CHAPTER XI

A TIME FOR LOVE

Everybody rejoiced in Norman Hayne's good fortune. There was another point in it that sent a pang through my heart. Would he outgrow and forget?

Another friend went out of my small circle in the spring, Mrs. Chadwick. Her husband had established a business in Buffalo, and they moved thither. I did not realize then the valuable friend I had lost. I was more interested in the young girls' good time. Homer Hayne was always ready to escort Sophie and myself to the little parties and merrymakings. Just now Dan had one of his periodic fancies for Polly Morrison, and his mother was much troubled about it.

"But if they love each other?" I said. It really seemed to me that they must, and now I had begun to speculate a little on this mysterious power.

"Child," she replied almost sternly, "that kind of off and on business isn't love at all, and the great question is whether they can spend a life together, and take up all the cares and perplexities and help each other along, steady them, comfort them, tide over the rough places that come in all lives. It isn't all dancing and driving about with a fast horse or careerin' over the prairies, racing like mad. I don't believe Polly knows how to do a single useful thing. Her old grandmother's always been one of the high and mighty ones, and danced with two or three of the Presidents. Maybe they were big people in Maryland, and she gets some money twice a year from her people there. They've just got that house and garden. Morrison was a nice kind of man, but then he died, and Mis' Morrison just slaves herself to death taking care of that queer old crittur that doesn't look like any sort of human being now. I hope to goodness I'll never live to look like that, as if the crows had picked me, an' eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket."

Mrs. Hayne paused, all out of breath. I couldn't imagine her ever looking like Granny Verrinder. Mrs. Morrison did not resemble her mother in the least, though she must have been past both youth and beauty when she was married. How they had come to drift to this place might have puzzled people curious about their neighbors' antecedents. Polly had been born here. From grandmother's early years to Mrs. Morrison's marriage there seemed a hiatus about which they never talked. Mrs. Morrison was a meek, quiet, hard-working woman. I think now she could never have known what to do with Polly, but whatever she did granny traversed. She, the elder, quarrelled with the girl, and yet she adored her and brought out her old finery to adorn the madcap for the dances and merrymakings. But Polly held her head as high in her blue homespun gowns. The good time was all to her no matter if it was in a log cabin with a black fiddler.

"The kind of wife Dan wants is a good, modest girl of strong principles who can keep a clean, cheerful home and cook well. Poor feeding has ruined many a man, and children are his salvation. I hope Dan's wife will have a houseful. You see, a man begins to think about the future when there's sons to grow up. I've always wanted one girl, but Hayne was mighty fond of boys and that sort of 'leviated things. But I do hope and pray that with all their wives there'll be one I can take to my heart like an own daughter."

The little house of the Morrisons had only two rooms and a lean-to kitchen. The front was grandmother's, and had a carved high-post bedstead with faded silk curtains from the tester poles. There was a curious chest of drawers with a kind of cabinet that had glass doors. Behind these were china and silver that did betoken former grandeur. Granny drank from the cups and took her sugar out of the silver bowl, her milk from the silver cream jug. In pleasant weather she sat out of doors a good deal in a great chair stuffed around with pillows. It had rollers, and when the street was passable she would sometimes be pushed up and down by her daughter, who was a veritable slave. A little shrivelled up old woman with a long nose and a sharp chin, but her still fine teeth would always keep them from meeting. She wore a cap and a false front of faded black, and was bundled up in shawls. Her stick kept away curious children. I think they felt there was something uncanny about her. People had ceased to cultivate them, if they ever had, but Polly was welcome for her fun and brightness.

I had noticed and Mrs. Chadwick had spoken of a great improvement in the town. Education had really begun to educate. Provincialisms, elisions, and what father had called outlandish talking was falling into disuse. Of course, families coming from different States had brought in accents, pronunciations and adages, some bright and to the point, it must be confessed, but these were being toned down and refined. I had been a good deal amused at the manner in which Ben had corrected his mother, and she had protested with the tart rejoinder, "that her talk was plenty good enough for her, and she didn't expect to put on French airs at her time of life," but she did take more pains.

