University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
WHICH CONTAINS A VERY PLEASANT WEDDING, AND A VERY
SAD ACCIDENT.

After Mr. Frank Sargent had been introduced to
the Gilbert family, and had renewed his acquaintance
with Dr. Gilbert by the most extravagant demonstrations
of cordiality, the reunited lovers were left for a whole
blessed hour in one another's society. In that hour, a
great deal of talking was accomplished, and a great deal
of happiness experienced. Mary communicated to her
lover the outlines of her own story, already narrated, and
informed him concerning the condition of her father.
Since his reconciliation to her, she had hardly left his
bedside, and had had the satisfaction to see him daily
mending under her assiduous nursing and her loving
ministrations. That afternoon she had informed him of
the expected arrival of her lover, and, though the matter
was painful to him, she was sure that his mind was decided
upon it, and that he would interpose no further
obstacles to their union. He was still very weak, and
would be unable to see his old clerk for some days, and
probably would not be strong enough to leave Crampton
for a fortnight.

After tea, Mary insisted that Frank should leave her,
and get the sleep which he needed. He had never been
more wide awake than at this time, but he loyally
obeyed, and taking his leave, crossed over to the Crampton
Hotel, and selected his lodgings. The little, yellow-breasted
piazza was full of people when he arrived, not
one of whom was not aware of his relations to the
schoolmistress. In fact, all the village was gossiping
about his arrival, and everybody was anxious to get a
look at him.

The next day he spent, of course, at the Gilbert
mansion; and if he had been a resident of it for a twelve-month,
he could not have been more at home. He first
elected Fanny to be his sister, by a “unanimous vote.”
Then he conciliated Fred by giving him a ride upon his
shoulders, and telling him half a dozen funny stories;
and wound up the achievements of the day by kissing Aunt
Catharine, who pretended to be terribly offended, but
who finally acknowledged to Mary that he was an excellent
fellow, though a “perfect witch-cat.” It was
very pleasant and amusing to see how quietly Mary
took all these demonstrations. Confident in the good
heart that shone through his extravagances, and confident
in the power of others to see it, she gave herself up to
the entertainment as if he were a stranger to her. Sometimes,
indeed, she checked him with a good-natured
“Frank!” and established herself as a kind of regulator,
to indicate when his mill was going too fast.

Dr. Gilbert was amused, but Frank Sargent had
other entertainment for him; and long and very interesting
were his communications upon various matters of
public interest. He talked of politics, of business, of

religion, of literature; and added more to the doctor's
stock of current information than he could have gathered
from all his newspapers. On the whole, the family were
much pleased with the lover of their friend Mary. He
brought life into so many departments of their life, and
adapted himself so readily to their tastes and temperaments,
that they felt his presence to be a sudden accession
to their wealth. Mary relinquished him to them
in the kindness of her heart. He was hers for a lifetime.
She would lend him to them while she could.

The following day was the Sabbath—always a welcome
day to Frank Sargent, because it was usually a
day of very agreeable business. At home, besides attending
to his own charge as superintendent of a Sabbath-school,
he was usually out at one or more mission
schools during the day, and joined with others in seeking
for the neglected and uninstructed. These things gave
him an opportunity to talk, and to one who was always
full, this was a great privilege.

It was customary with the superintendent of the
Crampton school to invite every stranger who made his
appearance to address the children. The gift of public
speech was rare in Crampton, and a talking stranger
was a Godsend. Accordingly, when Frank Sargent remained
after the benediction was pronounced at noon, and
stood up, smiling pleasantly upon the children as they
gathered into the pews, the superintendent came to him,
and having been introduced by Dr. Gilbert, requested
him to open the school with some “remarks.”

