THE MARRIAGE OF KATINKA
“I shall take my white lady’s-cloth gown,” I repeated obstinately.
“You don’t need it no more than what you do two heads, mem,” Nichola maintained.
“But it is the first visit that I’ve made in three years, Nichola,” I argued, “and it is quite the prettiest gown that I’ve had for—”
“Yah!” Nichola denied; “you’ve got four sides of a closet hung full. An’ where you goin’ but down on a farm for three days? Take the kitchen stove if you must, but leave the dress here. You’ll be laughed at for fashionable!”
I wavered, and looked consultingly at Pelleas.
It is one sign of our advancing years, we must believe, that Pelleas and I dislike to be laughed at. Our old servant scolds us all day long and we are philosophical; but if she laughs at either of us Pelleas grieves and I rage. Nichola’s “You’ll be laughed at for fashionable” humbled me.
Pelleas, the morning sun shining on his hair, was picking dead leaves from the begonias in the window and pretended not to hear.
I looked longingly at my white lady’s-cloth gown but Nichola was already folding it away. It had ruffles of lace and a chiffon fichu and was altogether most magnificent. I had had it made for a winter wedding and as it had not been worn since, I was openly anxious to reappear in it. And now on occasion of this visit to Cousin Diantha at Paddington Nichola threatened me with remorse if I so much as took it with me. I would be “laughed at for fashionable!”
However, Pelleas continuing to pick dead leaves in a cowardly fashion, there would have been no help for me had not Nichola at that moment been called from the room by the poultry wagon which drew up at our door like a god from a cloud. Our steamer-trunk, carefully packed, stood open before me with room enough and to spare for my white lady’s-cloth gown.
“Pelleas!” I cried impulsively.
He looked round inquiringly, pretending to have been until that moment vastly absorbed.
“If I put the gown in,” I cried excitedly, “will you strap the trunk before she gets back?”
Pelleas wrinkled his eyes at the corners, and it was the look that means whatever I mean.
In a twinkling the gown was out of its tissues and tumbled in place in a fashion which would have scandalized me if I had been feeling less adventuresome. Pelleas, whose hands could have trembled with no more sympathy if he had been expecting to appear in the gown too, fastened the straps and turned the key and we hurried downstairs. On the landing we met Nichola.
“The trunk is strapped, Nichola,” said I firmly.
“You needn’t to hev done that,” she grunted graciously.
We passed her in guilty silence.
“If only there is actually a chance to wear the gown,” I confided to Pelleas on the train that afternoon, “it will make it all right to have taken it.”
“What a shocking principle, Etarre,” returned Pelleas, quite as if he had not helped.
We were met at the Paddington station by something which Cousin Diantha called “the rig.” It was four-seated and had flying canvas sides which seemed to billow it on its way. From an opening in the canvas Cousin Diantha herself thrust out a red mitten as the bony driver was conducting us across the platform. Our Cousin Diantha Bethune is the mince-pie-and-plum-pudding branch of our family. We can never think of her without recollecting her pantry and her oven. And whereas some women wear always the air of having just dressed several children or written letters or been shopping, Cousin Diantha seems to have been caught red-handed at slicing and kneading and to be away from those processes under protest. She never reads a book without seeming to turn the leaves with a cook knife and I think her gowns must all be made with “apron fronts.”
“Ain’t this old times though?” she cried, opening her arms to me, “ain’t it? Etarre, you set here by me. Pelleas can set front with Hiram there. My!”
“The rig” rocked up the dingy village street with us, its only passengers, buttoned securely within its canvas sails so that I could see Paddington before us like an aureole about the head of Pelleas. But if a grate fire had been a-light in that shabby interior it could have cheered us no more than did Cousin Diantha’s ruddy face and scarlet mittens. She gave us news of the farm that teemed with her offices of spicing and frosting; and by the time we reached her door we were already thinking in terms of viands and ingredients.
“What a nice little, white little room,” said Pelleas for example, immediately we had set our lamp on our bureau. “The ceiling looks like a lemon pie.” Verily are there not kitchen-cupboard houses whose carpets resemble fruit jelly and whose bookcases suggest different kinds of dessert?
Cousin Diantha was bustling down the stairs. She never walked as others do but she seemed to be always hurrying for fear, say, that the toast was burning.
“Baked potatoes!” she called back cheerily. “I put ’em in last thing before I left, an’ Katinka says they’re done. Supper’s ready when you are.”
I was hanging my white lady’s-cloth gown under the cretonne curtain.
“Katinka,” I repeated to Pelleas in a kind of absent-minded pleasure.
“It sounds like throwing down a handful of spoons,” submitted Pelleas, wrinkling the corners of his eyes.