Once she said, "Dear me! We shall all have to spruce up when Norme comes back so he won't be ashamed of us. I think father'll get the new house also."

"Norme!" How dear the old boyish nickname sounded.

I was just past fifteen when the real things began to happen to me. The year had been very pleasant, and I rather reluctantly did my hair up high and wore a bonnet for Sunday best, and a long skirt—not very long either—what they would have been like trailing over dust and mud! Father was prospering, raising wheat and pigs and corn and buying up a bit of property or acres of prairie land. Jolette and I managed very well. Mrs. Hayne occasionally suggested that girls of fifteen ought to be able to keep house, but now we had two cows and a great flock of poultry. Jolette made fine butter, and our eggs found a ready sale. Even at that time we sent some across the lake, for now vessels were coming and going continually, except in extreme weather.

"I was married when I was sixteen and did my washing and scrubbing and cooking. But such hands as those don't look like near kin to a washboard;" and she caught mine in hers so large and strong.

They _were_ slim and small. We had not begun to cultivate points of aristocracy in that early period, or talk of claims to good birth, but I had often noted that father's hands were small and shapely for all his hard work, though I am not sure but he managed to get the hardest and roughest out of other people.

We heard at intervals from Norman, who was busy and full of enjoyment. Paris was wonderful. The new physician had at first given Mr. Le Moyne a good deal of hope, except that the treatment could not be rapid. Then had intervened a really serious illness, and during this time the optic nerve of one eye had been paralyzed. After that a winter in Spain, which was enchanting.

"I am afraid I see many years of exile before me," Norman wrote in my letter. "What can I do? Mr. Le Moyne is the most delightful, the sincerest and certainly the most generous of friends. Through his convalescence he has said so many times, 'What could I do without you, Norman, when I have no son or nephew even?' He has one sister, who is an invalid from a broken hip and partial paralysis, and her daughter is a fashionable and titled lady. He is very fond of travelling and enjoys society, but now he needs some one continually. I know he fears he will be blind, and he wants to be sure of a permanent stay and solace. Can I relinquish some of the best hopes of my life—yet I feel that I ought. It seems as if God had given me this work to do, that it was not of my own seeking, and I must trust Him to make it right in the end. It is very hard, but must I not go on in this straight path? Pray that I may have strength, little girl. If I could not see it so clearly, but I do, and whatever may be said, remember that I would rather come home without a dollar and trust for a welcome than remain away years and reap a fortune."

But I thought even years, five or seven, would not be so very long.

We had been down to the Piagets—Homer and I. Mrs. Piaget was like a girl in her merry ways. We had some guessing of proverbs and songs, a cup of tea and cake, both very plain, but with the fun and frolic most enjoyable. Just as we were saying good-night we crossed hands, Sophie, Homer, Luther Chandler and I.

"Oh, a wedding, a wedding!" cried Nanette, and we all blushed and laughed. "Sophie is the eldest, it is her turn first."

Luther was very sweet on Sophie, but I thought she did not care much for him.

Then Homer and I walked home.

"It's late, but I'm coming in," he exclaimed, and the resolution in his voice roused me curiously.

Jolette was in her chimney corner. During the cold weather she rolled herself in a blanket and slept on the old settle.

"Ye'r pop's gone to bed," she said with a sort of grunt.

We went through to the keeping room. She had mended the fire, and it was now blazing cheerfully. Oddly enough, two chairs stood invitingly before it, but I knew father did not like company staying late. It seemed unsocial not to ask him to sit down.

"You make a room look different from any one else, Ruth," he said, glancing around. "There is always an air about it as if one really lived on a little higher plane. Who would think of placing those pine boughs in the corner, and having pictures and books around, and always the newspaper and little knicknacks and your work basket, and those pine cones with grass growing in them," as his eyes wandered around.

"Was that what you came in to say?" I asked saucily, for it amused me.

"No, it wasn't." He looked at the fire a moment, then at me. I had both hands on the back of my low sewing chair.

"Ruth, will you marry me? Could you love me well enough to be my wife?"

