The Marrying Off Of Dolly

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 1, 5 January 1907, Page 29

The Marrying Off Of Dolly

By

M. H. VORSE

IWIL.L, if you please, begin my story at the point where it begins—as the French say—“ to march,” or. rather, at the moment just before it, when mv dear Edith A an Buskirk and I sat in silenee, Edith frowning a little and sighing a little as she tried to spear a fallen leaf of my Virginia creeper with her eharining beruffled parasol, which at a distance so fantastically resembled some huge exotie flower. Beside her slept the sleep of innocence. Gum-drops. He is a new- acquisition.. and is a prize-taking bulldog, brindled. bow-legged. undershot —a fearsome monster. This moment, when apparently the eaptsring of that leaf was the most important thing on earth, was, although I then didn't know it, the ealm before the storm. The leaf, once capthred, she spoke and. though I didn’t realise it, either, with her speaking the storm that was to whirl me along with it in sneh a remarkable way. broke. What she said was this: I haven t the slightest patience with American mothers! ” " No! ” I inquired, politelv. “No,- she asserted, defiantly. “ They act like hens—precisely like hens: fiiss over their babies, and eluek and cackle, and as soon as their children grow up they take not the slightest interest in their affairs ” ” Oh, come! ~ I protested. " Aren t vou exaggerating a bit ? ” “No, Im not,” she maintained. "When did you ever see a mother arrange a suitable marriage for her daughter? It’s revolting to me, positively revolting, the way mothers let their daughters marry anybody or nobody. or net marry at alb—revolting!” ■\\ hat.' I inquired, ’‘would you have them do—arrange their daughters’ marriages?” ’Arrange their daughters’ marriage, of course,” she snapped. “The way the mothers of every other nation on the face of tlse earth do.” “Oho!” thought I. ‘That’s what comes of living so long away from home”—for Edith had lived abroad the last five years. But I said in a light facetious tone: ”My dear Edith, do you realize that you are proposing to interfere with the liberty of the individual, that you are a—ailing the principles of our great nation ” Liberty of the fiddlestick.” was the convincing argument that Edith Van Bu-kirk put forth. ”1 suppose,” J answered, with a note of tine sarcasm, "that you are preparing t<> arrange for Dolly’s marriage’:” Tjn preparing to do exactly that.” replied Edith: “and 1 wanted to tell you 1 intended to do it. And that I’m going to do it as far as you're concerned openly and aboveboard; not the war the few women who have common sense enough to do it act —a- if it were something to be ashamed of. I’m not ashamed. I feel it’s my duty. I’m thankful I’m not a shiftless, sliillvsha Hying thing!” There, there. I soothingly put in; “noixslv’- blaming yon.” Edith laughed, but seriousness lay under her laugh. "Don’t you think I’m right?” she persisted. * ”1 can tell you letter when I -ee how >t “Omes out.” I answered eautiouslv. I think it’s a pretty large o'rj7iv’" W yOU S "’ ng to make h ' r "ft will require fact,” mv friend ad And the thought of how much tact it W"*»M need kept us silent a moment, bwn* way, when Edith tells her tioub-

