CHAPTER XII

NOT MERRY, BUT WEDDING BELLS.

Mrs. Hayne did not feel comfortable over Homer's engagement. It was a full fortnight before she could make a formal call on Mrs. Piaget. She had been there on errands, and Sophie and I were often at the Haynes'. But she stopped for me one day, "since it had to be done," she said, and we walked down together. She was not at her best, though she had on her Sunday clothes. Perhaps she would have felt more at ease in her every-day ones. She was generally so cordial and heartsome that I noticed and felt sorry for the stiffness.

Of course she said some pleasant things—that she knew Sophie would make a good, industrious wife, and that was what young men needed. She had no patience with flyaways, and girls who were too good to work, who were taking up the new ideas that you must sit in the parlor and play on the piano, and have lace undersleeves dangling about your wrists, and a tail to your frock to sweep up the dirt everywhere. Clothes, she took it, were made for use and comfort.

Women were wearing very full skirts, and all around the back they "dipped" and had to be held up in the streets. Sleeves were wide and flowing with lace or fine muslin ruffles inside. Some had an edge of needlework, but if that came from the convents in Canada it was costly, and the younger girls were doing it for themselves. They took their work along when they went to make calls, and calls then were an hour or so long between friends, and you "laid off your things."

There was coming to be quite a circle of what was considered afterward "the first people," and who had streets named for them. There were the Newberrys and Owenses, the Hamiltons and Pecks and Roberts, the Menards and Nobles, and Baubeins and Kinzies, who seemed the fathers of the town, and talked of the block house and the few cabins around it, the attack on the fort, and the Indian skirmishes. When you listened to them Chicago seemed really old.

Then there was only one set, with the clergymen having the place of honor. Now there were several circles, not strongly defined, and living in amity, but each one choosing its own friends. The cream went out shopping when the new goods came in, and no longer wore homespun. Their sons and daughters went away for the finishing touches in education.

The Haynes were then in what we should call the middle class. There were some fine French people, but they seemed a little colony to themselves, as well as the Germans. I liked all the French people I had met very much, perhaps I was drawn to them by the thought of Norman in Paris. I did admire their courtesy and a certain dainty politeness as if they always knew just the right thing to do, and did it graciously.

Mrs. Piaget brought out her best cake and wine. She had some fine embroidered napkins, others done in exquisite drawn work, and her glasses were clear and fine, letting the tint of the wine shine through. And the cake was delicious. She always flavored it. She had the art of making flavors and scents, and their clothing had an indescribable fragrance.

"Well, well," Mrs. Hayne said, when we had left the house, "that's done with, and I've been dreading it. Sophie will make a nice wife, I dare say, but I think Homer could have found some good American girl. There's Kate and Annie Noble. They always ask him to their gatherings, and Mr. Noble said to father that he was a smart, level-headed fellow, and would make his mark. I've been counting on my boys marrying, and I've wanted some one I could company with and feel to like as an own daughter."

"But Sophie is very sweet and affectionate," I ventured.

"She's French. The old saying is that 'blood's thicker 'n water.' And she'll have her ways, and her friends, and they'll jabber that everlasting tongue that you can't make head nor tail of until you wish there hadn't been any Tower of Babel, and everybody had gone on talking the same language."

I laughed at that. How queer it must have seemed when no one understood any one else!

"And I s'pose Norman will come home with some fine French body who can't comb her hair nor put on her stockings nor shoes, and must have a maid, as old Granny Verrinder talks about. What better off is she for all the fuss! Granny Pettingill is eighty, and she can spin on the big wheel, and knit and sew, and is worth a dozen of that other old thing, that's wearing out her daughter's life. I don't know what you'd do with a dozen. I'd bundle 'em up in a bag an' drop 'em in the lake."

Mother Hayne was forgetting Ben's training, and dropping back into her elisions, which showed that she was rather short in the temper.

I was truly sorry about it all. Yet I could not wish it different. And when Sophie ran over in the edge of the evening I tried to comfort her.

"She doesn't like me, I can see that," she said with a catch in her breath that was like a sob. "And I feel so sorry for Homer. He has counted on our all being so happy together, and I would try to be like a true daughter, only she is so stiff I shall always feel afraid."

"I think she will get over it. She has such a good warm heart. I'm quite sure it will get settled by the time you are ready to be married," I said hopefully. I couldn't imagine Mrs. Hayne holding out.