We saw Katinka first when we were all about the table—Cousin Diantha, Miss Waitie who was her spinster sister, Pelleas and I, and Andy, who worked for his board. I shall not soon forget the picture that she made as she passed the corn cakes,—Katinka, little maid-of-all-work, in a patched black frock and a red rubber ring and a red rubber bracelet. Her face was round and polished and rosy with health, and she was always breathless and clothed with a pretty fear that she was doing everything wrong. Moreover, she had her ideas about serving—she afterward told me that she had worked for a week at the minister’s in Paddington where every one at breakfast, she added in an awed voice, “had a finger bowl to themself.” Cousin Diantha, good soul, cared very little how her dainties were served so that the table was kept groaning, and Katinka had therefore undertaken a series of reforms to impress which she moved in a mysterious way. For example, as she handed the corn cakes and just as I raised my hand to take one, steaming, moist, yellow and quite beneath my touch, the plate was suddenly sharply withdrawn, a spirited revolution of Katinka’s hands ensued, and the cakes reappeared upon my other side.
“We got the table set longways o’ the room to-night,” she explained frankly, “and I can’t hardly tell which is left till I look at my ring.”
Conversation with Katinka while she served was, I perceived, a habit of the house; and indeed Katinka’s accounts of kitchen happenings were only second in charm to Katinka’s comments upon the table talk. It was to this informality that I was indebted for chancing on a radiant mystery on that very night of our arrival.
“Mis’ Grocer Helman,” said Cousin Diantha to me at this first supper—every woman in Paddington has her husband’s occupation for a surname—“wants to come to see you about making over her silk. She’s heard you was from the city an’ she says Mis’ Photographer Bronson’s used up the only way she—Mis’ Grocer—knew on a cheap taffeta. Mis’ Grocer Helman won’t copy. She’s got a sinful pride.”
Katinka set down the bread plate.
“I got some loaf sugar sent up from Helman’s to-day,” she contributed, “because I just had to get that new delivery wagon up here to this house somehow. It’d been in front o’ Mis’ Lawyer More’s twict in one forenoon.”
And at this Miss Waitie, who was always a little hoarse and very playful, shook her head at Katinka.
“Now, new delivery wagon nothin’,” she said skeptically; “it’s that curly-headed delivery boy, I’ll be bound.”
So it was in my very first hour in Cousin Diantha’s house that I saw what those two good souls had never suspected. For at Miss Waitie’s words Andy, who worked for his board, suddenly flushed one agonizing red and spilled the preserves on the tablecloth. What more did any sane woman need on which to base the whole pleasant matter? Andy was in love with Katinka.
I sat up very straight and refused the fish balls in my preoccupation. My entire visit to Paddington quickly resolved itself into one momentous inquiry: Was Katinka in love with Andy?
“Is Katinka in love with Andy?” I put it to Pelleas excitedly, when at last we were upstairs.
“Katinka? Andy? Andy? Katinka?” responded Pelleas politely.
“Now, one would think you were never in love yourself,” I chided him, and fell planning what on earth they would live on. Why are so many little people with nothing at all to live on always in love—when every one knows spinster after spinster with an income apiece?
I was not long in doubt about Katinka. The very next morning I came upon her in the hall, her arms filled with kindling for the parlour fire. I followed her. Her dear, bright little face and yellow braids reminded me of the kind of doll that they never make any more.
“Katinka,” said I, lingering shamelessly, “do you put the sticks in across or up and down?”
For it may very well be upon this nice question as well as Angora cats that Pelleas and I will have our final disagreement, which let no one suppose that we will really ever have.
She looked up to answer me. The gingham bib of her apron fell down. And there, pinned to her tight little waist, I beheld—a button-picture of Andy! Never tell me that there does not abide in the air a race of little creatures whose sole duty it is to unveil all such secrets to make glad the gray world. Never tell me that it is such a very gray world either, if you wish my real opinion.
She looked down and espied the exposed mystery. She cast a frightened glance at me and I suppose that she saw me, who am a very foolish old woman, smiling with all my sympathetic might. At all events she gasped and sat down among the kindling, and said:—
“Oh, ma’am, we’re agoin’ to be marrit to-morrow. An’ Mis’ Bethune—I’m so scairt to tell ’er.”
I sat down too and caught my breath. This blessed generation. I had been wondering if these two were in love and on what they could live when at last they should make up their minds and lo, they were to be married to-morrow.
“Why, Katinka!” said I; “where?”
The little maid-of-all-work sobbed in her apron.
“I do’ know, ma’am,” she said. “Andy, he’s boardin’ so, an’ I’m a orphing. I t’ought,” mentioned Katinka, still sobbing, “maybe Mis’ Bethune’d let us stand up by the dinin’-room windy. The hangin’ lamp there looks some like a weddin’ bell, Andy t’ought.”
The hanging lamp had an orange shade and was done in dragons.
