Rensselaer Republican, Volume 22, Number 44, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 July 1890 — [Original.] SUDDEN PROPOSAL. [ARTICLE]

[Original.] SUDDEN PROPOSAL.

COSSXASCB O’CONXOR. " 'ft'as the week for the little red Mhle cloth. If Uncle Henry had only ohosen to make his visit a week earlier or a week later, everything might have been different with me. But I knew that Aunt Jane's strict system would not permit that another "cloth should be used, else I should have enlarged the table, and then sister Jo .md I would have met our Uncle at the same time and have had equal chances for his favor. He had been in Cuba for several years, and having become rich he had come back to visit his old home. His coming was unannounced to my Aunt, and as she would not display any such* weakness as being startled out of her csual programme, she simply said: “you’ll have to take us as you find us, and eat what is set before you without murmuring.” -“Sister Jane,” said he. “I'll agree net to murmur, if you have a dinner that will remind me of old times.” JS r ow I loved my twin sister with so rare a love that I gave her always the first and the best. So, that day, I made her sit at the table with the older people, while I hovered fondly about my chrysanthemum bed. •Josephine and I had been left orphans only one short year before, and we had found a home with our eccentric Aunt, our Father's single sister. She was really fond of us. but so different from our gentle Mother that wd often wept together when we were alone. Our sainted Mother was always kind and sympathetic” hut Aunt had often denied us some gratification which did not accord with her ideas of

economy • VVq were but seventeen and were not, •very wise. Jo had light hair while mine was as black as the raven's wing; 'her eyes were blue and merry, mine were dark and grave. She had winsome ways and sweet smiles, while I oould not overcome a native reserve of manner. Perhaps, then, if wo had been presented to Uncle Henry at the same time be would huve chosen her. Certain it is that she practiced her favorite wiles so successfully that be'fore dinner was over Uncle Henry said:

Jane. I think I must take this niece hbme with-rae. You wrote that there were two of brother John’s children left, I believe. It would be fair for you to have one and I the other.” Aunt Jane's lips moved convulsively a moment, and then she said: ••I suppose it would be fair, brother, but what would you do with a young girl out there in that heathen coun-U-y ?”

Uncle Henry threw back his head jnd laughed so loudly that the sound reached my ears, and caused me to creep stealthily to the window where I could overhear the conversation. “Why, I'd send her to school, and I'd take her among white folks, for there are many Americans there, you should know. And I’d dress her as good as the best of ’em. for I've got the money to do it. I have.” Aunt Jane fidgeted a little, and then said, brusquely: ••Ifyou had a wife.it would be more to the purpose." “I’ll get my partner's wife to look after her now and then,” he replied. I could bear it no longer. I rushed into their presence and remonstrated against the scheme. I wept over Jo, skying: & v • Don't leave yoi# poor old Gertie. Say you won't go. Trust me for the tine toilets and the school. Come away with me now. my own dear, and never see that horrid man again. Oh, how can you think of leaving your only sister. Jo. Jo. you will not, you ran not go." During this torrent Uncle Henry had set aghast, and Aunt Jane was too shocked to speak. "And Jo—she was •her own sweet, smiling self, allowing my caresses- and saying: •■Don't excite yourself,Gertie,there's —a dear.' 1 - -—-■■■• -

But I observed even then, in ray frenzy, that she seemed, quite indifferent to the separation. “Gertrude,” said my Aunt, at last. • this is your Uncle Henry. Go and speak to him."’ I calmed myself, and advanced to him. •So this is my other niece, is it? Why. girlie, you must not he so flurried.” he said, gently. •Uncle, please excuse me.” I said. 4 Jo and I are all in ail to each other, and since our Mother died— ’* but here I broke down, sobbing. ••But I’m not an . ogre, wanting to eat her up,” he said. Ti only want her for company, my dear, for I am a looely old man. It will be a rea -charity for her to come and cheer me up. I'm your Father's brother, you know, and I have a right to one of you.” “Yes. yes. I know. lam selfish, I suppose, hut ev.en if you lived in this ■very town it would be hard to spare my darling from my arms; but away off across the sea—oh, dearest Jo* how can I give you up?”