"We're going to have a betrothal party. Mother was waiting for her call to settle that, and Mr. Hayne has given Homer a lot. It's almost out on the prairie, but if the Wrights don't mind living there we oughtn't. We've been planning it—he's going to build two rooms quite to the middle of the lot, and when he gets forehanded, as you Americans say, he will put up a nice front."

Father thought that an excellent idea. Homer came and talked it over with him, and I think he was much pleased.

Then there was the betrothal party. They had a new priest now at St. Mary's—Father Fischer, and he was very gracious and kindly. The ceremony seemed as solemn as a marriage to me. But it was true that most of the guests were French. I was beginning to talk quite well, and felt really at home among them.

"I don't know what we should do without you," Homer said, squeezing my hand. "You must coax up mother, and we will try to do our best. Sophie's the one girl in the world to me, and yet I love you just the same. But the sweetest of all is having the girl glad to come to you."

After Père Fischer had given them a second blessing and gone, with some of the elders, old Billy Griffin came in with his violin, and we had some dancing, with plenty of cake and a kind of cordial made out of spiced fruits, that was quite harmless.

Dan had come in and seemed a good deal interested. I danced with him, but Sophie said it was long and short division. I was still growing and almost as tall as Sophie.

After that we began to plan for the wedding outfit. The night of her betrothal Mrs. Piaget had given Sophie her string of gold beads. She had one of not very choice pearls, but pretty, I thought, which would be Nanette's, six of her silver teaspoons, three tablespoons with the mark of a Paris silversmith on them, and some quaint china dishes, as well as a fine pewter basin. Then there was a cream silk gown with dainty flowers sprinkled over it, some of her mother's youthful finery, that would be made over into the wedding gown.

As for sheets and blankets and table linen, they were to be evolved somehow, and pretty underwear, so dear to a girl's heart. There was still a scarcity of money about, and so one had to exercise one's wits.

The town was thrown into quite a ferment that entirely eclipsed our simple engagement. A Frenchman, one Pierre Maseurier, had been up to Chicago some weeks. He was much interested in the canal and trade generally, and had a large place at Vincennes, as well as some sugar interests in Louisiana. Small, old, but sharp and eager, as if he were just beginning life, instead of having it more than half spent. What brought him into contact with Granny Verrinder no one could explain, but he was quite a frequent caller. Suddenly the little town was astonished at another betrothal. Whether Polly Morrison had captured him, a widower of long standing, with two married sons, or whether he had tempted her with the brilliant prospect, no one could tell. She curtly dismissed her old admirers, there was an elaborate wedding gown sent for, and Polly, dressed in sumptuous furs and covered with a white wolf robe, was driven about as if she were a queen.

Two days after a night's debauch, Dan Hayne left for Buffalo. He knocked down a friend who offered him a teasing condolence, but vouchsafed no explanation to any one. Then there was a wedding at St. Mary's, with a nuptial mass and all the accessories of state. Bishop Quartier came up to marry them, and the lovely Saint Palais, who was afterward Bishop of Vincennes. It was a grand affair, and it seemed as if the whole town turned out. Polly looked as handsome as if she had just stepped out of a picture, and most people wondered afterward, for she had never been considered a beauty.

Mrs. Hayne felt so much relieved that she began to take a warmer interest in Sophie and the new house. There were other mothers who gave thanks, no doubt, for wild, wilful Polly had been a terror to them. First it was one lover sighing at her feet and then another. She certainly did delight in using her wiles on other girls' lovers, not that she wanted the admirers either, but just to try her power. There was only one man who won her heart as I came to know afterward, but money and position outweighed love.

Of course she had taken M. Maseurier for the luxury he could give her. No girl of eighteen would be likely to marry a wizened-up old man past sixty if he were poor. Everybody settled to that.

About six weeks afterward Granny Verrinder died very suddenly, though she was past ninety-six. She had been taken to her granddaughter's marriage, lifted in and out of a coach, and so bundled up that no one saw much of her except two staring black eyes. It was supposed Mrs. Morrison would rejoin her daughter, but whether granny had more money than any one thought, or that the wealthy son-in-law had made provision for her, no one was quite certain. She repaired and renovated her house, built on another room, distributed the furniture around more comfortably, took in an old negro woman, and though she did not enlarge the borders of her friendship, she came to look less careworn, went to church occasionally, and perhaps found a little happiness. At least, she was exempt from care.

