William Dean Howells: 27 Novels in One Volume (Illustrated). William Dean HowellsЧитать онлайн книгу.
hold of the colt's head a minute."
As the boy obeyed, Bartley threw the reins on the dashboard, and leaped out of the cutter, and went within. He returned after a brief absence, followed by the landlord.
"Well, it ain't more 'n a mile 'n a half, if it's that. You just keep straight along this street, and take your first turn to the left, and you're right at the house; it's the first house on the left-hand side."
"Thanks," returned Bartley. "Andy, you tell the Squire that you left Marcia with me, and I said I would see about her getting back. You needn't hurry."
"All right," said the boy, and he disappeared round the corner of the house to get his horse from the barn.
"Well, I'll be all ready by the time you're here," said the landlord, still holding the hall-door ajar, "Luck to you!" he shouted, shutting it.
Marcia locked both her hands through Bartley's arm, and leaned her head on his shoulder. Neither spoke for some minutes; then he asked, "Marcia, do you know where you are?"
"With you," she answered, in a voice of utter peace.
"Do you know where we are going?" he asked, leaning over to kiss her cold, pure cheek.
"No," she answered in as perfect content as before.
"We are going to get married."
He felt her grow tense in her clasp upon his arm, and hold there rigidly for a moment, while the swift thoughts whirled through her mind. Then, as if the struggle had ended, she silently relaxed, and leaned more heavily against him.
"There's still time to go back, Marcia," he said, "if you wish. That turn to the right, yonder, will take us to Equity, and you can be at home in two hours." She quivered. "I'm a poor man,—I suppose you know that; I've only got fifteen dollars in the world, and the colt here. I know I can get on; I'm not afraid for myself; but if you would rather wait,—if you're not perfectly certain of yourself,—remember, it's going to be a struggle; we're going to have some hard times—"
"You forgive me?" she huskily asked, for all answer, without moving her head from where it lay.
"Yes, Marcia."
"Then—hurry."
The minister was an old man, and he seemed quite dazed at the suddenness of their demand for his services. But he gathered himself together, and contrived to make them man and wife, and to give them his marriage certificate.
"It seems as if there were something else," he said, absently, as he handed the paper to Bartley.
"Perhaps it's this," said Bartley, giving him a five-dollar note in return.
"Ah, perhaps," he replied, in unabated perplexity. He bade them serve God, and let them out into the snowy night, through which they drove back to the hotel.
The landlord had kindled a fire on the hearth of the Franklin stove in his parlor, and the blazing hickory snapped in electrical sympathy with the storm when they shut themselves into the bright room, and Bartley took Marcia fondly into his arms.
"Wife!"
"Husband!"
They sat down before the fire, hand in hand, and talked of the light things that swim to the top, and eddy round and round on the surface of our deepest moods. They made merry over the old minister's perturbation, which Bartley found endlessly amusing. Then he noticed that the dress Marcia had on was the one she had worn to the sociable in Lower Equity, and she said, yes, she had put it on because he once said he liked it. He asked her when, and she said, oh, she knew; but if he could not remember, she was not going to tell him. Then she wanted to know if he recognized her by the dress before she lifted her veil in the station.
"No," he said, with a teasing laugh. "I wasn't thinking of you."
"Oh, Bartley!" she joyfully reproached him. "You must have been!"
"Yes, I was! I was so mad at you, that I was glad to have that brute of a station-master bullying some woman!"
"Bartley!"
He sat holding her hand. "Marcia," he said, gravely, "we must write to your father at once, and tell him. I want to begin life in the right way, and I think it's only fair to him."
She was enraptured at his magnanimity. "Bartley! That's like you! Poor father! I declare—Bartley, I'm afraid I had forgotten him! It's dreadful; but—you put everything else out of my head. I do believe I've died and come to life somewhere else!"
"Well, I haven't," said Bartley, "and I guess you'd better write to your father. You'd better write; at present, he and I are not on speaking terms. Here!" He took out his note-book, and gave her his stylographic pen after striking the fist that held it upon his other fist, in the fashion of the amateurs of that reluctant instrument, in order to bring down the ink.
"Oh, what's that?" she asked.
"It's a new kind of pen. I got it for a notice in the Free Press."
"Is Henry Bird going to edit the paper?"
"I don't know, and I don't care," answered Bartley.
"I'll go out and get an envelope, and ask the landlord what's the quickest way to get the letter to your father."
He took up his hat, but she laid her hand on his arm. "Oh, send for him!" she said.
"Are you afraid I sha'n't come back?" he demanded, with a laughing kiss. "I want to see him about something else, too."
"Well, don't be gone long."
They parted with an embrace that would have fortified older married people for a year's separation. When Bartley came back, she handed him the leaf she had torn out of his book, and sat down beside him while he read it, with her arm over his shoulder.
"Dear father," the letter ran, "Bartley and I are married. We were married an hour ago, just across the New Hampshire line, by the Rev. Mr. Jessup. Bartley wants I should let you know the very first thing. I am going to Boston with Bartley to-night, and, as soon as we get settled there, I will write again. I want you should forgive us both; but if you wont forgive Bartley, you mustn't forgive me. You were mistaken about Bartley, and I was right. Bartley has told me everything, and I am perfectly satisfied. Love to mother.
"MARCIA."
"P.S.—I did intend to visit Netty Spaulding. But I saw Bartley driving past on his way to the Junction, and I determined to see him if I could before he started for Boston, and tell him I was all wrong, no matter what he said or did afterwards. I ought to have told you I meant to see Bartley; but then you would not have let me come, and if I had not come, I should have died."
"There's a good deal of Bartley in it," said the young man with a laugh.
"You don't like it!"
"Yes, I do; it's all right. Did you use to take the prize for composition at boarding-school?"
"Why, I think it's a very good letter for when I'm in such an excited state."
"It's beautiful!" cried Bartley, laughing more and more. The tears started to her eyes.
"Marcia," said her husband fondly, "what a child you are! If ever I do anything to betray your trust in me—"
There came a shuffling of feet outside the door, a clinking of glass and crockery, and a jarring sort of blow, as if some one were trying to rap on the panel with the edge of a heavy-laden waiter. Bartley threw the door open and found the landlord there, red and smiling, with the waiter in his hand.
"I thought I'd bring your supper in here, you know," he explained confidentially, "so 's't you could have it a little more snug. And my wife she kind o' got wind o' what was going on,—women will, you know," he said with a wink,—"and she's sent ye in some hot biscuit and a little jell, and some of her cake." He set the waiter down on the table, and stood admiring its mystery of napkined dishes. "She guessed you wouldn't object