The weeks which seemed so long to Elise and Hyacinth, and so desperately crowded to Aunt Gertrude (who was quite as excited and flustered as if she were going to be married herself) we can skip over at will. It is enough to say that within them the old house underwent such a cleaning and scrubbing and furbishing up as it had not known in five and twenty years. Mr. Lambert talked of building a new wing for the newly married couple. The floors were scrubbed and freshly oiled, the brass and pewter was polished until the antique household wares fairly winked at you through the glass doors of the cupboards. The woodwork was rubbed until it shone like satin; fresh curtains went up at the windows, carpets were beaten, the front door and the window frames received a fine new coat of green paint, and Mr. Lambert himself put on a new latch to the door of the Bakery. And when these wonders had been accomplished, Aunt Gertrude entrusted the proprietorship of the Bakery to Hyacinth and Anna, and solemnly shut herself up to make the wedding cake. It was to be such a wedding cake as Frederickstown had never seen before—a mammoth delicacy, destined to be long remembered, composed of spices and raisins and citron and nuts, all buried under a snowy frosting, and artistic decorations designed by the versatile Hyacinth, who was allowed to contribute to this part of it, only.

And then came the day when the Samuel Winklers arrived, and took up their quarters at the Red Fox Inn, midway between Frederickstown and Goldsboro. And after they had paid their respects to their cousins, and presented their daughter-in-law-to-be with innumerable gifts, there was a party in their honor, at which Granny presided with the greatest dignity and Mr. Lambert proposed no less than eighteen toasts which were enthusiastically drunk in blackberry wine. In fact, the wedding festivities in honor of a union which restored the house of Winkler to its former state of security threatened to completely disorganize the delighted community.

At last the sixth of December—the wedding-day—was come.

In accordance with a time-honored custom, the ceremony was performed at eight o’clock at night. And what a night it was! The first snow of the winter had fallen, covering streets and house-tops with a thick, soft, sparkling mantle. And like a Russian bride, Elise returned from the old church with the sound of sleigh bells jingling in the clear, frosty air.

A beautiful bride she was, too, rosy and golden-haired and blue-eyed; and as for Hyacinth! with a flower in his button-hole, with his hair all sleek and glossy, with such an expression of importance and sedateness—it was no wonder that his parents gazed upon him with eyes actually moist with pride, and Elise thought him a matchless paragon amongst men.

No one knows to this day how all the guests that came managed to crowd themselves into the old house, but they did, and no less than thirty of them sat down at the table with the bride and bridegroom. There was scarcely one imprint of footsteps in the new-fallen snow that night that did not point in the direction of the Bakery.

A little after nine o’clock, the musicians arrived, Tom Drinkwater with his fiddle, and Mr. Mellitz with his trombone in a huge green felt case, and Frank Fisher with his harp and old Mr. Gilroy with his cello. They settled themselves in a corner, tuned up a bit, and then the dancing began.

It was with immeasurable pride that on this occasion, Mr. Lambert welcomed Mr. Sheridan amongst his guests—Mr. Timothy Sheridan, nephew to the late Major, and of a family that had had its roots in Frederickstown as long as the Winklers themselves, or nearly. Lily was a bridesmaid, and it was with her that Mr. Lambert himself started the dancing. Mrs. Deacon was there, gorgeous in purple and plumes, the Websters in a solid phalanx—in fact there was not a face that was familiar in Frederickstown that was not to be seen that night glowing with satisfaction and good will and personal enjoyment under the roof of the Lambert-Winkler dwelling.

It was when the general merriment was at its height that Jane, laden with a tray of refreshments approached the overheated musicians who were scraping and blowing and thumping away in that corner of the dining room from which Mr. Lambert’s desk—as an article that harmonized too little with the elegance of the occasion—had been temporarily banished.

“In another four or five years or so, we’ll be making music at your wedding no doubt—if we live, eh?” said old Elias Gilroy at last laying aside his cello for a moment, to take a long draught of cider. When he came out of the mug, wiping his grizzled moustaches delicately on a blue polka dot handkerchief he winked merrily at Jane, who had sat down beside him.

