Part 5

Then all in a moment Edith stopped short in the street, and recalled her mother’s warning. She had done the wickedest, dreadfullest thing in the world to take Lucy near that cottage! And alas, alas! Sadie Phillips was coughing; that was what made her face look so red. The window was closed, it is true; but Edith heard the frightful sound, and it fell on her heart like a knell.

“What made me come here? What shall I do?” she wailed, seizing her little sister in her arms, and running furiously down the street.

Wee Lucy screamed, the dog barked, and Jimmy cried out, “What is it? What is it?” not knowing what to make of this strange behavior.

“Oh, I’ve _esposed_ Lucy! I’ve esposed Lucy!” cried wretched Edith, the tears raining down her cheeks.

Lucy struggled out of her arms, laughing. She did not know what “esposed” meant; neither did Jimmy; and it may be that Edith did not clearly know herself.

“O Lucy darling, don’t laugh; it’s dreadful; it’s awful! What does make you act so, Jimmy? We must run, run, run! Lucy’s going to have whooping-cough, sure as you live.”

Upon that the small sister very naturally felt a tickling in the windpipe, and rasped her throat, trying to see if a cough would come. Nothing could so have increased Edith’s fright.

The better Lucy succeeded in coughing, the harder Edith cried, and the louder barked the wondering dog.

This delighted roguish Lucy. She liked to have Edith cry over her; it made her feel very important. She wished Jimmy would cry too; but he only said coolly,—

“Hush, Lucy; you haven’t got it; you needn’t _pertend_.”

“I know she hasn’t got it yet,” replied Edith; “it takes a long while. But what I’m crying about is, she’s going to get it! She’s swallowed some; she swallowed it when we stood by Sadie’s house.”

It was of no use for Jimmy to say “Pooh!” This was a matter of life and death to Edith. She wanted to take Lucy home at once, and perhaps have her shut in a dark room, or at any rate put to bed.

But those errands!

“Jimmy,” said she, as they came in sight of the stores, “my eyes don’t look very red, do they?”

Truthful James had to reply,—

“Yes, they do,—red as a lobster cactus.”

“Well, I can’t help it. You stay out here with Punch and Lucy, while I go in for the silk.”

“See here! I’ve thought of something,” said Jimmy, touched by Edith’s distress. “If Lucy did swallow some, can’t they give her something to cure it? Mamma could, I guess, or Dr. Devoll.”

“Why, I never thought of that,” returned Edith, gathering courage.

“Now, Lucy, you _will_ be willing to take a pill when we get home if mamma thinks it’s best?”

Lucy wasn’t quite sure. She thought it would depend somewhat upon the size of the pill, also upon the sort of jelly it was offered in.

“Oh, how she does act sometimes!” sighed Edith. “Now, Lucy, you stay out here with the dog and Jimmy; you stay out here till I come back.”

Lucy consented.

It was a red-eyed, broken-hearted little girl who entered Mr. Hall’s store and asked for blue sewing-silk. You would hardly have known her for happy Edith Dunlee.

“Oh, no, sir,” she said when a spool was offered her. “Not silk; _thread_. She wants to _sew_ it!” The salesman looked surprised, then amused, then sorry; for by this time Edith had begun to cry again.

“Wouldn’t it be well, little miss, for you to go home now, and come back again when you know your errand.”

Edith had to confess that it would.

She went next to the grocer’s for butter.

“I will send it up,” said the clerk.

But no, Edith was sure mamma had intended that she should carry it.

It was given her in a paper bag, and she held the bag close to her heart, and cried over it; and by the time they reached home the butter was ready to melt. She dropped it in a chair, and shrieked out,—

“O mamma, Lucy’s been there! I took her! I _s’posed_ her!”

And down Edith sank upon the sofa in unspeakable woe. Little Lucy finished the direful story.

“Hookin’-cock, mamma, hookin’-cock! Give me a pill! Please put it in squinch jelly!”

I must confess that mamma and Aunt Vi fell to laughing in the most unfeeling manner. Each tried in turn to soothe poor Edith; and mamma said that even if Mrs. Phillips’s window had been wide open,—and Jimmy was sure it was shut,—that even with the window open it was hardly probable that Lucy had been exposed in so short a time.

“And whooping-cough is nothing very serious here in California, my daughter. Children suffer very little from it in this mild climate. I wouldn’t mind Lucy’s having it some time, say next spring; but just now,”—

Here she looked at Aunt Vi, who blushed and smiled.

