Story type: Literature
“If Judith would only get married,” Mrs. Theodora Whitney was wont to sigh dolorously.
Now, there was no valid reason why Judith ought to get married unless she wanted to. But Judith was twenty-seven and Mrs. Theodora thought it was a terrible disgrace to be an old maid.
“There has never been an old maid in our family so far back as we know of,” she lamented. “And to think that there should be one now! It just drags us down to the level of the McGregors. They have always been noted for their old maids.”
Judith took all her aunt’s lamentations good-naturedly. Sometimes she argued the subject placidly.
“Why are you in such a hurry to be rid of me, Aunt Theo? I’m sure we’re very comfortable here together and you know you would miss me terribly if I went away.”
“If you took the right one you wouldn’t go so very far,” said Mrs. Theodora, darkly significant. “And, anyhow, I’d put up with any amount of lonesomeness rather than have an old maid in the family. It’s all very fine now, when you’re still young enough and good looking, with lots of beaus at your beck and call. But that won’t last much longer and if you go on with your dilly-dallying you’ll wake up some fine day to find that your time for choosing has gone by. Your mother used to be dreadful proud of your good looks when you was a baby. I told her she needn’t be. Nine times out of ten a beauty don’t marry as well as an ordinary girl.”
“I’m not much set on marrying at all,” declared Judith sharply. Any reference to the “right one” always disturbed her placidity. The real root of the trouble was that Mrs. Theodora’s “right one” and Judith’s “right one” were two different people.
The Ramble Valley young men were very fond of dancing attendance on Judith, even if she were verging on old maidenhood. Her prettiness was undeniable; the Stewarts came to maturity late and at twenty-seven Judith’s dower of milky-white flesh, dimpled red lips and shining bronze hair was at its fullest splendor. Besides, she was “jolly,” and jollity went a long way in Ramble Valley popularity.
Of all Judith’s admirers Eben King alone found favor in Mrs. Theodora’s eyes. He owned the adjoining farm, was well off and homely–so homely that Judith declared it made her eyes ache to look at him.
Bruce Marshall, Judith’s “right one” was handsome, but Mrs. Theodora looked upon him with sour disapproval. He owned a stony little farm at the remote end of Ramble Valley and was reputed to be fonder of many things than of work. To be sure, Judith had enough capability and energy for two; but Mrs. Theodora detested a lazy man. She ordered Judith not to encourage him and Judith obeyed. Judith generally obeyed her aunt; but, though she renounced Bruce Marshall, she would have nothing to do with Eben King or anybody else and all Mrs. Theodora’s grumblings did not mend matters.
The afternoon that Mrs. Tony Mack came in Mrs. Theodora felt more aggrieved than ever. Ellie McGregor had been married the previous week–Ellie, who was the same age as Judith and not half so good looking. Mrs. Theodora had been nagging Judith ever since.
“But I might as well talk to the trees down there in that hollow,” she complained to Mrs. Tony. “That girl is so set and contrary minded. She doesn’t care a bit for my feelings.”
This was not said behind Judith’s back. The girl herself was standing at the open door, drinking in all the delicate, evasive beauty of the spring afternoon. The Whitney house crested a bare hill that looked down on misty intervals, feathered with young firs that were golden green in the pale sunlight. The fields were bare and smoking, although the lanes and shadowy places were full of moist snow. Judith’s face was aglow with the delight of mere life and she bent out to front the brisk, dancing wind that blew up from the valley, resinous with the odors of firs and damp mosses.
At her aunt’s words the glow went out of her face. She listened with her eyes brooding on the hollow and a glowing flame of temper smouldering in them. Judith’s long patience was giving way. She had been flicked on the raw too often of late. And now her aunt was confiding her grievances to Mrs. Tony Mack–the most notorious gossip in Ramble Valley or out of it!
“I can’t sleep at nights for worrying over what will become of her when I’m gone,” went on Mrs. Theodora dismally. “She’ll just have to live on alone here–a lonesome, withered-up old maid. And her that might have had her pick, Mrs. Tony, though I do say it as shouldn’t. You must feel real thankful to have all your girls married off–especially when none of them was extry good-looking. Some people have all the luck. I’m tired of talking to Judith. Folks’ll be saying soon that nobody ever really wanted her, for all her flirting. But she just won’t marry.”
Judith whirled about on the sun warm door step and came in. Her black eyes were flashing and her round cheeks were crimson.
“Such a temper you never saw!” reported Mrs. Tony afterwards. “Though ’tweren’t to be wondered at. Theodora was most awful aggravating.”
“I will,” repeated Judith stormily. “I’m tired of being nagged day in and day out. I’ll marry–and what is more I’ll marry the very first man that asks me–that I will, if it is old Widower Delane himself! How does that suit you, Aunt Theodora?”
Mrs. Theodora’s mental processes were never slow. She dropped her knitting ball and stooped for it. In that time she had decided what to do. She knew that Judith would stick to her word, Stewart-like, and she must trim her sails to catch this new wind.