les to me. I fee! as I used to when she brought me her broken toys to mend. I’ll swear she did it only week before last. It's always hard to believe that's she grown up —so grown up that her daughter is already old enough to be married. But when I tell you that I might have been Edith's father but for the fact that Edith’s mother married some one else, ami that 1 have arrived at that time of life when the forties seem to me the heyday of youth, you will better understand how things are lietween us: and the idea of a married Dorothy, and Edith a grandmother. perhaps. took my breath away. While I was adjusting myself to this preposterous thought. Edith prepared to deal me another blow. "It's perfectly hateful.'’ she said, "being poor. I will not lie a poor relation: nor shall Dorothy!*’ "You certainly shall I thought wise to answer her. "Well, that's what she'll be if she doesn't marry within live years, and marry some one with—with a decent competency.’’ Edith brought it out quite naked, and handed it to me for inspection. "What do you mean?" I asked quite sharply, for. since her husband's death, live years before. Edith had always lived ;ts al! of us live—comfortably and without apparent thought of money. Edith crossed her little feet and leaned over toward me. "I mean that I've invested in Dolly herself.” she said complacently. "I've turned her out a perfectly’ lovely child among all those golfing, slangy girls; and you don't imagine I've done it without trouble—or money?” " You don't mean.” I almost sh« u*ed, “you've been living on your capital?’’ Edith smiled at me tolerantly. “ I just naturally have." she admitted. “What else could 1 live ont” That’s what she asked me—what else could she live on? Here Gum-drops. overcome, apparently, even as I. omitted a low, rumbling growl. ” Did I step on hi* tail, pc < r darling? “ said Edith. " Poor 1 didn't mean to. He will not have his tail trifled with. No." she rv-umed. " I simply couldn't bring up Dolly to a refrain of * We can't afford thi-. we can’t afford that.' And keeping up my connections here, and going back and forth across the water while she was in the convent —ai>l she can have anything in the world she want-. ami entertain, ami dre<s. for five year* more, and then " T gathered from Edith's gesture that "then" meant the poorhouse. "So you can quite -ee." she concluded, calmly. " how important it is that Dolly should marry properly. ’’ At this 1 lost my temper—it wasn't the first time, either, that Edith had made me lose my temper —ami I gave her a proper lecture aliout economy, common sen-e. and the absurd financial ideas of women. She listened, while a little ghost of a dimple winked impudently at me. " Why didn't you come to me? ” I ended by bellowing at her. She came then and kisacd me. There are two mean advantages a woman can take of you —one is to kiss you. the other to cry. I calmed down at once. There was nothing else for meter do. •• Does Dolly know ? ” I asked. “Do you think I'm an idlut ?" cried Edith. "Do you think I'm utterly lacking in intelligence?” '• Sometimes.” I an-vwred. And it did me gocsl to say it. “Do you think I'd bring her up as

I have, free from al! worry about money, and then spring it on her that she'd got, poor darling, to consider—well, money when she marries? I've brought her up to be a flower. Now, you can imagine if I'm going to undo my work.” We both were quiet a moment, and I imagine that there came to the minds of both of us the vision of a slender slip of a girl—tender, obedient, sweet, full of the graces that another generation decreed for its daughters, am! which our generation has so disregarded. A perfectly charming child, indeed; a child who walked straight as a dart, and whose lovable manners put to slut me the dashing tomboys of Iter generation. Of course she would "take*’ by her difference from the others, and I wondered what ambitious match Edith had Iteen revolving in her shrewd, far-see-ing mind. "What ate your plans?*’ I asked Edith sternly. « "I've got them all airanged.' she asserted. "Naturally. 1 wouldn't have come to you without plans." She spoke as though she would have said: ‘’Naturally. 1 wouldn’t come to you without clothes.*’ "I've my man. even, picked oiit.” 1 gave Edith what 1 intend- J to bo an awful look. "Don't look so frightened." she begged. ‘’l’m not looking f«»r a had. rich old man for a husband for Dolly: and as for titles, when we were abroad ” H»*r gesture <-onveved clorpiently how many titles had been piled at Dolly's feet. “I'm not mer-■-enary. dear l ucle <ier»ff.“ Edith assured me. "\\ ho in all the world would >ou prefer to have D«d)y marry? N«»w, think!” ‘’You don't me-an *’ I cried. "I do mean." <Le said. ’ Whom else could I mean?" “They have barely met «iine D«d!v grew up." "All the bett-i." *aid Edith "But they don’t love each « ih« r.” I objected. "They will." -he a*«ert«*d. “Why do you think <<«?*’ "I’ll make 'em." >hv -hut In r mouth firmly. "How?” 1 doubted. "Oh. isn't this loveh : i-n t it a- it -hould l»e?* cried Edith. “Here w«. two. the natural guardian- of our children, di-eussing tlwir marriage and making all the nee ssary arrangements. I feel like a real mother.” I was quite carried away my-clf. I glowed with enthusiasm. The idea of my h"ir and nephew married to my all but grandchild would I»p al! I could wish, tieoffrey is the finest fellow 1 know, and if he were my own —still "He's a good bit older than Dolly.” I remindetl her. "i’ll have a hom-e party for them at “Propinquity i- a gnat factor.’’ I conceded. It wa- a *«plendid match, desirable from every point of view. Its only fault was that it was too good to b ••I’ve been warning her against him for -*»inc time Edith w.nt on serenely. “Warning her?” I said. "What about, for Heaven’s sake?” ((h’offTvy. you know, is one of the *teadie-i of young men now living.) ”1 wanted.” said Edith proudly, “to her interest and pique h«»r curiosity.” And the surprising woman laid before m«- all tho plan- «.f her little eam]>aign; how they were Io In* thrown together here, and kept apart tfieiv; how