“And why aren’t you twirling round with the boys, my lassie?” he went on affectionately, now helping himself to a gigantic slice of cake.

“I came over to watch you—and besides, I’d rather look on,” said Jane, carefully smoothing out the skirt of her new blue silk dress. “Shall I get you some more cider, Mr. Gilroy?”

“Well—I’ll not trouble you,” said he, uncertainly, “though if there’s plenty to be had—”

“There’s lots. There’s lots and lots of everything!” cried Jane. “I’ll bring a pitcher!”

When the enthusiastic musicians had had “fresh heart put into ’em” as Mr. Gilroy said, she stood by watching them tune up their instruments for a new onslaught on the famous, lively measures of “Old Uncle Ned.”

“Oh, I do wish I could make music out of that big thing!” she cried pointing to the cello.

“You have to be born to it,” replied Mr. Gilroy solemnly, sawing away with all his might. “It’s an easier matter to blow a tune through that—” he jerked his head in the direction of Mr. Mellitz’s gleaming trombone, whose huge tones fairly drowned out the voices of the other instruments. Mr. Mellitz, though he might have taken offense at the disparaging manner in which his colleague referred to his instrument, seemed not to have heard Mr. Gilroy’s remark. He sat behind the other three, directly under the window, staring fixedly down the shining tube of the trombone at his music;—a meager, melancholy looking man, little given to sociable conversation, with a tallow-colored face which just now was swollen out as he forced all the breath in his lean body into the mouthpiece.

“Why,” wondered Jane, “did he choose to play the trombone?”

With her hands folded in her lap, she sat watching him fixedly, as he pushed his slide up and down. All around her people were dancing, eating, drinking, talking, laughing. People were leaving, people were coming—she was not thinking about them—she was not even thinking about solemn Mr. Mellitz nor of how Mr. Gilroy coaxed his deep, sweet tones out of the frayed strings of his old cello.

She was wondering where Paul was. The very gaiety of the family reunion made her feel the absence of the outcast all the more keenly. Her cheerful hope of his return had waned steadily during the past weeks. There was no news of him, although Mr. Lambert himself had tried to trace him. No, he was gone.

“Well, my lassie, if you watch us hard enough no doubt you’ll learn a thing or two about it,” remarked Mr. Gilroy, when the music came to a stop at the end of the dance, and the musicians mopped their perspiring faces. “Here, take this bow, since you’re so curious, and have a try at it, while I breathe easy a moment or two.” He put the neck of his cello into her hand, and showed her how to press her fingers on the strings.

“Now, just take the bow so—like this, see? That’s better—and bite the string with it—”

Jane laughingly tried to do as she was told, but the sound that the instrument emitted under her touch showed only too plainly that sweetly as it could sing under the fingers of Mr. Gilroy it had a very different temper for rash amateurs.

As she looked up, laughing, into the old man’s face, she suddenly caught her breath in a gasp. Through the window, just behind the long head of Mr. Mellitz, it seemed to her that she had seen a face—though the next moment it had disappeared.

“What is it?” inquired Mr. Gilroy, noticing her frightened expression. “Aren’t seeing ghosts are ye?” he added jocosely.

Jane shook her head, but she looked again, uneasily, at the window. There was nothing there but the reflection of the interior of the room—Anna taking plates of the table, two or three older men standing by the fire, the silhouettes of the musicians’ heads, her mother hurrying in to see about something and then hurrying out again, people moving past the door.

Then, all of a sudden, there it was again! Fantastically white, it seemed to Jane, and apparently without any body accompanying it, so that it looked like a mask suspended outside the window. She sprang up in a fright, not thinking for a moment that it might be no more than the face of some inquisitive wayfarer, who had stolen into the garden to peer in upon the festivities.

All at once, hope, fear, doubt and joy broke over her.

“Paul!”

The cello fell over onto the floor with an indignant “thrum-m!” as she darted forward. The next moment, she had opened the door, and stood upon the snowy step, looking eagerly about in the shadows of the garden.

“Paul! Paul! Are you there?”

A figure moved out of the darkness, into the shaft of light that streamed through the open door.