“When I see you an’ him las’ night,” Katinka went on, motioning with her stubby thumb toward the absent Pelleas, “I t’ought maybe you’d sign fer seein’ it done. I tol’ Andy so. Mis’ Bethune, I guess she’ll be rarin’. I wanted it to be in the kitchen, but Andy, he’s so proud. His pa was in dry goods,” said Katinka, wiping her eyes at the mere thought.
Here was a most delicious business thrown, as it were, fairly in my arms. I hailed it with delight, and sat holding my elbows and planning with all my might.
“Katinka,” said I portentously, “you leave where you are to be married to me.”
“Oh, ma’am!” said Katinka.
I never had more earnest appreciation.
Cousin Diantha Bethune was heard calling her at that moment, and Katinka went off with the coals quite as if the next day were not to see her a bride, married in the parlour.
For I was determined that the wedding should be in the parlour, and I spent a most feverish day. I made repeated visits to the kitchen and held consultations with the little maid, whose cheeks grew rosy and whose eyes grew bright at the heaven of having some one in the world interested in her.
While she washed the dishes she told me that she and Andy had saved enough to live for three months at Mis’ Slocum’s boarding house. After that the future was a pleasant but indefeasible mystery. While she cleaned the knives I slipped down to find whether Andy had remembered to engage the parson; and he had done so, but at the risk of having the ceremony performed in the scullery as the only available apartment. Andy, it appeared, objected to being married at the parson’s house; and Katinka seemed to think that this also was because his father had been “in dry goods.” At our last conference, during lamp cleaning, I advised Katinka to break the news to Cousin Diantha Bethune immediately after supper when we were still at table. Katinka promised and her mouth quivered at the thought.
“She’ll never hev us in the parlour, not in this world, ma’am,” she said to me hopelessly, “not with that new three-ply ingrain on the floor.”
Meanwhile I had told Pelleas who, though he is sometimes disposed to pretend to scoff at romance which he does not himself discover, was yet adequately sympathetic. At supper we were both absurdly excited, and Pelleas heaped little attentions on Andy who ate nothing and kept brushing imaginary flies from before his face to show how much at ease he was. And after the last plate of hot bread had been brought in I wonder now at my own self-possession; for I knew thereafter that little Katinka, by the crack in the pantry door, was waiting the self-imposed signal of Cousin Diantha’s folded napkin. When this came she popped into the room like a kind of toy and stood directly back of Cousin Diantha’s chair.
“Please, ma’am,” she said, “Andy an’ me’s goin’ to get marrit.”
Andy, one blush, rose and shambled spryly to her side and caught at her hand and stood with glazing eyes.
Cousin Diantha wheeled in her chair and her plate danced on the table. My heart was in my mouth and I confess that I was prepared for a dudgeon such as only mistresses know when maids have the temerity to wish to marry. In that moment I found, to my misery, that I had forgotten every one of my arguments about young love and the way of the world and the durability of three-ply ingrain carpets, and I did nothing but sit trembling and fluttering for all the world as if it were my own wedding at stake. I looked beseechingly at Pelleas, and he nodded and smiled and rubbed his hands under the tablecloth—O, I could not have loved a man who would look either judicious or doubtful as do too many at the very mention of any one’s marriage but their own.
Dimly I saw Cousin Diantha look over her spectacles; I heard her amazed “Bless us, Katinka! What are you talking about?” And I half heard the little maid add “To-morrow” quite without expression as she turned to leave the room, loyally followed by Andy. And then, being an old woman and no longer able to mask my desire to interfere in everything, I was about to have the last word when Cousin Diantha turned to me and spoke:—
“Listen at that!” she cried; “listen at that! To-morrow—an’ not a scrap o’ cake in this house! An’ a real good fruit cake had ought to be three months old at the least. I declare, it don’t seem as if a wedding could be legal on sponge cake!”
I could hardly believe my ears. Not a word against the parlour, no mention of the three-ply ingrain nor any protest at all. Cousin Diantha’s one apprehension was concerning the legality of weddings not solemnized in the presence of a three-months-old fruit cake. The mince-pie-and-plum-pudding branch of our family had risen to the occasion as nobly as if she had been steeped in sentiment.
Upstairs Pelleas and I laughed and well-nigh cried about it.
“And Pelleas,” I told him, “Pelleas, you see it doesn’t matter in the least whether it’s romance or cooking that’s accountable so long as your heart is right.”
So it was settled; and I lay long awake that night and planned which door they should come in and what flowers I could manage and what I could find for a little present. Here at last, I thought triumphantly as I was dropping asleep, was a chance to overcome Nichola by the news that I had actually found another wedding at which to wear my white lady’s-cloth gown.
With that I sat suddenly erect, fairly startled from my sleep.
What was Katinka to wear?
Alas, I have never been so firmly convinced that I am really seventy as when I think how I remembered even the parson and yet could forget Katinka’s wedding gown.
