University of Virginia Library

40. CHAPTER XL.
THE WEDDING-DAY.

“Make haste, Mr. Sun, and get up! Don't you know it
is my birthday, and, what is better, it is Dora's wedding-day?
So jump up, pretty Sunny, and be just as bright as
glory all day long!”

And the sun, hearing the appeal, stood suddenly upon the
summit of the distant hills, shooting playful golden arrows
into the child's merry eyes, and among her floating hair,
where they clung glittering and glancing; while to her mind
he seemed to say, —

“Oh, yes, little namesake! I know all about it; and I
promise you sha'n't find me backward in doing my share
towards the entertainment. As for a glare of light, though,
I know a trick worth two of that, as you shall see. But,
first, here is my birthday-kiss. Don't you feel it warm
upon your lips?”

“O papa!” shouted Sunshine, as the fancy whirled

through her busy little brain, “it seems just as if the sun
were kissing me for my birthday.”

“If the sun does, the father must; and it ought to be
twice over, because last year he lost the chance. Eight!
Bless me! where shall I put them all? One on the forehead,
two on the eyes, one on the tip of that ridiculous little nose,
two on the rose-red cheeks, one in that little hollow under
the chin, and the last and best square on the lips. Now,
then, my Sunshine, run to mamma, who is waiting for
you.”

The sun meantime, after a brief period of meditation,
took his resolve; and, sending back the brisk October day
that had prepared to descend upon earth, he summoned,
instead, the first day of the Indian Summer, and bade her
go and help to celebrate the bridal of one of his favorite
daughters, as she knew so well how to do.

So, summoning a south-west wind, still bearing in his garments
the odors of the tropic bowers where he had slept,
the fair day descended softly in his arms to earth, and,
seating herself upon the hills, wove a drapery of golden
mist, bright as love, and tender as maidenhood. Then,
wrapped in this bridal veil, she floated, still in the arms of
the gentle wind, through the forests, touching their leaves

with purer gold and richer crimson; over the harvest-fields,
whose shocks of lingering corn rustled responsive as her
trailing garments swept past; over wide, brown pastures,
where the cattle nibbled luxuriously at the sweet
after-math; over lakes and rivers, where the waters slept
content, forgetting, for the moment, their restless seaward
march; over sheltered gardens, where hollyhock and sunflower,
petunia and pansy, dahlia and phlox, whispering
together of the summer vanished and the frosty nights at
hand, gave out the mysterious, melancholy perfume of an
autumn day.

And from forest and field, and pasture and garden, and
from the sleeping waters, the dreamy day culled the beauty
and the grace, the perfume and the sweet content, and,
floating on to where the bride awaited her coming, dropped
them all, a heavenly dower, upon her head; wrapped the
bright veil caressingly about her; and so passed on, to lie
reclined upon the hills, dreaming in luxurious beauty, until
the night should come, and she should float once more
heavenward.

But the south-west wind lingered a while, kissing the
trembling lips of the bride, fanning her burning cheek, and
dallying with the 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 to-day?”
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.