“It _would_ be rather awkward just now,” said Aunt Vi.

“Yes,” returned Mrs. Dunlee; “we mustn’t have any whooping-cough in the house till after the wedding.”

“Wedding?” repeated Edith, “what wedding?”

“Am I not a stupid woman!” exclaimed mamma, putting her hand over her mouth. “I came very near letting out a great secret.”

“But is there going to be a wedding, mamma?”

Edith’s tears were dried now. She had thrown to the winds all her whooping-cough fright.

“Is there going to be a wedding, mamma?”

“Yes, dear, sometime and somewhere we hope there will be a wedding. It isn’t quite time yet to talk much about it. Very soon you will know.”

Edith looked from her mother to her aunt, her eyes full of questions. But before she had time to put the questions into words, Aunt Vi inquired about her blue sewing-silk. Too bad to have to stop and explain all that; for afterwards Edith couldn’t find out the least thing about the wedding,—whose it was, or where or when. Papa pretended that it was very likely some Indians from Arizona.

“O papa! now you know it’s not Indians! And it’s nobody in Arizona either. The wedding belongs right here in California.”

“Indeed! And possibly in this very house. Who knows?”

Edith felt that she was being trifled with. Who was there in this house to be married but papa and mamma?

And they had been married already.

Then one day somebody said Mr. Henry Sanford was coming home from Washington.

“Oh, now I know!” cried Edith. “It’s Mr. Sanford and Aunt Vi; it’s Mr. Sanford and Aunt Vi!”

She was right. They were to be married at Christmas, just two weeks ahead.

“If Lucy doesn’t have whooping-cough, you mean?” said Edith. “If she does, I s’pose you’ll have to put off the wedding?”

No one answered this question. No one knew how it weighed upon Edith and Jimmy, or how closely they watched their little sister, fearing she might suddenly fall to coughing, and put a stop to the whole delightful and extraordinary plans for Christmas.

But Lucy did not cough,—except when somebody reminded her.

XI

A WEE WEDDING

CHRISTMAS was almost here. One morning Mrs. Dunlee went about the house singing,—

“The shepherds heard it overhead; The joyful angels raised it then; ’Glory to God on high!’ it said, ‘And peace on earth to gentle _men_.’”

“That’s _me_,” thought Jimmy. He felt that he had a private and particular claim on Christmas, for it was his birthday. Now birthdays were becoming an old story to Jimmy. He had had quantities of them, and this would be the sixth; but a wedding was something new. “_What was a wedding?_”

Sometimes people came to the house to be married, and papa married them in the parlor, the children not being allowed to go in. But that “didn’t count;” what was a _wedding_?

“Where’ll they put it?” asked wee Lucy.

“It isn’t a thing you can put anywhere; it isn’t a vase or a teapot,” replied Edith. “It’s only something that folks _do_. Aunt Vi is going to marry Mr. Sanford,—no, he’s going to marry Aunt Vi.”

This did not help the matter much.

“What do they do it for?” asked Jimmy.

Edith herself was perplexed as to that, though she did not like to own it.

“Oh, mamma says Mr. Sanford is coming here because papa is a _minister_!” She spoke proudly, as if the world held but one. “Papa is a minister, and can do it just right. ’Twill be a great deal worse than Thanksgiving and Christmas. A monstrous cake, black as a shoe,—Kyzie didn’t mean I should know about that,—and chicken salad, and lobster salad, and I _think_ turkey salad. Ice-cream, I know; ice-cream,—ever so many colors, just like a bed of flowers. And—and—well, I can’t remember the rest.”

Jimmy’s eyes grew very brilliant. The mention of black cake, and cream all the colors of the rainbow, had placed the wedding in a much clearer light. He went and reported to wee Lucy, and Lucy mounted a chair and told the looking-glass.

“Auntie’s going to be mallied! Papa’ll be there in his pulpit right in the parlor. Roses and i-scream; worse’n Kismus, worse’n birf-days!”

“Cheer, boys, cheer!” added Jimmy, by way of chorus.

The night but one before the wedding he and Lucy were strangely wide awake. Lucy lay in her crib at least five minutes with open eyes, wondering why _she_ couldn’t be married as well as Aunt Vi. She meant to ask mamma. When Jamie fell asleep it was to dream of weddings. The weddings seemed to be made chiefly of white and pink sugar, and danced a ring-round-rosy with papa in the middle, papa taking up a deal of room on account of his pulpit.