I do not think the question took me quite by surprise. Mrs. Hayne had made suggestions. Father had indulged in a few comments such as "that he meant to give Homer his walking papers—it was too soon for any fellows to be hanging round." But we had been such good friends, without a bit of sentiment, as if a girl of fifteen could understand what sentiment truly was!

"Oh, Homer!" My voice almost failed in the great tremble of every nerve. "Oh, what made you ask it?"

"Because I wanted to know. Surely, Ruth, you will tell me the truth, the whole truth. I've always been fond of you, and it seems as if Norme left you to us when he went away. You were only a little girl, and he has companied so much with high and mighty folks that I suppose he will be miles and miles above anybody here. But mother's heart is set upon you, and she's nagged me lately, as if she thought I wasn't—well, forward enough. We're all fond of you, you know. If you could—only I'm afraid—" hesitatingly, "that you _don't_ love me. A girl always shows it a little. We seem just good friends—"

"Oh, that is all we are, Homer!" I cried, but my face was scarlet with blushes, and my heart gave a great throb of thankfulness. For I knew by some sure insight, girl that I was, that he had no best of all love to give me.

Then he reached over and took my hand.

"I think I could love you dearly, and oh, little Ruth, I'd carry you in my arms or let you walk over me, and spend my whole life thinking how I could make you happy. I'd work day and night that you should have the things you enjoyed. All that would be nothing if you did not love me."

"Yes, yes, you understand. And so let us keep friends. I think there is some one who could love you very dearly, who would be glad of your love, and you would be very happy. I think you are saved for that."

He turned scarlet first, then deadly pale. "Sophie," he murmured just under his breath.

"Yes, it is Sophie. Homer, I have been hoping this long while——"

"Mother would never forgive me if I passed you by," he interrupted. "You see, I had to ask you. And if you had said yes I should have bent every energy toward making you happy. Yes, I would have done it. But you're not quite—not like—"

"Not in love," I said smilingly. "That makes everything easy, levels all inequalities, I have read somewhere. Then I am still a little girl. I didn't want to be grown up. I don't want any real lovers this long, long while. And I shall be so glad for Sophie. She's seventeen and just the right age, and so dear, and sweet, and wise, and such a splendid housekeeper! Oh, you will be so happy, and she will just run over with joy."

"What I wanted to say, though I do not know as I can put it in the right words, is that you are not quite like other girls. You're like a choice china cup, while the every-day earthen wouldn't mind the dishwater so much, you see," and he laughed. "Ben understands. He said it wouldn't be fair, that you ought to have a gentleman who loved books and cultivation, and all that. And though I hope I'll be well-to-do some day, I shouldn't ever care for the fancy things. Still I wouldn't grudge them to the woman I loved. And you ought to have the best—which isn't always money either."

I didn't want to hear about myself, though I knew then there was a great gulf between Homer and me that only love could bridge over. Yet I did love him dearly at that moment.

"And Sophie?" I interposed.

"It's queer, isn't it? And they say girls are always jealous of each other. Ruth, you are the sweetest little thing in the world. If Sophie didn't love you, I don't know as I could ask her. And I shall tell her just how it was. Of course, mother—she must know, too, that I asked you. I like everything open and above board. And I guess the sign will come right—that crossing of hands," smiling.

"And you'll ask her soon? I want her to be happy." I know my face was all eagerness.

"You may trust me for that."

The clock struck eleven.

"Ruth!" exclaimed a peremptory voice.

"Yes, sir." Children said sir and ma'am in those days long after they were grown up.

We went through the old kitchen. Jolette was snoring, but covered up head and ears, and the embers covered over likewise. I let Homer out and fastened the door. Then I went back to father. He was leaning on one elbow, his head tousled and his eyes almost fierce, but I did not mind.

"Was that Homer Hayne making a night of it?"

"Yes, father," and I couldn't help a mirthful sound.

"Did he ask you to marry him—the truth, child."

"Yes," and I could not forbear laughing. "But he is in love with Sophie Piaget, only his mother wanted him to—to—"

Then father laughed and gave me a hug.