Immediately I roused Pelleas.
“Pelleas!” I cried, “what do you suppose that dear child can be married in?”
Pelleas awoke with a logical mind.
“In the parlour, I thought,” said he.
“But what will she wear, Pelleas?” I inquired feverishly; “what can she wear? I don’t suppose the poor child—”
“I thought she looked very well to-night,” he submitted sleepily; “couldn’t she wear that?” And drifted into dreams.
Wear that! The little tight black frock in which she served. Really, for a man who is adorable, Pelleas at times can seem stupid enough, though he never really is stupid.
I lay for a little while looking out the high window at the Paddington stars which some way seemed unlike town stars. And on a sudden I smiled back at them, and lay smiling at them for a long time. For little Katinka was very nearly my size and I knew what she was to wear at her wedding. My white lady’s-cloth gown.
As soon as her work was done next morning I called her to my room. It was eleven o’clock and she was to be married at twelve.
“Katinka,” said I solemnly, “what are you going to wear, child, to be married in?”
She looked down at the tight little black gown.
“I t’ought o’ that,” said the poor little thing uncertainly, “but I haven’t got nothink nicer than what this is.”
She had thought of that. The tears were in my eyes as I turned to the cretonne curtain and pulled it aside.
“Look, Katinka,” I said; “you are going to wear this.”
There hung the white lady’s-cloth in all its bravery of chiffon and fichu and silver buttons. Katinka looked once at that splendour and smiled patiently, as one who is wonted to everything but surprises.
“La, ma’am,” she humoured me, pretending to appreciate my jest.
When at last she understood, the poor little soul broke down and cried on the foot of the bed. I know of no sadder sight than the tears of one to whom they are the only means of self-expression.
Never did gown fit so beautifully. Never was one of so nearly the proper length. Never was such elegance. When she was quite ready, the red ring and red bracelet having been added at her request, Katinka stood on a chair to have a better view in the little mirror above my washbasin, and she stepped down awe-struck.
“O, ma’am,” she said in a whisper, “I look like I was ready to be laid out.”
Then she went to the poor, tawdry things of her own which she had brought to my room, and selected something. It was a shabby plush book decorated with silk flowers and showing dog-eared gilt leaves.
“I t’ought I’d carry this here,” she said shyly.
I opened the book. And my eye fell on these words written in letters which looked as if they had been dropped on the page from a sieve:—
There may be sugar and there may be spice
But you are the one I shall ever call nice.
It was an autograph album.
“Why, Katinka,” I said, “what for?”
“Well,” she explained, “I know in the fashion pictures brides allus carries books. I ain’t got no other book than what this is. An’ this was mother’s book—it’s all of hers I’ve got—and I t’ought—”
“Carry it, child,” I said, and little Katinka went down the stairs with the album for a prayer-book.
And lo! as the door opened my heart was set beating. For there was music; the reed organ in the parlour was played furiously; and I at once realized that Pelleas was presiding, performing the one tune that he knows: The long-meter doxology.
The parlour blinds were open, the geraniums had been brought up from the cellar to grace the sills, and as crowning symbol of festivity Cousin Diantha had shaken about the room a handkerchief wet with cologne. Miss Waitie had contributed the presence of her best dress. Andy, blushing, waited by the window under the transferred wedding bell of dragons, pretending to talk with the parson and continually brushing imaginary flies from before his face. When he saw Katinka he changed countenance and fairly joined in the amazed “Ah!” of the others. Indeed the parson began the ceremony with Andy’s honest eyes still reverently fixed on Katinka’s gown.
There was but one break in the proceedings. Pelleas, at Cousin Diantha’s urgent request attempting to play softly through the ceremony, reckoned without one of the keys which stuck fast with a long, buzzing sound and could not be released though every one had a hand at it. And finally Katinka herself, who had dusted the keyboard for so long that she understood it, had to come to the rescue while the parson waited for her “I will.”
As for me, by the time that it was all over I was crying softly behind the stove with as much enjoyment as if I had been Katinka’s mother. And not until I bent my head to hide a tear did I perceive that I had not changed my gown that morning. As if because one is seventy that is reason for losing one’s self-respect!
Pelleas put the rest in my head.
“Etarre,” he said, while we were having cherry sauce and seedcakes after the ceremony, “you’ve got your gray gown, haven’t you?”
“Why, yes,” said I, not understanding.
“And you don’t really need that white one....” He hesitated.
I saw what he meant. We looked across at the little bride, speechlessly happy in my old woman’s finery.
“Not a bit,” I said, loving Pelleas for his thought.
We smiled at each other with the tidings of a new secret.
That is why, when we reached home three nights later, we permitted Nichola to unpack our trunk and had no fear. The white lady’s-cloth gown was not there.