We heard that Polly was living in great style and had everything heart could wish.

Dan came back three or four weeks afterward and went about his business as if nothing had happened, held up his head and was in no wise broken hearted. Indeed, I thought him improved. He took a real interest in Homer's house, advanced him some money, so that he could meet bills promptly, and was pleasant and brotherly to Sophie, who had always felt a little afraid of him.

It was a very delightful spring and early summer to me. Father was prosperous and jolly, and we were so interested in completing the trousseau and house equipment. When one goes out and orders a long list, has them sent home and put in their places, one misses the delight and interest of real home-making.

Then the wedding day was set. It would be in the church, of course, and that did fret Mrs. Hayne. There was no great fuss about mixed marriages then, though good Père Fischer hoped in his pleasant manner that sometime Homer would be numbered among those of the true faith.

Nanette and I were bridesmaids. I had a sheer white muslin frock and a wide white satin sash that came down to the very bottom of the skirt. There were no picture hats, but we each wore a wreath, and Sophie her mother's wedding veil, that then was folded up and laid away in a box for Nanette, who was free to have lovers now.

The wedding was at noon, and Mrs. Hayne gave a generous dinner, tables being set in both rooms. Sophie made a sweet and blushing bride, Homer was fine and manly. Dan made the speech of the occasion, and everybody drank to the health of the bride and groom and wished them children and grandchildren.

About mid-afternoon the procession started for home. Dan took Nanette, Ben and me in his two-seat wagon. There was to be an evening company, an "infair," as it was called, in the new house. The bedstead and bedding had been stored in the shed, the two rooms were decorated with vines and flowers and hanging candlesticks and lamps, so that in the evening the lights would be in no one's way.

Randolph Street was a lane then with but few houses, and out beyond stretched the prairie that was to be a compact city long before the century ended.

"Oh, I do hope you won't be lonesome way out here," I said to Sophie.

"Why, I shall have Homer, you know," opening her eyes wide as if she thought my wish inconsequent.

"But not in the daytime."

"Then I shall be busy about my work."

"Why I thought we had done sewing enough to last seven years," I said gayly.

"Well—there will be cooking for a hungry man, and I don't mean that Homer shall wish for his mother when meal time comes. And Mr. Hayne thinks it will be a good thing for Homer to bring his shop over here. Chicago is building up so fast, and it will have to stretch out every way. Then a good deal of the time he will be home to dinner. You and Nan and the girls will visit me—oh no, I shall not be lonesome."

She was so happy. And though it had not the brightest beginning, Mother Hayne came to take great comfort in her daughter.

We had a merry time with some new plays and dancing. Mr. Hayne took several of the older people home, then his wife, Nanette and myself.

"Well, they've had a very nice time and started fair, and they'll get along all right," said the satisfied motherly voice.

"Homer has a long head. I shan't have made a fortune, but I look for my sons to be some of the rich men of Chicago. Dan knows how to make money, and if he learns how to keep it, he'll be all right. I dare say that blind Frenchman will do well by Norman, and Ben's steady going. I shouldn't wonder if Chris turned parson," and he laughed.

"Dan's like his old self," returned Mrs. Hayne. "I don't know when I've set so much store by him as I have this last week. That girl was a sort of a witch, I do believe, and she just upset every man that she set her eyes on. There's 'Lias Gordon gone to the dogs, hasn't drawn a sober breath since her wedding day. 'Twas said she promised to marry him, but I don't believe that. She was looking for the best chance. And I don't just see how all this good luck came to her. But she'll have to carry herself mighty straight, or that old fellow will beat her, you could see it in his eye, and 'twould serve her just right. I give thanks, like good old David, seven times a day that she's out of Dan's way."

I missed Sophie and the excitement, though some new girl friends came in, and Ben was my devoted cavalier. But one night he surprised me by a very naïve confession. Were the Haynes, little and big, bound to own me?

He had been descanting on Homer's happiness, which was ideal, of course.

