Idle Hour Stories Part 17

"Thankee, thankee, I don't care if I do, Mis' Patridge," responded the visitor, heavily bringing himself within the family circle.

"How's all?" he asked, comfortably establishing himself in the arm-chair.

"Middlin', thankee," said the widow. "I've been enjoyin' very poor health till lately. Now I seem to be pickin' up a little," as brushing the seat of a rocker with her gingham ap.r.o.n, she sat down at the opposite end of the hearth.

"An' Cicely Ann--how's she?"

"Oh, she--why she's allers the picture o' health. Here she comes now."

As she spoke, a fair, rosy-cheeked girl entered the cheerful room, with her arms full of painting materials. These she deposited upon the table, then dutifully greeted the visitor.

"An' how do you like them new fol-de-rols, Cicely Ann?" inquired Hezekiah, eyeing askance the collection.

The fol-de-rols consisted of some wooden plaques of different sizes, which the new art craze had brought to the widow's cottage.

"She's gettin' along right nice, I think," replied the widow, looking proudly at her one chick. "You see, she's a lot o' darnin' an' one thing another to do, but she finds time for her landskips and things."

"Well, mebbe so," a.s.sented Hezekiah grudgingly. "For my part there's nothing set's a gal off like spinnin' an' weavin', an' it puts more money in her pocket, besides."

"La, Mr. Lightus," said the widow deprecatingly, "spinnin' an' weavin's gone out o' fashion. Gals will be gals, and they mostly go in for fashion, you know."

Cicely's red lip curled in scorn as she applied herself vigorously to her plaque, where the inevitable girl with m.u.f.f and umbrella was stumbling into a snowdrift.

Hezekiah picked up the widow's daily paper which, by the way, he largely depended on for the news. Silence reigned for a while, save for the rustle of the sheet. The click-clack of the widow's knitting needles, and the rapid plying of Cicely's brush, were varied at last by the girl surrept.i.tiously pulling a note out of her jaunty ap.r.o.n pocket.

As she read it a smile broke over the dimpled features, and in a moment more she pushed the table from her and left the room. Swiftly she sped to the big apple tree where her trystings were held with Rufus, her playmate and lover.

Hezekiah slowly raised his head, and laying down the paper, said thoughtfully: "'Pears like the gal gits skittisher every day. Do you reckon she'll ever come to like me?"

"Why, I dunno why she wouldn't," ventured the widow with an encouraging smirk.

"Well, she don't seem to, no way." Then looking suspiciously through the window. "Where's she gone to?"

"Oh, nowheres I reckon," said the mother soothingly, "nowheres in partic'ler. She's allers around."

Another silence, during which the visitor carefully noted the land, stock and crop items in the paper, then took his leave. But not till he had cast a lingering look behind and said: "This is about the comfortablest place a feller could drop into, in my opinion."

It was some minutes after when the truant Cicely re-entered the little keeping-room, her cheeks and eyes bright with happiness.

"Oh, mother, wish me joy! Rufus has asked me to be his wife."

"Mercy on us, Cicely!" exclaimed the widow in a sort of terror, "and you want to marry him?"

"Of course I do," proudly said the girl; "and I mean to marry him."

"Oh, Cicely, my child! and what will Mr. Lightus do--him that's been comin' here so patient, off an' on?"

"Mr. Lighthouse!" disdainfully echoed the girl. "Do you suppose I would have that old goose--old enough to be my grandfather!"

"Old goose! Fie, Cicely, to talk so disrespectful of your pa's best friend. He's well-to-do an' has got the finest place in the county.

Think how nice we'd be fixed, child. We'd never have to work no more,"

and the widow sighed as the girl looked into her face for the congratulations she expected in vain.

"Well, mother, I can't help it. I am willing to work and so is Rufus. He is as industrious and steady as the day is long. I shouldn't mind having Mr. Lighthouse for an uncle, but husband--pshaw!" and the pretty features screwed themselves into a comical grimace.

"Child, child, I'm disappointed and no mistake. Here's that man's been a comin' here all these weeks, an' while he ain't asked for you, it's clear he wants you. An' now I've got to tell him you won't have him.

There's that moggidge on the house, too. But that's allers the way--troubles don't never come single," and the sigh became a whimper.

"Now, don't you worry, mother," said Cicely, clasping her arms about the still fair neck, "don't worry; we will come out all right, mortgage and all."

Taking fresh courage, the widow again pressed the claims of the portly wooer, but what chance had she against the combined powers of young love and the daughter's stronger nature.

Time pa.s.sed. Almost every evening found Hezekiah at the cottage, but though persistent, things did not apparently make much progress. At last the stiffness of the customary interviews seemed to break.

"Mis' Patridge," he said, getting very red in the face and awkward as to hands and feet, "Cicely Ann gits worse every day. Ain't there no chance of her puttin' up with me at all?"

"Why, yes, I reckon so," bashfully said the widow. "She's young and foolish, you know. You can't expect gals to be sensible and sober down like they will when they get holt of some wise person tha'll train 'em."

"Well," sighed the wooer, "I guess I might as well stop comin'. 'Taint no use to be forever worritin' after anything. I did think, howsomever, it 'ud be sorter nice to have us four live together. Young folks makes a house kinder lively. But I don't git on, somehow; so I guess I might as well hang up my fiddle an' quit." And the ancient wooer slowly rose to his full height.

"Us four!" repeated the petrified widow, mouth and eyes open to their widest extent.

"Yes--us four," continued Hezekiah. "I was thinkin', you know, that bein' as this young feller Rufus what's-his-name 'peared to be sweet on the gal, mebbe you'd take to me an' we'd all git spliced together. But she don't like me and wouldn't treat me right. I couldn't stand fusses an' the like."

"La, Mr. Lightus, how you do astonish me," faintly e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the flushed widow, her comely face crimson to the roots of her soft brown hair.

"You don't say!" exclaimed the rapidly enlightened Hezekiah, rousing to something like animation. "Did you think--didn't you know--well, I declare, I don't actually believe you did. Now ain't it a puzzle, begad!"

While he jerked out his amazed sentences, his companion, fairly overcome with the revelation that dawned upon her for the first time, buried her face in her hands.

"Mis' Patridge," timidly said the agitated wooer, approaching nearer, "you don't say--that is, do you mean to say that if Cicely Ann could like me well enough to not be sa.s.sy around the house, an' keepin' you oncomfortable about it, you an' me could hitch on an' be pardners? You don't mean it now, do you?"

"Mean it!" murmured the widow, her fair cheeks aglow with suddenly-stirred enthusiasm. "I'm only too happy, Mr. Lightus, I never thought--"

But at this juncture the rejuvenated wooer ventured to clasp his rough but honest arms about the blushing prize he had won.

At this juncture, also, Cicely and Rufus happened in, but beat a hasty and giggling retreat, as they rapidly took in the situation.

All's well that ends well. Hezekiah Lighthouse married the Widow Partridge, and set young Rufus up in business. As a father the spirited Cicely yielded him the respect and affection he deserved.

She made but one stipulation. On the marriage morn she whispered the earnest entreaty: "Mother, _don't_ let him call me Cicely _Ann_!"

A Summer Daisy

A PASTORAL