“It suits me real well, Judith,” she said calmly, “you can marry the first man that asks you and I’ll say no word to hinder.”
The color went out of Judith’s face, leaving it pale as ashes. Her hasty assertion had no sooner been uttered than it was repented of, but she must stand by it now. She went out of the kitchen without another glance at her aunt or the delighted Mrs. Tony and dashed up the stairs to her own little room which looked out over the whole of Ramble Valley. It was warm with the March sunshine and the leafless boughs of the creeper that covered the end of the house were tapping a gay tattoo on the window panes to the music of the wind.
Judith sat down in her little rocker and dropped her pointed chin in her hands. Far down the valley, over the firs on the McGregor hill and the blue mirror of the Cranston pond, Bruce Marshall’s little gray house peeped out from a semicircle of white-stemmed birches. She had not seen Bruce since before Christmas. He had been angry at her then because she had refused to let him drive her home from prayer meeting. Since then she had heard a rumor that he was going to see Kitty Leigh at the Upper Valley.
Judith looked sombrely down at the Marshall homestead. She had always loved the quaint, picturesque old place, so different from all the commonplace spick and span new houses of the prosperous valley. Judith had never been able to decide whether she really cared very much for Bruce Marshall or not, but she knew that she loved that rambling, cornery house of his, with the gable festooned with the real ivy that Bruce Marshall’s great-grandmother had brought with her from England. Judith thought contrastingly of Eben King’s staring, primrose-colored house in all its bare, intrusive grandeur. She gave a little shrug of distaste.
“I wish Bruce knew of this,” she thought, flushing even in her solitude at the idea. “Although if it is true that he is going to see Kitty Leigh I don’t suppose he’d care. And Aunt Theo will be sure to send word to Eben by hook or crook. Whatever possessed me to say such a mad thing? There goes Mrs. Tony now, all agog to spread such a delectable bit of gossip.”
Mrs. Tony had indeed gone, refusing Mrs. Theodora’s invitation to stay to tea, so eager was she to tell her story. And Mrs. Theodora, at that very minute, was out in her kitchen yard, giving her instructions to Potter Vane, the twelve year old urchin who cut her wood and did sundry other chores for her.
“Potter,” she said, excitedly, “run over to the Kings’ and tell Eben to come over here immediately–no matter what he’s at. Tell him I want to see him about something of the greatest importance.”
Mrs. Theodora thought that this was a master stroke.
“That match is as good as made,” she thought triumphantly as she picked up chips to start the tea fire. “If Judith suspects that Eben is here she is quite likely to stay in her room and refuse to come down. But if she does I’ll march him upstairs to her door and make him ask her through the keyhole. You can’t stump Theodora Whitney.”
Alas! Ten minutes later Potter returned with the unwelcome news that Eben was away from home.
“He went to Wexbridge about half an hour ago, his ma said. She said she’d tell him to come right over as soon as he kem home.”
Mrs. Theodora had to content herself with this, but she felt troubled. She knew Mrs. Tony Mack’s capabilities for spreading news. What if Bruce Marshall should hear it before Eben?
That evening Jacob Plowden’s store at Wexbridge was full of men, sitting about on kegs and counters or huddling around the stove, for the March air had grown sharp as the sun lowered in the creamy sky over the Ramble Valley hills. Eben King had a keg in the corner. He was in no hurry to go home for he loved gossip dearly and the Wexbridge stores abounded with it. He had exhausted the news of Peter Stanley’s store across the bridge and now he meant to hear what was saying at Plowden’s. Bruce Marshall was there, too, buying groceries and being waited on by Nora Plowden, who was by no means averse to the service, although as a rule her father’s customers received scanty tolerance at her hands.
“What are the Valley roads like, Marshall?” asked a Wexbridge man, between two squirts of tobacco juice.
“Bad,” said Bruce briefly. “Another warm day will finish the sleighing.”
“Are they crossing at Malley’s Creek yet?” asked Plowden.
“No, Jack Carr got in there day before yesterday. Nearly lost his mare. I came round by the main road,” responded Bruce.
The door opened at this point and Tony Mack came in. As soon as he closed the door he doubled up in a fit of chuckles, which lasted until he was purple in the face.
“Is the man crazy?” demanded Plowden, who had never seen lean little Tony visited like this before.
“Crazy nothin’,” retorted Tony. “You’ll laugh too, when you hear it. Such a joke! Hee-tee-tee-hee-e. Theodora Whitney has been badgering Judith Stewart so much about bein’ an old maid that Judith’s got mad and vowed she’ll marry the first man that asks her. Hee-tee-tee-hee-e-e-e! My old woman was there and heard her. She’ll keep her word, too. She ain’t old Joshua Stewart’s daughter for nothin’. If he said he’d do a thing he did it if it tuck the hair off. If I was a young feller now! Hee-tee-tee-hee-e-e-e!”
Bruce Marshall swung round on one foot. His face was crimson and if looks could kill, Tony Mack would have fallen dead in the middle of his sniggers.
“You needn’t mind doing up that parcel for me,” he said to Nora. “I’ll not wait for it.”
