"Yes, God bless us all!" he exclaimed, as he held out his hands to all
of us, one of which Nickols took, with a swift challenging glance that
in the radiance softened to confidence, and the other father took and
fairly clung to in his happiness. I was glad, glad that I didn't have to
endure the touch of his hand on mine after that glance, but not for one
instant did my heart accuse his radiance of being dramatics. I rather
felt that it came from a warmth within him by which everybody else in
the world might be comforted but for which I would forever be cold.
"I want to be worth her, old man," Nickols said to him with a
curiously pleading note in his voice, and he, too, seemed to me to be
clinging to some of the strength that was not for me.
"Then God help you," was the answer given with the very essence of
gentleness, but with a level glance into Nickols' eyes that was
profoundly sad.
"And now let's hear the wedding plans," demanded Harriet. "This marrying
and giving in marriage is the best way I know of to make time pass, and
let's make Charlotte give us full measure. I'm matron of honor, of
course, and I suggest only twelve bridesmaids. I intend to be preceded
to the altar by Sue in an embroidered silk muslin I will provide, with a
bonnet of tulle in which nestles a pink rose to match the ones in her
basket. There will also be a display of pink knees that will be
ravishing and--"
"Just let me remind you, Harriet, that this is Charlotte's wedding and
not that of my daughter, Susan, and her often-mentioned knees," said
Mark with a laugh that they all echoed.
"I am going to marry Susan's pink knees when they are ripe," remarked
Billy and his suppression lasted long enough for me to attain command
enough of myself to manage the plans of my own wedding.
Later when they had all gone by way of the chapel to help Mr. Goodloe
decide on some designs for a memorial window to his father he was having
made by a great artist he and Nickols had selected, I went in to make my
announcement to Mammy and Dabney.
"Well, ram in the cork to the demijohn, honey, and it'll be all right,"
was Dabney's semi-cordial consent, but Mammy went on industriously
beating her biscuits for supper the one hundred and twenty licks
prescribed by her reputation as a cook and her conscientious guarding of
that same reputation.
"What do you say, Mammy?" I insisted on her giving her opinion.
"Of course, if you want to eat plain biscuits instead of the showbread
from before the mercy seat--one hundred and two, one hundred and
three--" was the answer given between the licks upon the white dough,
and I fled before I should get a clearer manifestation of the
disappointment I felt raging in her faithful old heart.