Very memorable were those “remarks,” made with
rare and racy freedom, for they awakened many smiles,
and were the occasion of many tears. He told the

school about the poor children in New York—how he
had found them in rags, and filth, and wretchedness, and
washed their faces with his own hands, and taught them
to read. He told how a sweet little girl had been taught
to love her Saviour, and how, afterwards, she had died
in her little garret, and said she was going home to her
Father in heaven, where they had beautiful carpets on
the floor, and red curtains at the windows, and chairs as
soft as the grass. Then he told them about a good little
boy who said he was one of Jesus Christ's little lambs,
and when he went to heaven he was going to have a bell on
his neck. The first story made the children cry, and the
second one made them smile; and then Mr. Frank Sargent
said that all the little children were Jesus Christ's
lambs, at which one little boy giggled. Then the speaker
asked the boy what he was laughing at, and the boy told
him he laughed because his name was Charley Mutton,
and all the other little boys called him Charley Lamb.
Then Mr. Frank Sargent smiled, and the doctor and
Fanny smiled, and all the school came as nearly up to
an outburst of mirth as they dared to.

Then the speaker told them how so much had been
accomplished for the poor children in New York. It
was done by co-operation. Everybody interested in the
work did something; and, to show them what miracles
could be wrought by co-operation, he told them a story
of a man who had no legs forming a partnership with a
man who had no arms, and both together taking and
carrying on a farm. The man who had no legs got upon
the shoulders of the man who had no arms, and the man
who had legs carried the man who had arms all about,
the latter sowing the grain and hoeing the vegetables.

and picking fruit from the trees. Neither could do
any thing alone, but co-operating, they were able to
carry on a large business, and made a pile of money.
The vivid colors in which the speaker painted this brace
of farmers made a decided impression, and awoke many
smiles. But these were banished by his closing words,
which were solemn, earnest, and touching. The children
had never heard such talk before, and were very much
impressed.

At the conclusion of his “remarks,” he was invited
to instruct a class of young women, and here he became
so much interested and absorbed, that he talked loudly
enough to be heard in all parts of the house, and talked
quite beyond the tinkling of the little bell that announced
the close of the hour.

On Fanny's return, she gave a glowing account of
Frank's hit as a speaker to Mary, who had remained
with her father. Mary received the announcement of
his success with the same quiet smile with which she regarded
all his performances. Knowing that he did
strange, and often ludicrous things, she also knew that
his heart was right, his apprehensions keen, and his ability
equal to any task he might see fit to undertake. As
for the young man himself, he had the satisfaction of
seeing the boys all about Crampton common, for a week
afterwards, riding on one another's shoulders, and sowing
dirt in illustration of his illustration of co-operation.
He also received a well-executed pencil drawing, representing
his heroes of the farm, from the hand of a smart
young man, just home from college.

Mr. Kilgore mended rapidly. A week after the
safely surmounted crisis of his fever, he sat up in his

chair for an hour. But he was not without his mental
burden. He had regained possession of his daughter,
but it had been done at a great sacrifice of feeling. For
once in his life, he had been conquered. His plans for
a splendid matrimonial alliance for his daughter had
been thwarted, and it was a great humiliation for him to
think of swallowing all his words, and receiving as a son
the young man whom he had so thoroughly hated and
persistently abused. But the step had been taken, and
could not be retraced; and his old pride, though galled
and humbled, came to his aid at last. Could not he, the
great Kilgore, do as he would with his own? If he chose
to confer his daughter upon Frank Sargent, he could
carry the matter through in splendid style, and who
would presume to question him?

When he became sufficiently strong, he consented to
receive his future son-in-law. He greeted him with no
demonstration of feeling, and Frank took the hint at
once. The past was to be buried, and not alluded to at
all. They talked about business, and Frank was soon
running on in his usual entertaining style. His inquiries
for the old man's health were made self-respectfully,
but with such a genuine interest that the invalid felt
ashamed of himself. He could not help feeling that if
the young man should wish he were dead, it would be
the most natural thing in the world.

As the days came and went, Frank became more
and more the companion of Mr. Kilgore. The attachment
existing between the young people was never alluded
to upon either side. Frank dutifully and respectfully
assumed and performed the offices of a son, but
neither asked questions nor made communications.

Mary, in calm confidence, was sure that Frank could
make his way if he had an opportunity, and never embarrassed
their intercourse by her presence. There
were abundant invitations for Frank to go fishing, and
riding, and gunning; but he sacrificed every thing, for
the sake of ministering to Mr. Kilgore's comfort and
recovery. The old man felt, in the depths of his heart,
that Mary had made a good choice for herself and for
him; and both Frank and she saw that time alone was
needed for her father's wounded pride to heal, in order
to reconcile him entirely to the match.