They hud much ado to. quiet my wailings. Uncle reasoned with me, Aunt continually advised me. to be seusiblo, and sister told me over and Over again that she did not much care, which was but sorry comfort. It would be hard to say which process was most efficient, or whether, indeed, my own exhaustion ended my ravings. I pass hastily over the next few weeks which were spent in preparation for Jo’s voyage. She often talked in glowitag words of the pleasure she anticipated: “Oh!” she would exclaim, “I know [.shall like the change. Won’t it be lovely to have all the pretty things I want? And I believe I shall have to

go to school, Gertie. Do you really think there will be a school?” • ‘There ought to be for you, dear, ” I would answer. “But I think Uncle has not noticed much about it.” Aunt never failed on these occasions to preach economy and propriety, which were her favorite doctrines. As for me, a dull pain dWelt ever in my heart, as Lbent my head over my work. But sometimes, when I came near my darling, or looked into her face, the pain was so acute that I cried out, and giving tier a Caress I would weep uncontrollably. Words were useless. What could I say when I knew she repined not at. leaving me? And my love was too unselfish to cloud her bright outlook. I look back now with unspeakable pity for myself, to those days wherein I know that I was slipping away from her heart, just as surely as she was slipping* from my arms. •/' ■ ■Vi

My uncle, to compensate me in some measure, left a fund subject to my order, which should supply my wardrobe and pay for my books until I finished school. This relieved me greatly from my Aunt’s parsimony, which had been such an intolerable burden to me. I suspect that Uncle had anticipated such a relief, when he planned what, he called a “condolence fund.” Fortunately, the school term began soon after my sister's departure, and I entered upon toy studies with a greater zeal than ever before, hoping thus to forget my loss.--“Gertrude, come out on the play ground,” the girls would say. “Why, you are really gett: : morbid.” Once they gathered around my desk and commented on me, as if I were an inanimate thing. “She looks as grave as a deacon.” said one. “How jolly she used to be when Jo was here,” said another. - ■ - ■ “But Jo was so bright and funny, and perhaps she led Gertie on,” said still another. “Well, I wouldn't mope. Gertrude. Why you are like an old woman, ” was the next stab. But I was too proud to let them see that they hurt me, and, forcing a smile, I rose and permitted them to lead mo away.....T"TT!? That night I looked searchingly at my face in the mirror. Was I getting morbid?

1 feared it was true. overcome the fault. Henceforth 1 counterfeited a gaiety. 1 talked, and laughed, and sang, and made mevry. Naturally light hearted, this heroic treatment soon restored me to my wonted cheerfulness. Save when Jo’s letters came, I was the Gertie of old. But her letters, brimful as they were of happy records, always made me long so ardently for my idolized sister, that my spirits sank lower and lower, until I sobbed myself to sleep at night. My classmates would know the state of affairs by my red ayes next day, and then I would be overwhelmed with questions, and lessons would be neglected. Graduation day was drawing near, and its absorbing interest to the participants, at least, had its inlluei.ee on me equal to the others. “Gertrude will wear black, 1 presume,'’ said Susie Gray. “She has been mourning all the year." • Now that is too had, Sue," said ( Mabel New. ••You know she has discarded her weeds, and she is going to bloom out on Commencement day as the very sweetest of the sweet.” ••Wouldn’t Josephine have been a sweet though?” said Susie. That was the thought that made me sad. How much 1 would miss her on that occasion! So listless was I that I let them plan tha.dressea. as they wortkiaad I simply ordered what they told me to get. Our town was justly proud of its high school and always complimented . the graduating class with a large audi- • ence. There was not a break in the ; program, and we all were told that we acquitted ourselves creditably. As we passed out of the large auditorium I heard Judge Brown remark tohisvVife:. “What a pallor and sadness there is about that Bentley girl!” “Why, you know,” said Mrs. Brown, her twin sister was taken away to Cuba last fall, and Gertrude has grieved for her ever since.” ••She must have had an unusual affection for her.” he responded. The balmy June days were now upon us. “roses everywhere were blooming,” the fieldswere green. But just when nature, like a beautiful woman, was in best attire, and smiling graciously, a sudden passion darkened her countenance,; and she smote her children right and left with dread result.

