place,” she said thoughtfully, “I’ve had three splendid years and I hope they’ll enrich my whole life. There are wonderful things out there to see and learn, fine, noble people to meet, beautiful deeds to admire; but,” she wound her arm about his neck and laid her cheek against his—”there is no daddy!”
And Old Man Shaw looked silently at the sunset — or, rather, through the sunset to still grander and more radiant splendours beyond, of which the things seen were only the pale reflections, not worthy of attention from those who had the gift of further sight.
Aunt Olivia’s Beau
Aunt Olivia told Peggy and me about him on the afternoon we went over to help her gather her late roses for potpourri. We found her strangely quiet and preoccupied. As a rule she was fond of mild fun, alert to hear East Grafton gossip, and given to sudden little trills of almost girlish laughter, which for the time being dispelled the atmosphere of gentle old-maidishness which seemed to hang about her as a garment. At such moments we did not find it hard to believe — as we did at other times — that Aunt Olivia had once been a girl herself.
This day she picked the roses absently, and shook the fairy petals into her little sweetgrass basket with the air of a woman whose thoughts were far away. We said nothing, knowing that Aunt Olivia’s secrets always came our way in time. When the roseleaves were picked, we carried them in and upstairs in single file, Aunt Olivia bringing up the rear to pick up any stray roseleaf we might drop. In the southwest room, where there was no carpet to fade, we spread them on newspapers on the floor. Then we put our sweetgrass baskets back in the proper place in the proper closet in the proper room. What would have happened to us, or to the sweetgrass baskets, if this had not been done I do not know. Nothing was ever permitted to remain an instant out of place in Aunt Olivia’s house.
When we went downstairs, Aunt Olivia asked us to go into the parlour. She had something to tell us, she said, and as she opened the door a delicate pink flush spread over her face. I noted it, with surprise, but no inkling of the truth came to me — for nobody ever connected the idea of possible lovers or marriage with this prim little old maid, Olivia Sterling.
Aunt Olivia’s parlour was much like herself — painfully neat. Every article of furniture stood in exactly the same place it had always stood. Nothing was ever suffered to be disturbed. The tassels of the crazy cushion lay just so over the arm of the sofa, and the crochet antimacassar was always spread at precisely the same angle over the horsehair rocking chair. No speck of dust was ever visible; no fly ever invaded that sacred apartment.
Aunt Olivia pulled up a blind, to let in what light could sift finely through the vine leaves, and sat down in a high-backed old chair that had appertained to her great-grandmother. She folded her hands in her lap, and looked at us with shy appeal in her blue-gray eyes. Plainly she found it hard to tell us her secret, yet all the time there was an air of pride and exultation about her; somewhat, also, of a new dignity. Aunt Olivia could never be self-assertive, but if it had been possible that would have been her time for it.
“Have you ever heard me speak of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson?” asked Aunt Olivia.
We had never heard her, or anybody else, speak of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson; but volumes of explanation could not have told us more about him than did Aunt Olivia’s voice when she pronounced his name. We knew, as if it had been proclaimed to us in trumpet tones, that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson must be Aunt Olivia’s beau, and the knowledge took away our breath. We even forgot to be curious, so astonished were we.
And there sat Aunt Olivia, proud and shy and exulting and shamefaced, all at once!
“He is a brother of Mrs. John Seaman’s across the bridge,” explained Aunt Olivia with a little simper. “Of course you don’t remember him. He went out to British Columbia twenty years ago. But he is coming home now — and — and — tell your father, won’t you — I — I — don’t like to tell him — Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and I are going to be married.”
“Married!” gasped Peggy. And “married!” I echoed stupidly.
Aunt Olivia bridled a little.
“There is nothing unsuitable in that, is there?” she asked, rather crisply.
“Oh, no, no,” I hastened to assure her, giving Peggy a surreptitious kick to divert her thoughts from laughter. “Only you must realize, Aunt Olivia, that this is a very great surprise to us.” “I thought it would be so,” said Aunt Olivia complacently. “But your father will know — he will remember. I do hope he won’t think me foolish. He did not think Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was a fit person for me to marry once. But that was long ago, when Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was very poor. He is in very comfortable circumstances now.”
“Tell us about it, Aunt Olivia,” said Peggy. She did not look at me, which was my salvation. Had I caught Peggy’s eye when Aunt Olivia said “Mr. Malcolm MacPherson” in that tone I must have laughed, willy-nilly.
“When I was a girl the MacPhersons used to live across the road from here. Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was my beau then. But my family — and your father especially — dear me, I do hope he won’t be very cross — were opposed to his attentions and were very cool to him. I think that was why he never said anything to me about getting married then. And after a time he went away, as I have said, and I never heard anything from him directly for many a year. Of course, his sister sometimes gave me news of him. But last June I had a letter from him. He said he was coming home to settle down for good on the old Island, and he asked me if I would marry him. I wrote back and said I would. Perhaps I ought to have consulted your father, but I was afraid he would think I ought to refuse Mr. Malcolm MacPherson.”
“Oh, I don’t think father will mind,” said Peggy reassuringly.
“I hope not, because, of course, I would consider it my duty in any case to fulfil the promise I have given to Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. He will be in Grafton next week, the guest of his sister, Mrs. John Seaman, across the bridge.”
Aunt Olivia said that exactly as if she were reading it from the personal column of the Daily Enterprise.
“When is the wedding to be?” I asked.
“Oh!” Aunt Olivia blushed distressfully. “I do not know the exact date. Nothing can be definitely settled until Mr. Malcolm MacPherson comes. But it will not be before September, at the earliest. There will be so much to do. You will tell your father, won’t you?”
We promised that we would, and Aunt Olivia arose with an air of relief. Peggy and I hurried over home, stopping, when we were safely out of earshot, to laugh. The romances of the middle-aged may be to them as tender and sweet as those of youth, but they are apt to possess a good deal of humour for onlookers. Only youth can be sentimental without being mirth-provoking. We loved Aunt Olivia and were glad for her late, new-blossoming happiness; but we felt amused over it also. The recollection of her “Mr. Malcolm MacPherson” was too much for us every time we thought of it.
Father pooh-poohed incredulously at first, and, when we had convinced him, guffawed with laughter. Aunt Olivia need not have dreaded any more opposition from her cruel family.
“MacPherson was a good fellow enough, but horribly poor,” said father. “I hear he has done very well out west, and if he and Olivia have a notion of each other they are welcome to marry as far as I am concerned. Tell Olivia she mustn’t