Toward Dr. Gilbert, Arthur Blague, and Fanny,
Mr. Kilgore pursued the same course that he followed
in respect to Frank Sargent: he ignored the past. The
somewhat bitter passages that had occurred between
him and them, individually, were never alluded to by
him. Each, in turn, had tried to explain, but he would
hear nothing. One evening, after he had sufficiently recovered
to be able to sit in his chair the most of the
day, he sent for Dr. Gilbert, and held with him a long
interview, the results of which made themselves apparent
the next day, when the doctor called Frank and
Mary into his office, and, having closed the door, informed
them that it was Mr. Kilgore's desire that they
should be married before leaving Crampton. Mr. Kilgore
himself did not wish to have any conversation with
them at that time, nor at any future time, on the subject.
He accepted the facts as they existed, as facts for which
he was not responsible, and with which he saw fit not
to quarrel.

As soon as Mr. Kilgore's wish regarding the marriage
was known in the family, all were in a flutter of

excitement—all but Mary. In her calm faith, she had
never seriously doubted that the time would come for
her union with the man whom she loved. When it
came, it did not surprise her. Nothing surprises a truly
trusting heart.

As Frank and Mary looked into the future, beyond
the event which excited so much interest in all around
them, the first plan that shaped itself was one for taking
Fanny with them to New York. This they talked over
at length, and with this Mary ventured to approach her
father. He made no objection to the plan—in reality,
it was a pleasant one to him. He was anxious to see
his large house populated once more—to hear again in
it the sound of happy voices, and especially the happy
voices of young women. He looked forward to the
time when—the first questions and surprises over, and
the new order of things adjusted to the stereotyped facts
of his business life—he could throw off his reserve, and
be cheerful, and even merry once more.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilton were called in to a grand
council, Dr. Gilbert in the chair, to assist in deciding
upon the character of the coming wedding. Mary
wanted no wedding that would not either admit everybody
or exclude everybody; and it was determined at
last that the ceremony should be performed in the
church, in the morning, and that all who should choose
to do so, might call upon the bride at the house of Dr.
Gilbert afterwards. This plan having been definitely
settled upon, was reported throughout the village
within twenty-four hours. In the mean time, Dr. Gilbert
had consented to his daughter's visit to New York,
and had secured a new teacher for the centre school.

Fanny was in her glory. The excitement attending the
preparations for the wedding and her journey, was delightful.
It brought into operation her administrative
faculties, and gave full employment to all her energies.
Mr. Kilgore looked on with admiration. Her style of
character was much more to his liking than that of his
daughter. It was more after what seemed to him the
true Kilgore pattern. It was more queenly, more ambitious,
more exclusive. In fact, Mr. Kilgore, as he
grew stronger, grew gallant, and took Fanny into his
confidence and under his patronage, all of which pleased
Mary very much.

The morning of the wedding came at length, and it
found the Crampton church better filled with an expectant
throng than it had been since the memorable exhibition
of the Crampton Light Infantry. It brought
forth, too, as on that occasion, a fine procession from
the centre school-house—a procession of Mary Kilgore's
pupils, for whom seats were reserved in front. The
celebration of a marriage within the walls of the Crampton
church was a great event—the first of its kind ever
known in the village—and everybody was out.

At the appointed hour, Dr. Gilbert walked into the
church with Aunt Catharine, followed by the great Kilgore
with Fanny on his arm. Then came Mr. Frank
Sargent with Mary, the latter in a gray travelling dress,
and, following them, came Arthur Blague and his
mother. It was not a very gay-looking party, it must
be confessed, but, as it came in front of the children, and
the bridegroom and the bride separated themselves, and
walked before the pastor, Mary could not refrain from
looking out upon her old charge with her accustomed

smile. Instantly all the children rose to their feet, and
stood while the words were pronounced which made a
wife of their old teacher.