On his way to the door Eben King brushed past him. A shout of laughter from the assembled men followed them. The others streamed out in their wake, realizing that a race was afoot. Tony alone remained inside, helpless with chuckling.
Eben King’s horse was tied at the door. He had nothing to do but step in and drive off. Bruce had put his mare in at Billy Bender’s across the bridge, intending to spend the evening there. He knew that this would handicap him seriously, but he strode down the road with a determined expression on his handsome face. Fifteen minutes later he drove past the store, his gray mare going at a sharp gait. The crowd in front of Plowden’s cheered him, their sympathies were with him for King was not popular. Tony had come out and shouted, “Here’s luck to you, brother,” after which he doubled up with renewed laughter. Such a lark! And he, Tony, had set it afoot! It would be a story to tell for years.
Marshall, with his lips set and his dreamy gray eyes for once glittering with a steely light, urged Lady Jane up the Wexbridge hill. From its top it was five miles to Ramble Valley by the main road. A full mile ahead of him he saw Eben King, getting along through mud and slush, and occasional big slumpy drifts of old snow, as fast as his clean-limbed trotter could carry him. As a rule Eben was exceedingly careful of his horses, but now he was sending Bay Billy along for all that was in him.
For a second Bruce hesitated. Then he turned his mare down the field cut to Malley’s Creek. It was taking Lady Jane’s life and possibly his own in his hand, but it was his only chance. He could never have overtaken Bay Billy on the main road.
“Do your best, Lady Jane,” he muttered, and Lady Jane plunged down the steep hillside, through the glutinous mud of a ploughed field as if she meant to do it.
Beyond the field was a ravine full of firs, through which Malley’s Creek ran. To cross it meant a four-mile cut to Ramble Valley. The ice looked black and rotten. To the left was the ragged hole where Jack Carr’s mare had struggled for her life. Bruce headed Lady Jane higher up. If a crossing could be made at all it was only between Malley’s spring-hole and the old ice road. Lady Jane swerved at the bank and whickered.
“On, old girl,” said Bruce, in a tense voice. Unwillingly she advanced, picking her steps with cat-like sagacity. Once her foot went through, Bruce pulled her up with hands that did not tremble. The next moment she was scrambling up the opposite bank. Glancing back, Bruce saw the ice parting in her footprints and the black water gurgling up.
But the race was not yet decided. By crossing the creek he had won no more than an equal chance with Eben King. And the field road before him was much worse than the main road. There was little snow on it and some bad sloughs. But Lady Jane was good for it. For once she should not be spared.
Just as the red ball of the sun touched the wooded hills of the valley, Mrs. Theodora, looking from the cowstable door, saw two sleighs approaching, the horses of which were going at a gallop. One was trundling down the main road, headlong through old drifts and slumpy snow, where a false step might send the horse floundering to the bottom. The other was coming up from the direction of the creek, full tilt through Tony Mack’s stump land, where not a vestige of snow coated the huge roots over which the runners bumped.
For a moment Mrs. Theodora stood at a gaze. Then she recognized both drivers. She dropped her milking pail and ran to the house, thinking as she ran. She knew that Judith was alone in the kitchen. If Eben King got there first, well and good, but if Bruce Marshall won the race he must encounter her, Mrs. Theodora.
“He won’t propose to Judith as long as I’m round,” she panted. “I know him–he’s too shy. But Eben won’t mind–I’ll tip him the wink.”
Potter Vane was chopping wood before the door. Mrs. Theodora recognizing in him a further obstacle to Marshall’s wooing, caught him unceremoniously by the arm and hauled him, axe and all, over the doorstone and into the kitchen, just as Bruce Marshall and Eben King drove into the yard with not a second to spare between them. There was a woeful cut on Bay Billy’s slender foreleg and the reeking Lady Jane was trembling like a leaf. The staunch little mare had brought her master over that stretch of sticky field road in time, but she was almost exhausted.
Both men sprang from their sleighs and ran to the door. Bruce Marshall won it by foot-room and burst into the kitchen with his rival hot on his heels. Mrs. Theodora stood defiantly in the middle of the room, still grasping the dazed and dismayed Potter. In a corner Judith turned from the window whence she had been watching the finish of the race. She was pale and tense from excitement. In those few gasping moments she had looked on her heart as on an open book; she knew at last that she loved Bruce Marshall and her eyes met his fiery gray ones as he sprang over the threshold.
“Judith, will you marry me?” gasped Bruce, before Eben, who had first looked at Mrs. Theodora and the squirming Potter, had located the girl.
“Yes,” said Judith. She burst into hysterical tears as she said it and sat limply down in a chair.
Mrs. Theodora loosed her grip on Potter.
“You can go back to your work,” she said dully. She followed him out and Eben King followed her. On the step she reached behind him and closed the door.
“Trust a King for being too late!” she said bitterly and unjustly.
Eben went home with Bay Billy. Potter gazed after him until Mrs. Theodora ordered him to put Marshall’s mare in the stable and rub her down.
“Anyway, Judith won’t be an old maid,” she comforted herself.