Aunt and I were standing at the gate one afternoon watching a dark cloud that came sweeping along from the horizon. In a moment the air was full pf flying sand and sticks, and we rushed into the house for safety. I looked through a crack of the shutters and saw trees swaying and boards flying, while the roaring was" terrific. Not more than half a minute did I stand there until all was over. We went out and saw other people coming out to see what the damage was. Some one shouted: ••Dr. New's house is down.” * Thither we all rushed, to -fin'd the large substantial brick house lying piled upon its own lower lloor, crushed like an egg-shell. Where were the family? I was dumb and mptionless, hut only for an instant. Mabel, my dearest friend, might be buried there. I had known the house froni attic to cellar. I found a grating which ,was unobstructed, and kneeling there, 1 called: .“Mabel, Mabel, are you there?” To my joy, there was a faint response, l rose and confronted those who had followed me. “Tear away the rubbish from the outer cellar jpor,” 1 said.

I led the way, and with the strength of excitement I worked ah* removing the debris, and felt no fatigue,, for i had no consciousness of myself. And all the while I went often to the grating and called to Mabel to keep up hope and be patient. When at last the cellar way was cleared, it was found that some of the heavy sills had been broken, and that Dr. New was pinioned under one of them by his feet. Mrs. New had been slightly hurt, but she was so unnerved that she only regained consciousness to faint away again. Mabel, quite sate, as she said, was devotedly caring for her mother while Dr. New was being sustained by his brother, who had recently come to town to practice with him. It was some hours before the doctor could be released, as the men were obliged to work vary carefully lest they should precipitate more of the wreck. He was no covvardfin stiffering but lie lamented the anticipated loss of his limbs. He afterward suffered amputation of both feet. There was no lack of hospitality or of help in repairing such household articles as were not totally destroyed.

Within a few weeks a cottage was fitted up for the temporary use of the family, until their own house could be rebuilt. We all vied with each other in arranging this cottage for them. Mabel’s uncle was most untiring in all these weeks: he was a kindly, genial man. seeming much older than we girls, but I was so engrossed with ministering to iny friends' needs, that I scarcely noticed him. But on the afternoon when a few of us were putting the finishing touches to the cottage it. chanced that he and I were left together in a little •alcove where I had been arranging a hanging basket of ferns, intent on the effect, I stepped backward, and said:

“There, isn't that lovely?” “Yes,” he said quietly, and then in the same quiet tone added: •■Miss Gertrude, will you be my wife?” I thought my ears had deceived me. —.4What 1” I cried. — r He Repeated calmly: “Will you be my wife?" putting his p,rm around me. I disengaged his arm, “Why, what put such an idea into your head?” I exclaimed in dismay. » “l ean scarcely tell what first put

the idea there,” he said smiling, • -but it has been growing for some time. I have been watching you in your unselfish devotion to your friends, and I have found out that you are just the, woman I want for my wife.' 1 ••Why—why—l -thought you were engaged,” I stammered. ••I must confess to a little duplicity there.” he said. “I allowed Mabel to give that impression, but I have never loved before. If you could entertain the tlioughtrof allowing my love I should like to become engaged.” . not look at him then, but I mentally reviewe’d all l knew of him and found there was nothing against him. Was it possible that a good, true man was offering himself to me? How strange that the “young doctor’ 1 should love me! He came and took my hands in his. “Miss Bentley,” he said gently, “I fear I have not been quite fair with you. I meant to be more conventional but you have, been so occupied that I could not.” I looked up with a sigh and a smile. And’then he poured out his soul in such impassioned words that I could not doubt his sincerity. The happiness of new-born love crept into my face. Moments sped away on winged i upturn. Rnl 1 was recalled by a voice calling:

••Gertrude, haven't you finished arranging that basket yet?” “Yes,” I answered, with a conscious blush, as I stooped to pick lip some fallen leaves. The young doctor went to meet our riends, and said to them: •■Gertrude has also arranged*her future.” Then there was a chorus of exclamations ami congratulations from which I was glad to escape. We have now been married four years. [ have found him kind, true, and devoted, and my affections cling to him as tenaciously as they used to cling to sister Jo. 1 rejoice daily that fate led such a lovable man to my side. Among my priceless treasures is the little red table doth which first caused Uncle Henry to choose Jo, and left me to become the victim of a sudden proposal.