Mary could hardly wait to receive the congratulations
of the friends immediately about her before she
turned to her children, and received their kisses. It
was a very pretty sight indeed—one which moistened
the eyes of the crowd of spectators, and upon which
even the dignified Mr. Kilgore looked with a degree of
complacent satisfaction. As for delighted Frank Sargent,
he could not keep his eyes away from the touching
spectacle, and finally seized and kissed half a dozen of
the little girls, as a slight demonstration of the condition
of his feelings, at which the audience laughed, and the
little boys clapped their hands.

Mary had a great deal of difficulty in getting out of
the church. There were so many to take her hand and
to wish her joy, that she was quite weary before the
gauntlet of the broad aisle was run. On returning to
the house, the party entered the parlor, and formally
received and entertained their friends. Among these,
all were astonished to see the widow Ruggles. She
greeted Mary with a great deal of cordiality, and immediately
begged to be introduced to her father. Him
she seized (metaphorically) by the button, and in her
own vulgar style told, so that all around could hear, of
Mary's former connection with “father's mill.” She
went so far as to express the hope that Mary had laid
up a little something, and, furthermore, enjoined it upon
Mr. Kilgore to see that she held it in her own right; so
that if her husband should ever be “took away,” she could
have something to comfort her. She informed Mr. Kilgore

of her trials, and particularly of her consolations
under the strokes of Providence, and was glad to meet
with one who had lost his “pardner,” because he could
feel for her.

At last, Dr. Gilbert took pity on Mr. Kilgore, and
actually pulled Mrs. Ruggles away, to introduce her to
Mr. Frank Sargent, who had previously begged the
privilege of disposing of her.

Mr. and Mrs. Joslyn were among those who came
in to pay their compliments—Mr. Joslyn with his
hair very nicely braided over his head, his arm dangling
through that of his wife, and his heavy frame sustained
by his toes, in the apprehension that in some corner of
the room there was a baby asleep. Mrs. Joslyn's face
was flushed with the excitement of the unusual presence
and occasion, and the task of managing her husband;
but she had a few straightforward words of congratulation
to say, and these she said, while Mr. Joslyn said
nothing. As they fell back before the incoming tide of
friends, Mrs. Joslyn encountered her daughter and
Cheek in the passage. The bow of her daughter's bonnet
not being exactly what it should be, she tied it
again; then took hold of the front with both hands, and
gave the wire a cleaner arch; and, after bestowing a
twitch or two upon the skirt of her gown, dismissed
her with the injunction to behave like a woman, and
keep her mouth shut.

Cheek, since his accession to the dignity of stage-driver,
had grown a little foppish, and affected gay
colors about his neck. A red-checked waistcoat and a
sky-blue cravat did flaming duty with a coat of invisible
green, which had great square pocket-lids on the skirts,

and very large brass buttons. The moment Frank Sargent
caught a glimpse of this pair, and received Cheek's
good-natured wink at a distance, he sprang to meet
them, and pulled them directly into the centre of the
noisy group.

“Yours respectfully,” said Cheek, by way of response
to the bridegroom's greeting, and also by way
of congratulation. Then turning to the bride, he gave
her his hand, and with a bow which made his square
coat-tails stand out very straight, said, “Here's hoping!”
Having paid his own personal respects, he
waited until Mary had bestowed a kiss upon his “girl,”
and then presented the latter to Frank Sargent, as
“The Aforesaid.” Frank shook her hand very cordially,
and told her what an excellent time he had enjoyed
with Cheek on his way to Crampton. The dear
little creature could do nothing but courtesy, and say,
“Yes, sir.” Cheek looked on in admiration, and finally
beckoned the bridegroom aside. When he had succeeded
in getting him into a corner, he said quietly,
with a nod at “The Aforesaid,” “What do you think
of her?”

“She's a nice little thing, Cheek, and does you
honor,” responded Frank Sargent heartily.

“Little dumpy about the waist yet,” said Cheek,
“but you know they kind o' spindle up after a while.”

“She's good enough for anybody,” said Frank
Sargent.

