floating tresses of her hair; then, whispering farewell, he crept away to hide in the recesses of the wood, and sigh himself to sleep.
“Dora, where are you, love? Do you hide from me today?” called a voice; and Dora, peeping round the stem of the old oak at whose foot she sat, said shyly,–
“Do you want me, Tom?”
“Want you, my darling? What else on earth do I want but you? And how lovely you are to-day, Dora! You never looked like this before.”
“It never was my wedding-day before,” whispered Dora; and, like the summer day and the west wind, we will pass on, leaving these our lovers to their own fond folly, which yet is such wisdom as the philosophers and the savans can never give us by theory or diagram.
As the fair day waned to sunset, they were married; Mr. Brown saying the solemn words that barred from his own heart even the unrequited love that had been a dreary solace to it. But Mr. Brown was not only a good man, but a strong man, and one of an iron determination; and so it was possible to him to say those words unfalteringly, and to look upon the bride-lovelier in her misty robes of white, and floating veil, than he had ever seen her before-with unfaltering eyes and unchanging color. No great effort stops short at the end for which it was exerted; and the chaplain himself was surprised to find how calm his heart could be, and how little of pain or regret mingled with his honest admiration and affection for Thomas Burroughs’s wife.
The carriage stood ready in the lane, and in another hour they were gone; and let us say with Mrs. Ginniss,–radiant in her new cap and gown,–
“The blissing of God go with ’em! fur it’s thimsilves as desarves it.”
To those who remain behind when an absorbing interest is suddenly withdrawn, all ordinary events seem to have lost their connection with themselves, and to be dull, disjointed, and fatiguing.
Perhaps that was the reason why Kitty, as soon as the bridal party was out of sight, crept away to her own chamber, and cried as if her heart would break; but nothing except the natural love of mischief, inherent in even the sweetest of children, could have tempted ‘Toinette, after visiting her, to go straight to Mr. Brown,–strolling in the rambling old garden,–and say,–
“Now, Mr. Brown! did you say that you despised Kitty?”
“Despise Kitty! Certainly not, my dear. What made you think of such a thing?”
“Why, she said so. She’s up in our room, crying just as hard! And, when I asked her what was the matter, she hugged me up tight, and said nobody cared for her, and nobody would ever love her same as Cousin Tom does Dora. And I told her, yes, they would, and maybe you would; and then she said, ‘Oh, no, no, no! he despises me!’ and then she cried harder than ever. Tell her you don’t; won’t you, Mr. Brown?”
The chaplain looked much disturbed, and then very thoughtful; but, as the child still urged him with her entreaties, he said,–
“Yes, I will tell her so, Sunshine, but not just now. And mind you this, little girl,–you must never, never let Kitty know that you told me what she said. Will you promise?”
“Yes, I’ll promise. I guess you’re afraid, if she knows, she’ll think you just say so to make her feel happy. Isn’t that it?”
“Yes: that is just it. So remember!”
“I’ll ‘memberer. Oh, there’s Karlo! I’m going to look for chestnuts with him to-morrow. Good-by, Mr. Brown!”
“Good-by, little Sunshine!”
And, for a good hour, Mr. Brown, pacing up and down the garden-walk, took counsel with his own heart, and, we may hope, found it docile.
The next day, he said to Kitty,–
“I have been telling your brother that he had better let you board at Yellow Springs this winter, and attend the lectures at the college. Should you like it?”
“Oh, ever so much!” exclaimed Kitty eagerly. “But we were to keep house together at Outpost.”
“Karl thinks it will be as well to shut up the house and leave farm-matters to Seth and Mehitable, until spring, when Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs return. He will prefer for himself to spend the winter in Greenfield, perhaps in Dr. Gershom’s family. If you are at Antioch College, I can perhaps help you with your studies. I take some private pupils.”
Mr. Brown did not make this proposition with his usual fluency. Indeed, he was embarrassed to a considerable extent; and so, no doubt, was Kitty, who answered confusedly,–
“I could try; but I never shall be fit for any thing. I never-I never shall know much; though, if you will try to teach me”–
“I will try, Kitty, with all my heart. You have excellent abilities, and it is foolish to say you ‘never can be fit’ for almost any position.”
“O Mr. Brown! it seems to me as if I was such a poor sort of creature, compared with almost any one!”
“Dora, for instance?”
“Yes. I never can be Dora: now, could I?”