Dolly s m-um* «>f i-oma»»•>'. au«l h »• youth, and her de ire to pic a—e—“Nhe — l»eeii brought up. thank Heaven! to feed tbal the chief end of woman is to please,” said Edith. By the time she got thiougl: I fcit that there was no more chance fatj Dolly to escape fieoffrey than the littlo sacrificial lamb aln ady b fore t .;e altar and the priest\ knife. Even how 1 eoukf l»e of u-e in inflm-m ing Ch-offrcy was put before me. But lw-fc»re I could protect that I. at bast, was no Maeehia v<*Hi. my other nephew, Dickx Wren. app<-an*d* on t’tc piazza. "Why rickv!” cried Edith. “1 th night vou were at work in t ie city. I -aid as sevmcly as ! could. "I was/ he replied sham h— ly. -f was. hut I g»«t broke. Supportin’ «»ue--elf'- awfully expen-ne." By which you may -ce that Dicky is not the exemplary imhiHlual that G*of"It mast have Icccn pikin’ dull for \«>u here all alone with old Geoff.’’ he remark«*d to Edith. Now. 1 have always taken -ham • ’O myself tnat I get m<*re diversion from the <<»mpan\ of Dicky than nf (h-offn-y: and I was ah to rebuke Dicky in a Imh-ohi-ing manner when Edith had the but -4»n< • and l»ad taste ?«» giggle “I m having a hwu-e party next week. < onte t.v.-r ami mak«- h« ga» D;»kv.“ -h> -aid. I hat night, a- fby met at dinner, <»eoffrey gr»*et««l Di< ky with commendable vordialitv Diekx hadn’t l.e< n ]o-ing time. ’ Say. ’ h» bgan. with t «ac • la-n-nM elegance of diction which -o «*i-i !nguish»*s the youth of tie pt. seal moment, vou -4-cn Dolly Van Buskirk? That girls a wiincT’ Kippin ! And I camo near a- aiiythmg you «-v« i -aw io getting engaged b f<»i« I p.oim fic.-wn’ But Dolly i«»r me • x • i v t jmc.’ ’’ "Her mother •-’■rtandy ba- brought Iht up <’.arming’yGr<»ffr« x agr rd. in that -np«-ri« r to»a- xvhiei n’xx.ix- -i-ivs t<» unchain Dick' s iiiipmlenev. But at tlint moment a I<»ihl chufT" re-onm!«d cuibide. What ’- thaf. " ask «l < h otFrcy, -liarply. "That? Why i -at’- a m« t*»i <a»." replied Dicky . He had tin :»h *q ««m identify ing* a la), hild. I didn’t -upposo it w;i- ;< -..i io.ing schoon« ).’’ -ai i < \ dtyl\ ’What's it d<»ing <»ut these. I mc-.ui "It*- probably t»«jnc looking for me.” -aid Dicky. "Faithful !• a-t. that rar! Dex o*. inn to m«* - toin ’iiii ! H ’ll wait for hour- !<•, ir:« o»t1-idr a ’pun my word. Eat- out <»l my hand- ’■‘ < hul up.*’ tieofFtc-y briefly < oir.manded. “You know well enough what I want to know. \\ hen 1 saw you li.-ir. I thought you’d iu-t Iwcu playing on-* of your jokes on -‘Hi cbody 1 didn't t link xoii’d have t .1 neixe to turn up at I ne’e Geoff-* “ "Well. I ha<l and Dickx -inilej a benefice nt -mile at his i-ousin. "Ha- Dicky Lem buying a mot* i <ar?” I a-kt»c|. with “ome unea-im--•It's wor«c than that " <•.«’«! Di- ky, with a grin. Then it was that •ieufficy 10-t his t«*mpc r. "It*» dbgtt-1 ing’ ’* L« c ried II \ nil want to 'he mi as-. x« i» m.ght at Icawt be an .is« r. -u« i a wa; Hint veil’d not make u- the 1aHg1...-g -1 o. •. o’ i'r whole connnun i ty.” "If g-a - a•*.. i.. 1. hi. , my light under a Lu-. . t. o .i.. d Ink; with deferential Luo.o.ly