“Janey!” She heard the unmistakably familiar short laugh as she flung herself into his bear-like hug.

“You’ve come back! I knew it! I knew you would!” she cried, patting his shoulders and the wet, rough sleeves of his shabby coat in a perfect ecstasy of delight. “Oh, Paul—come in! come in quickly!” But he drew back.

“No, no Janey. I can’t do that. But what’s going on, anyway?”

“Why, Paul—don’t you know? It’s Elise—Elise’s wedding. And what do you think? There’s another Winkler after all—Oh, you’ve got to come in, Paul—”

“No; Janey—I can’t,” he repeated firmly. “I’ll come back again some day, as I promised—but not now. I can’t do it now. I only stopped to look in—I’m on my way down to Riverbury—there’s a fellow down there who says he has some work for me, if I want to come. I—I just stopped to peek in, thinking that perhaps I’d see you all sitting around the fire. A fine wedding guest I’d make,” he added laughing. “I’d be a worse mortification to Uncle Peter than ever I was. No, Janey, I can’t. Walk in there like this? The black sheep of the family coming in like a vagabond at the wedding feast?”

Indeed, he was shabby enough—and in his laugh was a tell-tale note of something like shame. It stung his pride not a little to have even Janey see the plain evidences of the rather unsuccessful struggle he had been waging with circumstances. He wore the same old seaman’s cap, the same old short, thick jacket—but frayed edges, patches, and empty buttonholes did not escape Janey’s eyes, and he knew it, and tried to draw out of the light. He was much thinner too, and even a trifle taller, so that his garments, which had never fitted him kindly were now still looser in the places where they had once been much too loose and tighter where they had once been much too tight. He felt also that the light showed only too plainly the traces that actual hunger had drawn in his face, and of these he was more ashamed than of his clothes.

“You mustn’t stand out here, Janey—you’re shivering in that thin dress. And I must say good-bye—you’ve left the door open, and here come some people.”

Janey glanced over her shoulder. Through the door from the hall, her father was entering the dining room, with Elise, followed by Hyacinth and Aunt Gertrude, and then the remaining guests. The ceremony of solemnly drinking the bride’s health was about to take place. Granny sat at the head of the table.

“How lovely Elise looks,” said Paul, “and how nice it is to see them all. There’s Mrs. Deacon—and Lily and Mr. Sheridan—and there’s my friend, Amelia. Is that fellow with the beard the bridegroom?”

“That’s Hyacinth. And he’s a Winkler—a real true Winkler, Paul. I found him.”

“Did you?” said Paul, laughing, “I’m not surprised.”

“Only I didn’t know he was a Winkler—so it doesn’t count—”

“Here comes Uncle Peter! He’s seen you, Janey. Good-bye, dear.” But she held both his hands tightly.

“I won’t let you go! I won’t, Paul! You don’t understand. It’s all right—”

Just then, Mr. Lambert pushed the half-open door wide.

“Jane! What are you doing? Come in at once—you’ve chilled the whole house!”

Everyone had turned, and was staring in amazement, as Jane pulled Paul to the threshold, under her father’s very nose.

“What’s this?” cried Mr. Lambert, seizing his nephew by the arm.

“It’s—me, Uncle,” said Paul. “I am going. I only—”

“Going!” cried Mr. Lambert. “Going! Not at all! Come in! Come in!”

The next thing that the bewildered Paul was conscious of was that he was standing inside the room, facing the table full of guests, with his uncle’s arm jovially embracing his shoulders, Jane clinging to his hand, and everyone exclaiming over the returned prodigal.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” announced Mr. Lambert, but his speech was cut short, as Aunt Gertrude rushed forward to kiss the utterly dazed, uncomprehending, and horribly embarrassed boy.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Mr. Lambert began again, “you are aware, I think, of the recent honor bestowed upon my nephew—an honor which is shared not only by his family, but by this community of which he is a part!” The remainder of the speech, no less than its resounding introduction was pure Greek to Paul, who stood with his long arms dangling, helplessly, and with open mouth, gazing from face to face, as if trying to piece out the solution of the mystery.