There was one thing very remarkable indeed which Edith had not told Jimmy, simply because she did not know it herself. He learned it next day from dear Aunt Vi. It was this:—

Jimmy was to be groomsman at the wedding, and Lucy was to be bridesmaid! Somebody had been making a beautiful white frock for little Lucy, all embroidered with silk apple-blossoms. Some one else had been making a charming blue suit for Jimmy, all spangled with silver.

Why shouldn’t these two children go nearly wild with rapture? Why shouldn’t they think the wedding was made on purpose for themselves, and that Aunt Vi had little to do with it, except to look on and admire their new clothes?

Auntie had lived in the house ever since they could remember. They loved her dearly, and it was very sad that Mr. Sanford should have taken this sudden notion to come and carry her off to Washington.

“She’ll never, never see any more cherry-trees,” thought Lucy. “Georgie has cut ’em all down!”

But they had little time to grieve over losing their aunt, little time to pity her for being obliged to go away; their new clothes filled all their thoughts. Jimmy felt that life had nothing grander to offer him than the honor of being “best man” at a wedding. It was as if he was about to become a king, and wear a royal crown.

As for Lucy, she was in such a flutter of delight, that Kyzie had to watch her, lest she should run all over town to say to people,— “What you fink? I’se going to be mallied to Aunt Vi.”

Mr. Sanford arrived from Washington the very day before Christmas. Lucky for him that he was in season for the wedding!

“May I tell him about it, mamma?” asked Lucy.

Mamma thought it would do no harm.

“There’s going to be _sumfin’_ at my house to-morrow, Mr. Sanford, worse’n _you_ ever saw! And Jimmy and I are going to stand up in it. It’s a wedding! _Wasn’t_ you glad you came?”

“Very glad! I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. A wedding, do you say, Miss Snippet? Pray, who is the bride?”

And he looked solemnly at Aunt Vi, whose cheeks were the color of the buds on Lucy’s rosebush.

Lucy could not answer. She did not ’member that she had heard anyfing about a bride.

Jimmy, who was kneeling before Mr. Sanford, had never heard of a bride.

“I’m groomsman, you know,” said he, hoping he did not look as proud as he felt. “I’m groomsman, and Lucy is bridesmaid. We’ve got some _splendid_ clothes! But I don’t believe there’ll be any bride. Mamma never said anything about that.”

“Ah! But, Jimmy, if I were you I would look around sharply, and try to find a bride. Brides are all the fashion nowadays at weddings.”

“Oh!” said Jimmy coldly. He never troubled his head about fashions. It struck him, too, that the Dunlees ought to be able to manage their own wedding, without the help of Mr. Sanford, a man who did not belong in the family. Still, being a boy of good manners, Jimmy refrained from speaking all his thoughts; he merely said, “Oh!”

Christmas dawned at last, birthday, wedding, and all. The house was full of presents; not for the children, though. _They_ had very few this year. And in the evening people began to call. Whether the presents and the people made any part of the wedding Jimmy and Lucy could not fairly make out. Nothing more was heard of a bride.

The children had been dressed quite early, and afterwards kept up-stairs so long that they began to grow tired. By and by somebody gave each of them a very large bouquet and said, “Come.”

They heard music, and, keeping step to it, marched gayly down-stairs. The parlor was full of people, all richly dressed, but none of them so fine as the little groomsman and bridesmaid—oh, by no means!—or half so well pleased with their clothes! Aunt Vi and Mr. Sanford were going into the parlor too.

Nobody spoke; that sweet music was playing. Mamma whispered to Jimmy to take Lucy’s hand; and the two children went up to join Aunt Vi and Mr. Sanford in the bay-window. Lucy stood beside Aunt Vi, and Jimmy-boy beside Mr. Sanford, as had been agreed upon beforehand.

All heads were turned that way. The little groomsman and bridesmaid felt that the proud moment had come when they were to be seen and admired by the whole world. Lucy felt Aunt Vi tremble, and wondered why she should be so frightened. Or was she only cold? Lucy stole a quick glance at her face. Why, how pale it looked! the pretty pink color all gone out of her cheeks! Her dress was soft, cream-colored silk, with only lace on it, not half so sweet as the apple-blossoms on Lucy’s.

Lucy did not speak. She had promised she wouldn’t; and besides, there was no chance for anybody to speak. Papa was standing there, just going to preach, though, to be sure, he had no pulpit. It wasn’t much of a sermon, either. He only asked some questions, and Aunt Vi and Mr. Sanford answered so low you could hardly hear. Then there was a ring put on Aunt Vi’s finger, and papa talked some more, and prayed a little.