“Wliat’B this all about?” (I may have been a .shade testy myself.) •'lt'S that Dicky thought it fitting - to engage himself as the GritliUTs chauffeur?? Geoffrey brought it out with the air'-of one who regretfully delivers the blow which will bring his relative’s old gray hairs to the dust. The minute I had said it I was sorry I replied in a reliever! tone: “Oh, is tbit all?" 1 may even have smiled. I hope not. however. But. "All!" echoed Geoffrey. “All!” lie washed his hands of us both, that was certain. "You can't feaze Uncle Geoff." crowed Dick. •'He’s game!" “How did.it happen?” natural curiosity led me to ask. ”1 lost my job." Dicky explained, with all simplicity. ‘ So I got another. You didn't think I was going to come howling ‘Yea!!* every time I lest a job. did you?" •'He lost his job through some of bis sickening funny business," said the disgusted Geoffrey. "I like this job better, anyway —good pay. exercise, short hours, walk with the Lord, and eat w'.t-h the servants." Geoffrey shivered. I may here explain that the Griffiths are two very rich and "exclusive” maiden ladies of very good family. They are pious and humane, and have recently taken to a motor car through extreme regard for their aged horses. “ The old girls don't know who I am. Gee. won't it jolt ’em when they do!" Geoffrey arose from the table. Disgust oozed from him. The way he said: ' If you'll excuse me. I'm going to call on the Yan Buskirks," subtly conveyed reproach to me for. taking so light-niindedly the family disgrace. t" Break it gently to Mrs. Van Buskirk.” Dicky called after his outraged cousin. »But Geoffrey had vanished with a snort. From all I could judge at my end of the line. the .little drama of Dolly's l>etrothal and marriage seemed disposed to march as Edith had planned. And the more I thought of it the less l liked it. All that there was of independence in me revolted. Let the girls, thought I. choose their own husbands, .even if they don't choose good ones. Or let the mothers confer with their‘daughters. If I'rn going to marr.y to please my‘mother, I want to know it. I want to walk with eyes open. I don’t want to be managed'iftto any marriage, however suitable, and I imagined Dolly felt as I did. I got quite morbid over it. Every time 1 saw' Dolly I wanted to warn her: “ Bun. my dear, run for your life. They're trying to marry you off'. They're making you think you want to. But it’s not you at all. it's themselves you're pleasing. Don’t dost. Don't let them move you like a pawn in a chess game.” 1 found myself watching Geoffrey with a critical eye. Would he. I wondered, make such a good husband, after all? Wasn’t twelve years too great a distance between them? And it was in this dissatisfied frame of mind that I waited upon Edith one day when her house party was in full swing. "How is your plan prospering?" was what I wanted to know. " He's immensely taken with her." Edith confided. “He'll sit with me an hour at a time talking about her." "And Dolly?” i “ Oh. Dolly’ll be easy enough to manage! I told you before. I'm counting on the fact that a girl almost always falls in love, or thinks she does, with the first man who makes love to her," said Edith lightly. '.•You're very sure of yourself." I suggested. "I'm very sure of Geoffrey." she corrected. -It seems to me a little like kidnaping." I went on. "He'll make an exi-ellenl husband." • He's cut out for it.” 1 agreed. "He'd make any woman an excellent husband." -What more do you want, then?" she demanded. ."A little more romance, a trifle more glamour." I was foolish enough to say. "Yes. and get her heart broken in the 8, ramble." "There are more ways than one of breaking a heart," 1 reminded Edith. ‘•He may never even tom-li it.” r . •• I want Dolly to have a happy life,'’ <¥ied her mother. ."By all nieanf." I said. "But. come, would you care to have any man. evjgti Geoffrey, foisted off on you as a husband?” My shot told. "She's not got to marry him if she don't want to," she onad, dusking.