“Now that ain't so,” said Cheek, “and you know it.
She will be, when she's done; but she ain't ripened off
yet. You saw her mother, didn't you? Great woman.
The little one has got her points, but she wants age.

l'll show you something that'll cure sore eyes at thirty
paces, if you'll come round in about three years.”

The bridegroom was much amused, for Cheek said
all this with his eyes upon his hopeful prize, scanning
her “points” as critically as if she were a filly that he
was anxious to sell.

“There is every thing in taking them young,” continued
Cheek, “for then they improve on your hands.
Now you've just married a finished-up girl. I don't
s'pose mine will ever come up to your'n, but your'n
won't grow any better, and mine will. All the fellers
try to run rigs on me, and ask me how my baby gets
along, and what's the price of bibs; but they've all got
mortgages on property that won't rise, and when their
girls begin to get rings round their eyes, and lose their
front teeth, we'll see who'll talk about bibs.” Cheek
nodded his head very decidedly, as if his plan were
one which did not admit of serious question from any
quarter.

The crowd of friends was too great to allow of the
further extension of this conversation; and for full two
hours the parlor was the scene of a social eddy in
Crampton life, which streamed in at one door, and out
at another, until all had paid their compliments to the
bridal pair and the dignified Mr. Kilgore.

It was generally understood at what time the party
were to leave, and at length the house was cleared.
Of all the observers of this lively scene, there was no
one who looked on with so much sadness as Arthur
Blague. He felt that he was soon to be bereft of his
most precious wealth. He had schooled himself to look
upon Mary Kilgore as the possession of another; so

that his feelings were neither selfish nor mean; but she
had been so much to him—she had inspired him with so
much courage, and had led him to the adoption of such
fresh and fruitful motives of life—that her departure
seemed like the setting of a sun—like the withdrawal of
the heat that warmed and the light that cheered him.
He thought of the brilliant scenes that lay before the
retiring party, and the humdrum, barren existence that
was left to him, till his own life grew tasteless and insignificant.
Though pressed to remain at the house
of Dr. Gilbert until the bridal party should take their
leave, he excused himself, and retired to his home.

The regular Crampton stage did not go out that
morning. A wagon was despatched with the mail; but
the coach and Cheek were detained as “an extra,” to
take over the bridal party. Trunks were deposited on
the door-steps of the Gilbert mansion, busy feet traversed
the house, and all was excitement. A hasty
lunch was taken by the family, which was hardly concluded
when Cheek's horn sounded across the common,
with a flourish little short of miraculous, and soon the
rattle of the wheels announced that the coach and the
time for departure had arrived.

All went to the door. Cheek, out of respect to the
party, had not changed his clothes, but shone upon the
box like a fire, of which his red waistcoat formed the
body of the flame, and his sky-blue cravat the smoke.
Before descending from the box, he removed his coat,
and, in obedience to his old habit, rolled up his shirt-sleeves,
as a preparation for the labor of loading the
baggage. The last trunk and bandbox were at length in
their places, and the last strap was fastened. Then followed

the leave-taking, in which everybody cried, except
Mr. Kilgore, who stood apart, and who, after all
the others had made their adieux, shook the hands of
Dr. Gilbert, Aunt Catharine, and little Fred, took out
his big gold watch, looked around upon Crampton common,
apparently to see if he had left any thing there, examined
the sky to see whether the weather suited him,
then took his seat in the coach by the side of Miss
Fanny Gilbert, and then said, “All ready.”

Kisses were tossed back and forth as the horses were
reined into the street, and then there came a loud crack
of the whip, and, following this, extravagant efforts upon
the driver's horn, that awakened all the echoes, and
brought faces to all the windows along the street.
Among the faces were those of Arthur Blague and his
little brother Jamie, the latter of whom was in an
ecstasy of delight. Mary leaned out of the coach to get
the last glimpse of the pair. As she receded, she saw
the little boy, by a sudden movement, release himself
from his brother's grasp, and fall out of the window
into the yard. She screamed, still gazing, and as she
turned a corner, she saw the little one picked up limp
and lifeless; and Arthur was left alone with the great
trial out of which he was to work his destiny.