It was his firstsquare meal for more than twenty-four hours, and every bite of ittasted good to him. "I never even thanked Martha for all herkindness," he said, when he was done; "but that's the beauty ofMartha, she understands without being told."