“I’m not- forcing her- into it. but I believe in girls getting married early “And often?" I asked politely. But r now Edith turned on me. v-'T believe you don’t think Dolly's good enough for your precious Geoffrey!” she cried, and I was about to answer with some temper, for the more 1 thought of it the less I liked Edith’s acting the role of the hand of fate, and Geoffrey certainly seemed ready to play the part she had designed for him in the little drama; but my attention was taken up by Dolly, who approached accompanies! by Dicky. r They were talking, it seemed to me, earnestly. There was about them the atmosphere of those who understand one another perfectly and who are perfectly happy in each other's company. And I had a moment of unreasoning pity. They both looked so fresh, so young. Youth and Spring they seemed to me—Dicky and Dolly—Dolly and Dicky. I’d never thought of the two' together la-fore. I shot a glance at. Edith which she was quick to interpret. At sight of our young people, her irritation had vanished, too. "Oh. I’ve thought of it, naturally, since I've seen them together. But. dear friend, it’s husbands we’re talking about, and what- kind of a husband would Dicky make?” "An absurd one, no doubt." I replied. “But still ” "Dear Uncle Geoff, you’re a sweet, sentimental old thing, and I dare say I seem caleubitim? and horrid.” When Edith takes me that way it’s all up with me. "Besides," she went on gaily. “I’ve warned Dicky. He knows how I’m fixed." "He. knows?" I echoed. “I thought it was fairer to tell him.” Edith had a virtuous air. “Dolly's so attractive, and young men are so impulsive. And since he’s sueh a hero and alt ” “A hero!” t wondered. “About the automobile, you know. All the girls are wild about him. It's so fine and independent of him." I burnt out laughing. Did you ever hear of anything like that? I longed to get at Geoffrey with this story, just for the sake of seeing his ehops fall. • Instead of making a .fool of himself, here was our Dicky ..something of . a hero. -v. "He's made the whole town roar." Edith went on. “Ami every one’s conspiring to ke.’p it from the Griffiths—• who he is. you know. And so I thought it might work on Dolly’s imagination—• he's sueh a way with him—so I just had a little talk with him." "Do you think it was wise.” 1 asked Edith, “to give Dieky a dare —to set him on, so to speak?" "Oh, he didn’t take it that way at all! He took it beautifully,” Edith hastened to assure me. •‘Oh! he took it beautifully did he?” I mused. "Well, let me urge you to bring Geoffrey to the scratch as soon as you can.” She pouted at trits. "You put it so hatefully,” she protested. "No need of living a brute because I’m doing my duty. And we had such a lovely time the other day, when we just- talked it up." But 1 was asking myself if. after all, Dicky would take a dare. The next two weeks brought me no answer, except that which I could gather from Geoffrey, who, ever since the house party, seemed distrait and dreamy. He made flimsy excuses about errands in the village when he transparently was on his way to the Yan Buskirks’. So I inferred that he at least was marching in the way Edith had marked out for him. One afternoon I called at Edith s and found her radiant. " Has he?" I naturally asked her. “ No. not. yet,” she answered; “ but lie's here now. He asked last night in the most pointed way to see Dolly." “Oho!" thought I. “I'm in at the death, it seems." - I’ve lieen expecting it.” Edith went on. “ He's spent more and more time at the house, and has tried in every way to propritiate me. There’ve been times when I've wanted to say: ‘Goose, you don't need to spend so much time on me. I'm on your side, anyway.’” I looked out of the window. Geoffrey and Dolly were walking across the lawn; at their heels was Guni-dropa. lately returned from winning ribbons at some polite dog show. ” Com.-.’’ Edith suggested, “ let us play chess on the little piazza.” Chess is my weakness, so I readily consented. though 1 well knew that Edith wanted to gel both of us out of the way.

