Six Girls Part 40

"Oh mama; precious darling mama! are you glad? are you happy that I'm well? Speak to me, mama; what are you crying for?"

"I'm so happy, darling. Oh, my little Jean, I'm so glad and grateful,"

cried Mrs. Dering, with a great sob, as she folded the little girl closer, and kissed her again and again. "I knew you would come back to me better, I did not dream you would come well. Why did you not tell me, darling?"

"I wanted to surprise you," began Jean; but just then Kat came into the hall, beheld the astonishing spectacle, and with one shrill utterance of Jean's name, that summoned the whole family, she had rushed to the porch, and taken the little girl in a great hug.

Well, what a hub-bub there did follow! How everybody hugged and kissed everybody, in the abandonment of joy; how Uncle Ridley was deluged with caresses, and suddenly found himself holding Mrs. Dering in his arms, and patting her wildly on the back, while she cried on his shoulder. And didn't Ernestine creep slowly down stairs, and appear like a frail spirit in their midst, and wasn't she whisked on to the lounge in a hurry, and kissed heartily by every one in the excitement.

"G.o.d bless my soul! How happy we all are!" cried Mr. Congreve, with a final gasp of joy, and sitting down with an exhausted smile. "I never expected to be in such a good humor again as long as I lived--no I never did. I'm fairly swelled up with happiness, and I've bust a b.u.t.ton right off my vest."

Everybody laughed heartily. Gay words and blithe laughs hung on every one's lips; everything was sunshine, and every one was happy. What a household idol was Jean in the days that followed! How mother and sisters clung to her, watched her walk--oh, joy of all joys--so straight and free; and how many, many times did Mrs. Dering go to Mr. Congreve, and put her arms about his neck, like a child, to thank him, again and again, as the agent whom G.o.d had sent to be the means of answering her most fervent prayers!

Well, to be sure, as Kat had said, it was a lively household now.

The day before the wedding, the girls all went over to the new house--to "Hearts-ease." Mr. Phillips sent the buggy over so that Ernestine could go, and she and Bea drove over, while the rest walked. It was a pretty little place, indeed, as they came in sight of it, nestled under a big tree, that was just budding into pale green in the spring sunshine.

Everything was ready for the young bride to take possession on the next day, even to the mat laid before the front door on the new porch, and the bright tin cup hanging to the freshly painted pump in the little back yard.

Bea unlocked the door, with an air of proud importance, and they went in, all anxious to show Ernestine and Jean every corner, as it was their first visit. The little mite of a square hall, and the small sitting-room on one side, were covered with brown and white matting, with soft, woolly rugs of brown and white. Curtains of soft, shady brown were at the windows, and the walls were papered in clear creamy white, with a deep border of brown dashed in gold. The chairs were all willow, also a pretty, standing work-basket, already filled with some of Bea's light work; and there, on the table, lay some of the young doctor's books and papers. The tiny dining room next, with its round table and new chairs, its little closet, with the shelves covered with snowy paper, and well stocked with dishes, all plain and cheap, but of pretty shapes and serviceable strength. Then the kitchen, shining with new tin, and a brisk little stove, and the rack hung with neatly-hemmed dish-cloths; the brand new cake of soap on the table, and the orderly line of pots and kettles--oh, it was all a sight to tickle your eyes.

Up stairs, the ceilings were low, and a very tall person would have b.u.mped his head unmercifully, but then, it all looked lovely. The pretty bedroom was all in blue, and nearly everything in it was the work of Bea's hands. She had made all the pretty mats on stands and bureaus, also the carpet ones on the floor. The daintily ruffled Swiss curtains, knotted with blue bows, she had made, washed, fluted and put up. All the fancy, pretty work about the bed was hers; and the bunches of forget-me-nots that adorned the chamber-set, looked as though they had sprung into real life on the snowy surface, instead of having been stuck and artistically plastered on. Oh, it was all lovely, and beyond improvement, every one said, and Bea laughed and looked so proud and happy.

