Thankful Rest Part 15

"You are very kind, Carrie. I should like it dearly. But would it be right to leave my uncle and aunt?"

"If they say you may, Lucy. I have thought it well over before I mentioned it at all; and I'm sure you would enjoy yourself."

"I know that. May I have a day or two to think of it, Carrie?"

"As many as you like, so that you only come, dear. Now, I'm going off; I haven't a minute to spare.--By-the-by, Alice and Minnie will likely be at papa's, too, all December, so that is another inducement. Goodbye." She stooped and kissed Lucy, and ran out of the house.

Pretty soon Aunt Hepsy came in, looking very grave and sad. She took up her knitting, and for a bit neither spoke.

"Three months is a long time, Aunt Hepsy," said Lucy at last.

Aunt Hepsy never spoke.

Then Lucy rose and came to her, and laid her arm about her neck. "You don't want me to go, auntie, I know you don't."

"Go away; I didn't say I didn't," said Aunt Hepsy in her gruffest tones.

"Auntie, if you will only tell me you would rather I stayed, I won't go."

"Don't ask questions, child. I guess I'd never live through them three months. As well go away for ever almost."

"Then I won't go," said Lucy stoutly. "I'd dearly like to be at Carrie's wedding; but I can't leave you, auntie, for so long." And from that decision no persuasion could induce Lucy to depart--she was firm as a rock; but Aunt Hepsy made a little private arrangement of her own, which was to be kept a profound secret from the bride-elect.

Judge Keane travelled to New York the day before Christmas with a young lady under his care; and when the pair were ushered into Dr.

Goldthwaite's drawing-room, the bride-elect saw, peeping out from among the rich furs which Aunt Hepsy had provided for her darling, a face she loved very dearly, and which could belong to n.o.body in the world but Lucy Hurst.

They were all together in the long drawing-room, waiting only the coming of the bride, ere the solemn ceremony could be performed.

There was a large company, for the Goldthwaites had a wide circle of acquaintance. Conspicuous among them were the friends we know best--all the Keanes (save the invalid mother, who thought and prayed for them at home), and Tom and Lucy Hurst. It had been a surprise to Lucy to find him at New York. She had not expected to see him again till the summer-time. She looked very fair and sweet in her delicate white dress, but was utterly unconscious of the admiration she was creating; and of the close observation of a pair of dark earnest eyes, which had been the first gleam of comfort to her when her mother died.

By-and-by, old white-haired Dr. Goldthwaite came in with Carrie on his arm, and they took their places silently; and in a very few minutes Frank had uttered the irrevocable words, and the wedding was over. Then Mr. and Mrs. George Keane received abundant congratulations, and they adjourned to partake of breakfast. In the hall stood a quant.i.ty of baggage labelled "Mrs. Keane," which seemed very formidable, but was not much after all, considering the travellers were going to Europe. Yes; the young pair were to have a six months' tour before settling down at Pendlepoint, and some felt as if Carrie were going away for ever. She looked very grave and sad; and when she came down ready to go, broke down utterly bidding her mother good-bye.

"Now then, this will never do," said Judge Keane, with that comical smile of his. "George, get your wife into the carriage, or we shall have her rueing she ever promised to follow you."

Carrie smiled through her tears, and shook her finger at the judge.

Then, as she turned to go, a light touch fell upon her arm, and a low voice whispered tremulously,--

"May G.o.d bless you all your life, Mrs. Keane."

It was Lucy, her great eyes s.h.i.+ning with unspeakable love and tenderness.

"Never Mrs. Keane to you, Lucy, my pet," she whispered back. "Carrie always, and always. Write to me."

Then she was hurried out to the carriage, forgetting in the excitement of the moment that she possessed no address to give. The door closed upon them, the coachman sprang to the box, and the next moment they were gone. They had embarked together on the sea of life, and the voyage bade fair to be a happy and prosperous one.

"I don't like weddings," said Judge Keane discontentedly. "They are miserable, heart-breaking things at the best."

"Time was when you did not think so, judge," said the doctor, with a twinkle in his eye.--"Eh, little one?"

It was Lucy whom the doctor addressed, and she answered timidly, "It is very sad to give away those we love, as you have done to-day, sir."

"Wait till somebody wants to take you away, my lady," laughed the judge. "There'll be an earthquake at Thankful Rest."

"I never heard any one speak as you do, Judge Keane," said Lucy, with a dignity which dumfoundered Tom; and she moved away and sat down by Mrs. Goldthwaite, and began to talk to her about Carrie.

"What makes you look so sober, Tom Hurst?" queried Minnie Keane's voice at his elbow a few minutes later.

"Shall I tell you, Minnie?"

"You must," was the calm reply.

"It seems to me, then," he said very slowly, "that Lucy is growing up, and I don't like it. Do you?"

"I don't mind. Everybody grows up and marries, and goes to Europe, and dies after a bit; that's about what life amounts to--not much, is it?"

Tom laughed, he couldn't help it; but after a bit he answered gravely, "I am afraid to grow up myself, Minnie."

"Why?"

"Because a man has so much responsibility, so much to do for G.o.d: I don't think it will be very easy."

"Oh, I do!" answered Minnie. "Just do all you can, with all your might; that's what mamma says, and it's the easiest way."

"So it is," said Tom. "I shan't forget that, Minnie."

And neither he did.

XVI.

FIVE YEARS AFTER.

Again it was sweet spring-time at Thankful Rest. The garden was gay with tender leaves and blossoms, and the orchard white with bloom.

There the birds made sweet melody as of yore; and, as of yore, the sunny river brawled and whispered and played as it hurried through the meadow to the sea.

At five o'clock in the afternoon Aunt Hepsy was in the kitchen, busy as usual; her hands knew no idleness. Two teacups and a plate of cake stood on the table, the remnants of the early tea she and Lucy had taken a little while before. Presently a light step sounded in the lobby, and Lucy came in dressed for walking. Five years make a great change; for she had grown from a slight, diminutive girl, to a tall, lithe, graceful young lady, just on the verge of womanhood.

"Ye look like a picter, by all the world," said Aunt Hepsy, pausing to admire her; and Lucy's answer was a silvery laugh, so full of perfect happiness and content, that a silent bird on the window ledge caught the infection and burst into song.

"I'm going to the post-office to see if there's a letter from Tom, Aunt Hepsy," she said; "and then to Dovecot, to see Mrs. George Keane. I'll be back sure before dark."

"Ye'd better," said Aunt Hepsy, with something of her ancient grimness. "The house ain't worth livin' in when ye're out."

Lucy came close to Aunt Hepsy, and laying her gloved hands on her shoulders, bent tender, beaming eyes on her face. "It makes me so thankful, auntie, to think you miss me, and are glad when I come back. I don't suppose there's a happier girl anywhere than I am."

"Nor a happier pair than ye make yer uncle an' me," said Aunt Hepsy softly. "Off ye go, ye waste my time like anything; time was when I'd make ye fly round considerable if ye'd ventured."

Lucy laughed, and went her way, turning aside as she went through the paddock for a pleasant word with Uncle Josh ploughing in the low meadow. He stopped his team to watch the pretty girlish figure out of sight. Crossing the bridge she met Ebenezer going with a letter to Thankful Rest. It was for her, and in Tom's handwriting. There was no need for her to go down to the town, and she turned in the direction of the Dovecot, which was the name of the pretty home occupied by George Keane and his wife. It was midway between the Red House and the parsonage, and fifteen minutes' leisurely walking brought her to it. Miss Goldthwaite had been married four years past, and had one little son, the joy and torment of her life. He was in bed, however, when Lucy called, so there was a chance of a moment's quiet talk.