Now. see wliat happened. Listen to the guile of innocence. We were no sooner at play-tbaai 1 heard Dolly’s voice at tin- otlfier side- of t he-piazza. Edith looked at me sharply. I raised my eyebrows. For Dolly bad seen us as we made our way to the secluded little piazza, and she had led Geoffrey to a spot where every word they said would be distinctly audible to ns. "What does it mean*” Edith telegraphed me. “I can't imagine.” I telegraphed back. Meantime; before any retreat was possible, I heard Geoffrey's voice: "I’ve come to speak 'to you about something very important —" and then came: “Gr-r-r-r-r" —the long-drawn-out growl of a bulldog who has been irritated to the last point of endurance. "Be quiet. Gums." said Dolly's sweet, innocent little voice. "Is he ill-tempered’?" asked Geoffrey. “Look at him.” said. Dolly. “Gr-r-r-r-r.” Gums resumed, the warning emphasised. I looked at Edith; she was winding her little handkerchief into bits and frowning. “Dogs generally like me.” Geoffrey went on. “I must make friends with the famous Gum-drops. Here, Gums, old man!” “Gr-r-r-r-r.” Gums replied, and his growl was like the rumbling of distant thunder. “Oh! don't touch him.” came Dolly’s voice, in real alarm. “I wouldn't have him bite you for the world.” “Would he really bite?” asked Geoffrey. and there was a wee bit of nervousness in his Voice. “Bulklogs never let go,” answered Dolly. Then Geoffrey made another- desperate try for the goal. “What I wanted to say was-—’’ But “Gr-r-r-r!” rumbled Gum-drops. “Come here, Gummy! I'll hold htfir by the collar.” cried Dolly, and again came the low. fearsome growl of Gummy. “I'll stand no more of this.” Edith whispered to me. and, sailing forward, she broke into the uncomfortable tete-a-tete. Other callers arrived, but yet' I stayed to learn the answer to it all. When they had gone. Geoffrey with the rest, and Dolly, in the sweetest ' and most affectionate way. had asked our permission to go to the garden. “Well?” 1 asked. "Well!” returned Edith. “Did you ever see anything like it? Brought up as she’s been, too!” "Like a flower.” I agreed. “I thought you said Gum drops was a dog of an engaging temper." “He’s a spring lamb!" cried Edith. “He never growls except some one steps on his tail." ‘‘And Dolly, then——" "Did it on purpose, the bad little thing. Stepped on the poor angel’s tail, simply to head off Geoffrey. Did it where she knew we’d both hear it. Put her defiance of my wishes plainly before me. and in a way that 1 can’t take any notice of without showing too plainly where I stand." And then I ran the risk of forfeiting Edith's favour forever, for I burst out into uncontrollable laughter. But can't you imagine it? Can’t yon see Geoffrev l dressed in his proposal dress, full as he would be of the loftiest sentiments suitable to the occasion, sitting opposite that grinning bulldog? Can't you see him nerved up to the point, only to be greeted by Gum-drops’ rumbling thunder? Can’t you hear Dolly—“l’d hate to have him set his teeth in you?" Fancy having teeth set in you while you were asking the girl of your choice to marry you. Humour is a brutal thing, so I laugh ed at the tragic aspect of Geoffrey. “She'll have to meet him at the dance to-night. She's afraid of him—of what she’ll answer if he asks her. He can be persuasive, you know." Edith ignored my untimely mirth. But I didn't answer, for I was occupied with the thought of how Dieky would have muzzled Gum-drops had lie been in Geoffrey’s place. f spent the evening in my library, re volving the afternoon's Beene in my mind. It grew late. I was thinking of lx-d, when the chuff-diniff-(.-buff of % motor-car greeted niy ears, and Dicky in evening dress appeared before me. His face was strained and white. “You've got to come with me, Uncle Geoff,” said he. “Is there something wrong?" I asked apprehensively.