Lucy drew a long breath, but kept perfectly quiet. Jimmy was quiet too, though they both looked sober and surprised. _This_ was not funny in the least, not at all what they had expected. There was no “ring-round-rosy,” or “button, button,” or dancing, or _anything_ nice. And this was what they called a wedding!

But it was over before very long, and then the people began to stir again. There was a buzz of pleasant talking all through the room. People here and there laughed softly; but mamma and one or two other ladies put their handkerchiefs to their eyes. It couldn’t be that they were crying? How strange! how very strange! Grown-up ladies crying at a party!

And people were coming up to kiss Aunt Vi, and shake hands with Mr. Sanford. What was that for? If they had only kissed Jimmy and Lucy, and said how spl-en-didly they looked, and how well they had behaved, there might have been some sense in it.

Jimmy’s lip curled a little.

And who was _Mrs. Sanford_? Again and again people went up to Aunt Vi, and said, “My dear Mrs. Sanford,” which of course wasn’t her name.

Then everybody went out to the dining-room. But think of setting a noble groomsman like Jimmy, and a fair bridesmaid like Lucy, off in a corner, and telling them to “stay there and not speak yet”!

And before anybody had a chance to eat much, something else happened. Jimmy heard wheels, and, peeping through the window, saw that a carriage had been driven up the gravel path,—a carriage with blue velvet cushions and two handsome chestnut horses.

There it stood and stood. Nobody knew it was there but Jimmy.

And presently Aunt Vi went off in this carriage, and Mr. Sanford went with her. The oddest thing! Right away from the company! So impolite!

Mamma was crying just a little in the hall before they started. Auntie had on a different dress and a new bonnet. She held the children close, and dropped a tear on Lucy’s cheek. Poor, poor auntie! how she did hate to go! But Mr. Sanford hurried her into the carriage, which rolled away; and then mamma and papa went back to the dining-room, and went on eating chicken-salad.

Up to this time, during all the topsy-turvy proceedings, people had seemed very cold-hearted, or very forgetful; but now they began to take notice of Jimmy and Lucy. They said they were the sweetest groomsman and bridesmaid ever seen, as lovely as fairies; and gave them more kisses twice over than had been given Aunt Vi.

“I dare say this is the first wedding you ever saw, my love?” asked one of the ladies of Lucy.

Lucy turned uncertainly to her mother. “Mamma, did Jimmy and I ever mally anybody before?”

“No, dear.”

The children were eating ice-cream now, their hearts growing every moment happier and lighter. Still the chief event of the evening remained a dark mystery.

“What made Aunt Vi go off with Mr. Sanford?” asked the bewildered Jimmy.

Papa replied,—

“Because she loves him best of anybody in the world.”

“Better’n _me_?” said Lucy, looking for her handkerchief.

The good clergyman tried to explain to his children that there are many kinds of love in the world, but all are beautiful and sweet. Then he talked of Christmas, and of God’s sending his blessed Son to us upon that day, a little child.

“God’s love is best of all,” said Mr. Dunlee. “Did you ever fancy for a moment, little ones, what we should do without our Father’s love?”

“Die, _I_ think,” replied Jimmy, shivering and drawing nearer to his little sister. “We should all cuddle up together and die in a heap.”

But Lucy could talk of nothing but the wedding.

“Auntie never telled me a thing. Did she mally Mr. Sanford ’cause she loved him?”

“To be sure,” said Mr. Dunlee.

Lucy drew a quick breath.

“Well, I love my brother better’n that; I love him ’way up to the moon. Won’t you mally me and my brother?”

“Oh, yes,” laughed papa. “Put down your cake, and stand up here, both of you.”

They stood up. It was a lovely sight as the full light of the chandelier shone down upon them in their bridal array, and turned the hair of both to shining gold.

“I pronounce you brother and sister,” said Mr. Dunlee.

And then he laid his hands upon their innocent heads in silent blessing. They did not know what he said, for he said it only to God; but they were both very happy.

“Now you are bound to each other by a chain of love,” said mamma, embracing them. “I hope you will be more brotherly, Jimmy-boy, every time you think of it; and I hope you’ll be more sisterly, my little Lucy.”

“So we’ve finished off with a wee wedding,” said Aunt Jessie Pauly.

And the other guests responded,—

“How beautiful!” and drank healths to “the bonnie wee pair,” who were proud to be the centre of notice at last.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 18, word “to” added to text (to be a manly)

Page 137, word “I” added to text (here till I)