"Yes, I knew that was in the air, but I thought I'd head it off. Sophie! Well, she will make just the right sort of wife for him. Ruth, chickabiddy, you're too young to get tangled up in such things. You're not to have any lovers for years yet. Do you hear?"

"Oh, father, I don't want any. I couldn't be any happier if I had a dozen."

"A dozen! I hope it will never come to that. Not even one in ever so long. There, little girl, give me a good-night kiss and go to bed."

He held me in his arms for some seconds. Perhaps it wasn't the fashion in those days, but people were not generally effusive.

It rained the next day. I spun with a light heart, looked after my hens and then knotted some fringe for my curtains in a pretty way Sophie had taught me. Father read the paper aloud. There was an Indian war in Florida now, and some important political questions discussed in a rather heated manner.

I really wanted to run down to the Piagets, the next morning, but I resolutely refused myself. It was clear and cold. Jolette made mince pies. Father had brought the love of pie from his native State. What an appetizing fragrance they diffused.

About mid afternoon I caught sight of Sophie slipping about the frozen path full of hummocks, but she balanced herself with a fascinating art. I ran to the door.

"Oh, I wanted to see you so, I hoped you would come. Of course you know. I am the happiest girl in all Chicago! But if you had loved him—and often I thought he loved you, and I stood no chance. I wouldn't let mother speak—that is the French fashion, you know—I was so afraid he might be affronted. Luther had asked mother's permission, and she thought it was time I was betrothed. But I couldn't make up my mind to that. I've been gay and full of fun, but sometimes my heart ached for very dread. Only you are such a child!"

"Why, yes, it was ridiculous."

"But Mrs. Hayne loves you so. You'd do worlds better for Ben."

"I don't want to do for anybody."

"But Ben isn't grown up."

"And there's Chris, if Ben won't have me," I said, with a sense of amusement at being handed down. "And you understand—Homer asked me to please his mother. Of course he likes me, but that isn't marrying love."

"Yes, you are going to be the dearest little sister to us. Oh, I do wonder if Mrs. Hayne will truly like me?"

"Yes, she will when she comes to know you well. She has hoped so that Dan would marry, only she didn't want Polly Morrison."

"And now they're at it again. This time everybody thinks it will make a match. I don't like Dan. He's the great Mogul, and he flirts awfully. I wouldn't be his wife for half Chicago. But Homer is so sweet and patient and tender. He has some of your ways," smiling generously, "and he will build his house at once. Oh, won't it be just splendid! I shall go to work immediately. What a delight it must be to make up one's trousseau. I have yards and yards of lace knit, and fringe made. I shall not sell any more. Oh, Ruth," studying me intently, "are you quite sure you are happy over it? For you could have taken him—and I don't see how you escaped loving him."

"Then you would have been unhappy. Now we are both happy and content."

I came to know afterward that there were women who fancied you were dying for their particular lover, and it vexed me, and men who thought your world could easily have been bounded by them.

I made Sophie stay to supper. Homer was not coming that evening. He wanted to explain to his parents and make some arrangements. Father wished her all good fortune and teased her a little, admitting that she would have one of the best of husbands.

I hesitated to make my weekly visit to Mrs. Hayne, and the day I set it stormed. But I walked over with Ben and Chris after Sunday School.

"You naughty girl," Mrs. Hayne began. "I don't know when I can forgive you. I suppose you _were_ ashamed."

"What did she do?" asked Chris, eager eyed.

"Oh, she knows. There, you two boys, run off. I want to talk to her and I don't want you catching gabble seed."

They went reluctantly.

"I hoped he'd wait for you, he would have been young enough then, and a chit like you don't know her mind, though many a girl has been married at fifteen. Sophie Piaget is a nice enough girl, industrious and all that, but he might have looked higher. I don't quite like the French of it, and the Catholic, though I'm not bigoted. I never supposed you were helping things along, or I'd put my finger in the pie sooner."

Had I helped it along? I had a guilty feeling.

"Father wouldn't hear to my being engaged or having a real lover," I said with some dignity. "And—I don't want one, I don't care about being married."

"You'll sing another tune presently. Though after all," in a softer tone, "there is plenty of time."