“The worst ever,” he replied sue einctly. “What!" lie cut me short. - “Come, get in,” ho urged. “I’ll tell you as we go' along. Here’s your hat. Hold onto it." With small ceremony he hustled me ’into the tonneau Irefore 1 knew where I was. There- Muffled in a shawl, Was Dolly. She/also was in evening clothes; and 1 remembered the ball that Edith had spoken about. “Is your mother ” I asked. The automobile was already under way. “Airs. Van. Buskirk is about to .have an awful lit,” remarked Dicky, and at that moment the machine seemed to leap from under us like a living thing, and I could barely hear. Dolly’s protesting, shocked “Oh, Dicky!” .. .Again the ear leaped, and the wind hit me in the face like something solid, .and we plunged into the velvet darkness of the night, shoving before us the insolent, blinding light of our lanterns. Going at high speed, we ran into swarms of night-flying insects, which pelted us like gravel. But at that moment 1 was occupied solely with the object of this wild flight into the night. Tire wind blew the words from my Drouth as 1 cried’ in Dolly's ear: . .. “What’s the matter?” But she ducked her head on my arm. I felt that in another minute there would be tears. ' - “Tell .met” I shouted, as tender as a calliope may be. She raised her little, tlowerlike face, and gave me her preposterous answer to the riddle: “We’re going to be married, Dicky and 1.” - - Then, she ducked her head on my arm again. ... - - ■■" We struck some unevenness in the road, and the heavy car bounded bodily in the air, like some ponderous, frightened beast. We shook around ill the tonneau like peas in a pod." The. shock of it seemed like the judgment of God following on the girl’s Words. ■■ ■' Again came Dolly's little voice, remote, far-off, as though .one heard it above the storm of the elements. “I couldn’t help it. Uncle Geoffrey. J —l was .afraid. I’ve ahyays done things to please people —I was afraid I’d please mamma —1 know what she wants —I couldn’t—Geoffrey—he was going—to' talk to rile to-night again. Ob; oh, oh!” arid she felt to weeping in my arms, and the ear soothed her grief in the fierce lullaby, of its rocking. Dicky never turned his head, never took his eyes, off the triangle of light ahead of us. And I—you’ve heard me called a sentimeiitsiT bld thing—what could I do but comfort the distressed child in my arms, but shout in her ear that, bless her! she should marry whoever she liked; that 1 would stand by her; that her mother—l went so,far as. to say it —wouldn’t care, and that if she did, I would make it' all’ right, and while I comforted her 1 longed to get my hands on the reprobate Dicky, who had .kidnapped me out of my comfortable house fo go eloping with him and Dolly. Then deep down in me a voice began to speak: "Didn't you want Dolly to choose for herself, and hasn’t she ehdsen in spite of difficulties?” ami riiy first impulse of anger died within me. Then my mind began to work, and the outcome of it was this: "What if Geoffrey is my heirs? Is that any reason why I shouldnH give to some one else what 1 wanted to? After ail,” thought I, “there’s no real reason wny Dicky should remain so impossibly ineligible.” Thus fan my thoughts, disconnected, disjointed, as we leaped through the night.' Ear ahead of ris ‘shone two little wan streaks of light,"-and as the light of our coining ate up the darkness, a buggy developed itself out 61 the shadows. Our horn brayed aggressive warnings, and we Hashed past the vision of a frightened horse. I got to know those two streaks of light—our own lights reflected in the baeks of such vehicles as went- in-our direction—and still the rain of hardshelled insects in dirt - fin es, the visions of horses and carriages, of women agape by the roadside, pliantlUimal dogs barking iii futile rage. and. me, Dicky, tense, alert, speeding thrpyfgh the blackness of the night—Dicky eloping with Dolly. Dicky, who had -kidnapped who was absconding into the night with the Griffiths’ motor- car. And : meantime Dolly dung to me ■as we surged alon», leaving behiydlips a wake of- fear •nd curses, of evil smells. Presently Dolly screamed al mt: •t- t-

“Dicky thought mamma would bear it better if you came along.” “ The lights of a town were U|a»n ■ us. We slowed up as we glided through its almost deserted street, and again Dolly sjaike: i... ■‘We’re going to be back at the dance b« - fore it’s over, and if you’ll tell mother ” . ’ - - ’ We paused before a house; the lights were lit. "A clergyman,” explained Dicky—“a friend of mine.” ’ *Your license?” I questioned. “I got the town clerk out of bed.” “He’s a friend of Dicky’s,” supplemented Dolly. “Won't yon be missed,” I inquired, “at the party ?’■’ . Dicky grinned. “1 fixed Dolly’s card; she’s dancing ” “With friends of. yours I suppose, Soy ? I went on, for I was determined to do the thing handsomely, “will the bride permit herself to be given away by—another friend of yours?” So the story was finished, and Dolly married, married in the good American fashion, to the man she happened Io fall in love with, and who was also the least eligible, the most good-for-nothing, the most lovable lad I know—bless him! Bless ’em both, foolish babies that they are! And if Geoffrey hadn’t more good old-fashioned “spunk” than to let his sweetheart be snatched away from under his eyes, serves him right, sav I. Thus 1 was ruminating when I was aware that Edith Van Buskirk was mounting my piazza steps. She looked very young and very lovely. A look of discontent sat not unbecoiningly on her face; she puckered her smooth forehead. “Thank your kind Heaven,” she said, “that you have no daughters to marry off.” •‘Well, you haven’t, either, this week,” 1 said, “whatever you may have had last. 1 mistrusted your plans weren’t built to succeed in America.” “Oh, you don’t know how badly I failed!” she moaned. “Geoffrey didn't even get a ehaneri to propose, I understand,” 1 grinned. “Oh, that's the worst of it!” cried Edith. “1 should think you’d be glad his feelings were, spared.” .“But they weren't, they weren’t!” cried Edith, and disgust and anger were written large on her face. “He did propose.” "But when? I thought Gummy ” Edith speared a leaf vindictively. “It’s all too disgusting,” she said, “after all I’d done tor him. and at my time of life.” She paused. 1 waited. “It was to me he proposed!” she said at last.