Then everyone began to clap their hands. His appearance had for the time being absorbed all interest. Granny, almost hidden behind the towering wedding cake, which had just been brought on to be cut, pulled him to her, and kissed him. Carl, looking very clean and spruce in his new suit, and snowy collar and polished shoes, shook hands with him. Elise embraced him, regardless of her silk dress, and her flowers and her veil; Hyacinth, looking abnormally solemn and important—the exuberant nature lover and enemy of civilization had miraculously vanished to give place to one of the most civilized and sedate of young men—Hyacinth shook his hand, and said something very incoherent and flowery about the pleasure and honor of meeting his distinguished cousin, and about their being in some sense, kindred spirits.

And then Paul, understanding nothing whatever, not at all sure that he was not dreaming, but feeling as happy as he was puzzled, took his place beside his uncle, to drink the health of the bride, and long life to the name of Winkler. It was nice to be there, to see all the familiar faces, to hear the familiar voices—above all it was good to have his part in this celebration of family happiness, to feel that these were his kin folk whose joys and sorrows must affect his life just as his affected theirs. But why was it that the glances that he met shone with pride? What had he done? Why were they not ashamed of him as he stood there, tattered and muddy—the very picture of the aimless, shiftless wanderer that his father had been before him? He blushed for himself, feeling vaguely that he ought not to be there, after all, that he should have resisted Jane and Mr. Lambert and gone his way. He looked around the familiar room,—above the chimneyplace hung the old, clumsily executed portrait of Great-grandfather Johann, in his snuff-colored Sunday suit—a severely pleasant-looking old man, with a constant expression of honesty and self-respect—who now seemed to gaze down placidly and commendingly upon the united gathering of his descendants. He had worked for them, had old Johann Winkler; it was his industry, his self-respect, his respect for the opinions of his fellow-citizens that had laid the foundations of their comfort and prosperity and their good standing in the community; from him had come the simple principles upon which they lived and worked together. And Paul felt, as he looked up into the painted blue eyes that old Johann would have dealt harshly with those who disregarded family responsibilities, or brought any shadow of public censure upon the name. And there, under those keen little blue eyes, he stood, ragged and disreputable-looking, and the keen little blue eyes seemed to ask him, “What does this mean, sir?” Yet, Uncle Peter had bidden him to the feast, and was even now filling the glass in front of him.

And then the toasts were drunk, and the glasses clinked, and the wedding cake was cut. And after that, Elise went up to her room to change her dress, for the sleigh was at the door, and it was high time that the bride and bridegroom should be on their way. Of peculiar interest, the fact should be chronicled that when the ascending bride tossed her bouquet over the bannisters into the midst of her maids, Dolly and Amelia, and Lily, and Annie Lee, it was Amelia who caught the nosegay!

And at last, the sleigh with its jingling bells had driven swiftly away over the snowy road. The last handful of rice had been flung; the last guest had gone, and Aunt Gertrude stood laughing and weeping over the flight of the first of her little flock—though indeed Elise and her Hyacinth were going no farther than Salisbury, and would be back in two days!

Paul and Jane stood side by side on the rice-strewn steps looking up the moonlit street.

“Mr. Daniels is building a porch on his house, isn’t he?” remarked Paul, quickly detecting the little alterations that had occurred on that familiar street since his going.

“Come in, children,” said Aunt Gertrude, “come in, my dears, and let me count you all to make sure that no more than one has run away from me!”

And when they had all gathered around her in the old dining room in the midst of the gay disorder of the wedding-feast, she made a pretense of counting them, laughing and crying at the same time.

“Here is my Jane and my Carl, and my two sleepy twinnies! That’s four—and here’s my missing fifth!” And she gave Paul an extra kiss.

Paul looked around him. Then turning to his uncle he said;

“Uncle Peter, you’ve been very kind to me. I had no intention to come in here to-night—I only stopped to look in at you all—and I’m afraid I wasn’t anything to be proud of at Elise’s wedding—”

“Come, my boy, no more of that!” said Mr. Lambert briskly; then he came closer to Paul, and laying his hand on his shoulder looked keenly into the lean, and somewhat haggard face.