"This is to be my spare room," she said, throwing open the door to the back room. "The view from this window is just as pretty as the front, because it looks off to the hills; and just as soon as we are able, we will furnish it, and I shall fix it just like my room, only in pale pink. Won't it be lovely?"

"Ecstatic!" cried Kat. "Who is it to be for?"

"All of you. I expect you and Kittie will have it first, when mama and Jean and Ernestine go to visit Uncle Ridley next year. There are lots of things we can't afford yet," Bea continued, as they went down stairs. "I haven't anything to put in the hall, and it looks a little bare, but I don't mind it much. Then the parlor hasn't a thing in it except the carpet and curtains; but I can wait easy enough. I don't want Walter to think I'm at all dissatisfied or want to be extravagant, because I think everything is just lovely, and I'm so happy."

"Uncle Ridley said when he started for the city this morning, that it was because he was in a hurry to see Olive, and to bring her home to-night; but I just know he's going to bring you something beautiful!"

exclaimed Jean, who had flitted everywhere, like a b.u.t.terfly, and looked radiant with happiness.

"Of course he'll get something," said Kittie, polishing the slim, shining bannister with her handkerchief. "Let's hurry home; the train has just come in since we left, and I know Ralph has sent something; he said he was going to send his representative."

"I don't see anything that can be changed," said Ernestine slowly, as they took a final peep into the sitting-room, "unless you put that bracket with the figure under the picture over the mantel, and leave that s.p.a.ce between the windows for the head that Olive is going to paint for you."

"Yes, I'll do that. And now come; you look so tired, dear. Kittie, unhitch Prince for me, will you, while I lock up?"

"Oh, Bea, dear! I hope you will always be so happy," exclaimed Ernestine, with a wistful sadness in her voice, as they drove slowly home; and she laid her head on Bea's shoulder with a tired sigh. "It all seems so lovely, and I am so glad, though I shall miss you so after you are gone."

"But I'm not gone," said Bea, much touched, as she slipped her arm around the frail form with a loving pressure. "I'll be over home every day, and you will come and stay with me, and everything will be just as it is now, except that Walter will be your brother, and you know he loves you like one now."

"Yes, he is a dear fellow, and he will make you happy, I know. But I will not have you always, as I have since I came home--there, the girls have beaten us home, and Kat is waving her hat over the gate, so I suppose the box has come from Ralph."

Bea drove faster, in pleased antic.i.p.ation, and as soon as they drew near, Kat cried excitedly:

"Hurry up! It's come! pretty near as big as the woodshed, and awful heavy! Kittie and Jean are getting the nails out. Don't stop to hitch.

Prince is too glad to be here to go off of his own accord. Here, Ernestine, let me carry you," and, as she spoke, she caught the frail, light form in her strong young arms, and walked off to the house with perfect ease, while Bea tied Prince, and followed in a flutter. Sure enough, an immense box stood on the back porch, with the whole family around it, waiting for the owner to unpack, and Bea went down on her knees beside it, and began to throw out straw with an excited laugh.

"Oh, my patience! dishes!" cried Kittie, as the first bundles began to appear, and immediately arose the most extravagant cries of delight and approval, as one by one, Bea took out, and unwrapped the daintiest morsels of china, exquisitely painted in gra.s.ses, b.u.t.terflies and flowers. Oh, how lovely they were; the frail, tiny things, looking more like fairy waiters than anything intended for mortal use. Then came a dozen tea-spoons, table-spoons, knives and forks, all engraved; a lovely card basket, swung by a silver chain, from the finger of a winged Mercury; two beautiful napkin rings, marked "Walter" and "Beatrice;" a dozen of the finest damask napkins, with a gorgeous "B." in the corner; and lastly, a fancy dust-pan and brush, an indescribable sweeping cap, six of the most perfect kitchen ap.r.o.ns, a patent stove-hook, and an old shoe, with "Good Luck," painted in red letters on the sole.