“No, any more than I could be Mr. Burroughs. But perhaps Kitty Windsor and Frank Brown may fill their places in this world, and the next too, as well as these friends of theirs whom they both admire.”
“O Mr. Brown! will you help me?” asked Kitty, turning involuntarily toward him, and raising her handsome dark eyes and glowing face to his. He took her hands, looked kindly into her eyes, and said both tenderly and solemnly,–
“Yes, Kitty, God helping me, I will be to you all that a thoughtful brother could be to his only sister; and, what you may be to me in the dim future, that future only knows.”
And Kitty’s eyes drooped happily beneath that earnest gaze, and upon her cheeks glowed the dawn of a hope as vague as it was sweet.
CHAPTER XLI.
KARL TO DORA. GREENFIELD, IOWA, march 15. MY DEAR COUSIN,–
YOURS of the 10th duly received, and as welcome as your letters always are. So you have seen the kingdoms of the world and the glory thereof, and find that all is vanity, as saith the Preacher. Do not imagine that I am studying divinity instead of medicine; but to-day is Sunday, and I have been twice to meeting, and taken tea with the minister besides.
But to return to our mutton. Nothing could be more delightful, or, on the whole, more probable to me, than your decision to return to Outpost, instead of settling in Boston or New York. I can hardly fancy my cousin Dora changed into a fine lady, and fretting herself thin over the color of ribbon, or the trail of a skirt; and I am not surprised that she finds what is called “society” puzzling and wearisome. Your life, Dora, began upon too wide a plan to bear narrowing down into conventional limits now; and I feel through my own heart the thrill with which you wrote the words,–
“I long for the opportunity of action and usefulness; I long for the freedom of the prairie, and the dignity of labor; I long to resume my old life, and to see my husband begin his new one.”
But, to be quite frank, I was a little surprised that Mr. Burroughs should enter so heartily into your plan of resuming the farm. To be sure, I suppose the land-agency, and the practice of his profession, will occupy most of his time; and his principal concern with the estate will be to admire your able management of it. You and he, my dear Dora, seem to form not only a mutual-admiration, but a mutual-encouragement and mutual-assistance society; and I wish my partnership with Dr. Gershom was half as satisfactory an arrangement.
Yesterday, after receiving your letter, I rode directly to Outpost, and communicated your wishes to Seth and Mehitable. The former threw the chip he was whittling into the fire, and said,–
“Miss Burroughs coming back? Waal, then, I’ll stop; but I own, doctor, I wouldn’t ha’ done it ef she hadn’t. It’s took all the heart out o’ the place, her bein’ gone so.”
And Mehitable and he joined in a chorus of praises and reminiscences, which, pleasant though I found it, I will not put you to the blush by repeating. Both, however, promised faithfully that the house and farm should be ready for you by the middle of April; and Seth says he can take hold “right smart” at helping put up the new house, as he was “raised a carpenter,” in part at least.
You ask about me, my dear cousin; but what have I to tell? I work hard at my profession, and take nearly all the night-practice off Dr. Gershom’s hands; so I have very little leisure for any thing besides: and you say to be useful is to be happy; so I suppose I am happy; but, if I may be allowed the suggestion, it is rather a negative kind of bliss, and will be decidedly augmented when Outpost is once again open to me as a second home (I assure you I shall be a frequent visitor), and when Burroughs comes to occupy an office beside my own.
As for the rumor of my engagement to Sarah Gershom, it is quite unfounded. I am not thinking of marrying at present.
A letter from Kitty, received a few days since, brings very satisfactory accounts of her progress in learning and in life. She is as happy as possible in her engagement to Frank Brown, and improves, under his tuition, beyond my wildest hopes. She has a strong nature and a deep heart, has Kitty; and I believe Brown understands and can guide them both. Kitty tells me, also, that Theodore Ginniss is taking high honors in his class, and is one of the most promising fellows at Antioch College. He will yet become man of mark, and Mrs. Legrange may well be proud of her protg. Give her my regards, please; and a thousand kisses to Dolce, whom I thank most humbly for her kind message to her poor old Karlo. I hope to see her again in my little vacation next summer. Remember me, too, most kindly to your husband, upon whose coming to Greenfield I am depending a good deal, as I do not suffer, like you, from too much society; and I shall be glad to associate with one man who does not chew tobacco, or sit in the house with his hat on.
And now, dear Dora, good-night, and good-by for a little while.
Always your affectionate cousin,
KARL.
THE END.