"The right thing for a man to do is to get married when he reaches a certain place," began Ben gravely. "And I've some plans—I'm going in Hamilton's real estate and law office. They want a clerk. There isn't any more money in it, but I'm going to study law. I've been thinking of it this good while. I've listened to the men talking politics, and I'm awfully interested in that smart Stephen A. Douglas. Ruth, this is going to be a great country, and it will need more and more people to govern it. A State can have only two senators, but as her population increases she has more representatives, and that takes a man to Washington. Then there are judges and governors of States."

"And Presidents," I laughed.

"Only one every four years. Seems to me they tie his hands behind his back, and then grumble because he doesn't pull up every weed. He doesn't have so much power, after all. But I'd like to be in public life somewhere, to work on the souls or beliefs of men. It's a grand thing!"

"Oh, Ben!" I was amazed. Quiet, apparently contented Ben!

"Yes, I'm going to set out for that. If you don't put up a mark you can't help shooting at random. Of course it will take a long while and hard study, but one reason why I like you so much is that you're fond of books, and have more real sense than most girls. And, Ruth, you could be a perfect lady. It's born in some people, and when it isn't they never get quite up to the mark."

"Oh, thank you," I returned, amused, as he made a little pause. "On what pedestal am I to be put?"

I had no idea of what he would say, and somehow I was not a little bewildered by his ambitious projects.

"Well, when I get up to the place where I can care for a wife, I want you. You would read and study and talk with a fellow, and keep him up to the mark, too. I was glad you didn't want to marry Homer, not but what he will make a splendid, devoted husband, but house and wife and children will be his boundaries. He will vote the Democratic ticket because his father did, not from any principle or conviction. Oh, do you remember how you and Norman once quarrelled about politics?" and he laughed.

"But, Ben—I—"

He made a gesture with his hand, and I never understood before how much fine dignity Ben possessed.

"After all this, if you haven't really fallen in love with any one else, I shall ask you. But if you do meet with any one you prefer this must not stand in the way. I don't believe you will be the kind of girl who is always reaching out after lovers. Your father will want to keep you."

"Oh, that is it," I interrupted. "Father has forbidden my having any lovers for a long while yet."

"We will be friends just as we have been. I'll come and talk over my plans with you. Mother, you see, wouldn't understand. I like your father's bright, trenchant remarks, too. There's some width to his brain. But all the other will be put off until the right time comes—laid away on the shelf of the future, not to be meddled with. And now if father scolds about my throwing up a good business chance, you will understand why I do it."

I could not have helped admiring Ben. He had such a good, strong face. All the boys were well looking, none as handsome as Dan, but it seemed to me later on in life as if each to a certain degree carried his character in his face.

"So now we have had a good talk," continued Ben—he had done all the talking—"and we understand the ground we go upon. You know you are the dearest girl to all of us. I shall never forget the night you came. And we will be the best of friends."

Could I refuse when the tender eyes looked up so confidently?

"The best of friends," I returned, and I felt the solemnity of my own voice.

It was true that Ben's new plans were rather frowned upon. His employer was sorry to lose him.

"There's lots of money made in speculation," said Mr. Hayne, "and lots lost as well. Stands to reason values can't always increase, and immigrants can't always come in. We have a big country, with other lakes and rivers, and the whole Atlantic coast for shipping. Then it seems rather shifty business to me for steady company."

Ben did not mind, however. There were some new and exciting questions to greet the new President and his Cabinet. The boundary of Oregon and British America almost stirred up warfare, and a new difficulty loomed up when the State of Texas, an independent principality, asked to enter the Union. Mexico objected, and there was a talk of war. We had many things on hand, streets and the muddy old river, and at last the canal that was going to do so much for us approaching completion. Every year a greater demand for wheat and corn and live stock. Father added field to field, it seemed a passion with him.

The next spring there came a little girl to Homer and Sophie Hayne. I think Mrs. Hayne was the gladdest of all. The little girl of her own blood that she had so longed for. A sweet, good little thing who seldom cried and smiled readily.

They were all prosperous. Homer began to build houses and sell them. Dan was steady, and turning his attention largely to cattle raising and buying, and had an interest in packing. He had a room now at the hotel, and seemed to care little for girls, though he was not averse to social pleasures. His one passion was Chita, who was kept beautifully groomed. He raced her now and then. She was the mother of a splendid colt. He used to talk to her as if she was a human being, and I think she understood every word.

As for Mr. Le Moyne, the treatment had failed. Norman had promised to remain with him. They would reside in Paris and travel.