"Oh, I declare, I never did!" cried Bea, sitting down on the floor, to laugh and cry at the same time. "Isn't it all too lovely!"

"What does the card say?" asked Jean, as the others began to carry in the china and things. "Just

"'BEATRICE, FROM AUNT TREMAYNE AND RALPH,'"

answered Bea, looking at the card, that had been tied with a white ribbon to the nose of the tea-pot. "How good they are! I'm too happy to live."

So it seemed, as she helped take in the things, laughing and crying, and touching them with careful, caressing fingers. They made a most imposing show when arranged on the table, and during the day more modest presents, that came in from well wishing friends, were added to the collection. There came a fancy clock from Mr. Dane, three dozen handsome towels and four beautiful table spreads from Mrs. Dane; and a variety of little things from the young people, with whom Bea was a favorite.

As soon as Mr. Congreve and Olive arrived, on the evening train, they were taken in to view "the show," but the old gentleman added nothing to it, to every one's surprise; though he seemed pleased with everything there, and said it was a plenty for one bride.

After supper, Olive disappeared and was gone some little time, but where, no one knew, and finally Mr. Congreve jumped up, with the remark, that he had heard her say something about Mrs. Dane's, and as he knew where it was, he guessed he'd walk over after her.

"Never mind, Uncle Ridley, if she is there, Mr. Dane will walk home with her, and you must be tired," said Mrs. Dering.

"G.o.d bless my soul, Elizabeth! I'm not an old man," exclaimed the crusty old gentleman of seventy odd years, as he threw open the door, and strode briskly out into the May moonlight. "I think a great deal of your Olive; she's a thorough Congreve, and I'd rather lose my best handkerchief than have anything happen to her--I had indeed. So go in, my dear, go in," and Mrs. Dering obediently went in, as he tramped briskly down the walk.

That last evening of Bea's in the old home came very near being a sad one, in spite of every one's attempt to the contrary. Ernestine stayed down stairs for the first evening since her illness, and the excitement brought a stain of color into her white cheeks that made her look more like her old self, as she lay on the lounge.

Bea sat on the stool at her mother's feet, and Mrs. Dering softly caressed the plump, white hand, that to-morrow she would give away, and now and then a pause would come, when the mother's eyes would fill with tears, and her lips tremble, and then some one would rush in, to break the silence, and thrust irrelevant nonsense into the groove cut for April tears.

Wherever Mr. Congreve and Olive came from, they had a serious talk on the way home. Something evidently disturbed the old gentleman's mind, and he fidgetted nervously, until he had relieved himself with the explosive remark:

"So you sent Roger home, did you?"

"No, sir, he went," answered Olive, with a smile but with some surprise.

"Humph! He did, and what did you say, to make him come home, looking like a criminal expecting to be hung?"

"I said I couldn't love him, and I can't and don't," answered Olive, feeling provoked to think that Roger couldn't keep his own counsel.

"Tut, tut! what did you say that, for?"

"Because it's the truth; I like him very much indeed, but I don't want any lovers, I'm too young, and something else to think about," exclaimed Olive with unmistakable aversion to the thought.

"Heighty-tighty! your mother was married at eighteen," cried the old gentleman briskly.

"I can't help it, sir. I never want, or expect to marry. My work is all I want."

"Yes, but your work will fail you some time, child; a one-sided love on a single altar soon burns itself out for want of fuel. There must be

"'The happiness thrown on from kindred flames to sustain A spark of devotion for a lifeless love.'

"The time will come when you may be alone in the world, and I'm much mistaken if your art alone will satisfy the cravings of your woman's heart."

Olive listened in some amaze to such a lengthy speech from the usually short spoken gentleman; and though she felt no less certain of lifelong satisfaction with her art, she asked meekly.

"What would you have me do, Uncle Ridley? I don't love him."