“You’ve not found life easy since you went away?” he asked kindly.

“Not too easy, sir—and not so bad either,” returned Paul, sturdily. “I’ve been out of luck a bit lately, but I’m on my way now to Riverbury. There’s a man there that has good, honest work for me. With a little time, sir, I hope—”

“Why should you be on your way to Riverbury for work when there’s work enough in this town, and a comfortable home for you?”

Paul looked uncertainly from face to face, and then at his uncle again.

“It’s here that your people have lived these many years,” went on Mr. Lambert. “It’s here that those who are proud of you live now,—”

“Proud of me?” repeated Paul; then he hung his head as he said in a low voice, “It is not long since that you showed me you had good reason to be ashamed of me, sir. I was only hoping that in a little I might do—I might be of some account, sir—as he would expect,” and he jerked his head as he spoke toward the picture of old Johann.

“My boy, I do not say but that I may have judged you over-harshly for what to other men might seem a light enough indiscretion. I thought you—a scatter-brained lad that thought too little of things that old men know to be worth valuing. I had but little sympathy with your notions, and was angered that you should prattle of pictures and what-not when—ah, well, let all that be forgotten.”

“But Daddy!” cried Jane suddenly, “Paul doesn’t know!”

“Doesn’t know what?”

“Let me tell him! Let me tell him! It’s your picture, Paul—”

“What picture?” asked Paul, with a puzzled frown, looking down at her eager little face.

“It won, Paul! Don’t you understand—it won! And we’re all so proud of you—and it was in the papers—only we didn’t know where you were, and—”

“What are you talking about, Janey?” demanded Paul, cutting short this rush of breathless words. “My picture won? What picture? Won what?”

“The other one—the one that wasn’t burnt—oh, don’t anybody interrupt me! I want to tell him every bit. And they said that ‘in spite of many something-or-other faults it showed’—I’ve forgotten what—they said it was awfully, awfully good—oh, I don’t know where to begin!”

“Begin at the beginning, darling. No one will interrupt your story,” said Aunt Gertrude, drawing Jane to her. “And Paul’s not going to run away.”

So Janey took a deep breath and commenced afresh; while Paul listened, first growing pale, and then blushing a deep red. He felt the glow rushing all over him, and when she had finished, he could not say a word. They were all looking at him with eyes full of that warm pride that only a family can feel, and it seemed to him that his triumph had brought more happiness to them even than to himself. He could not think of anything to say to them all, and presently he got up, and walked over to the window, where he stood looking out into the cold little garden. But what he saw was only the reflection of the group around the fire—that very group which he had so often pictured to himself with such homesick longing during his months of exile. He thought of his lonely father, and his aimless wanderings, and then he knew that he was glad to have come home again. The world could teach him no more than he could learn by working and growing and thinking among his own people, and the world could not give him any praise half so sweet, or half so inspiring as their simple pride.

Suddenly he felt a warm little hand slip into his. It was Janey.

She looked up at him timidly—his serious profile seemed quite stern to her.

“Paul, what are you thinking about now?” she asked plaintively.

Then he laughed, and looked more like his old self.

“I was thinking that I shall not go away—if Uncle Peter means that I needn’t. And I was thinking how unpleasant things might be if you, ma’am, attended strictly to your own affairs!”

“And I,” said Mr. Lambert, “am thinking that it is time we all went to bed. Gertrude, my dear, I hope that Anna will be able to get everything into order to-morrow. I shall want my desk to be in place especially. And—er—Breakfast at seven, as usual.”

And now the doors and windows were locked, and the lights were put out, and the household was silent and slumbering. But the pale reflection of the moonlit snow glimmered through the window upon the scene of the late revelry, and a red glow still shone among the ashes of the fire, throwing a faint red light through the shadows that deepened over the painted face of Great-grandfather Johann. And a well-contented expression that plump, ruddy old face wore—a comfortable, benevolent patriarchal look, as if that excellent old lover of law and order were saying, “And now I think everything is quite as it should be!”

THE END

We will update this book if we find any errors.

This book can be found under: /ebooks/35593

Please read this before you distribute or use this work.

You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.