Chapter XIV: Duncan Follows His Own Devices

IF anyone supposes that Mabel Wynn had found a smooth and even pathway laid out for her during these years, that person is mistaken. A great many things annoyed and tried her. The atmosphere of her father's house was in a high degree worldly, and sometimes it seemed to her that all spiritual growth must be smothered. Her parents had always been very indulgent, and this fact had only made it harder to oppose their wishes when these conflicted with her ideas of duty.

If Mrs. Wynn was disturbed when Mabel quietly ripped an extra ruffle from a new costume, and laid aside an unusually gay hat, or when she chose to spend her money for Sabbath-school helps; when she declined to attend card and dancing parties, or parties of any sort, whenever they interfered with more important duties; when she put aside her aunt's invitation to spend the winter in the city, from conscientious motives—that lady considered it the climax of absurdities when the exasperating young woman refused young Mr. Golden's offer of marriage.

"I declare," she said, "Mabel Wynn, you are enough to drive one distracted! Your whims and ridiculous notions quite outweigh your common sense. You always were an absurd child, but since you got bewitched with those boys, and so mixed up with Sunday-school people, you have grown positively fanatical. I am out of all patience! What more can you want? Young, handsome, rich, of fine connections, well educated, and, I presume, moral character, and you throw it all over, for what reason nobody knows. Hard as I have worked to bring it about, too!"

"My dear mother, I am sorry that you have troubled yourself. If you had consulted me beforehand, I could have told you how utterly useless it was. But really I do not see that all your recommendations do not apply to Judge McNair, except, maybe, that he is not so very young. And as to his moral character, you have no need to take it upon presumption. I believe he is remarkable not only for strict integrity, but for earnest devotion to Christ."

"What's the use of talking! You know he is not one of my sort; but, as usual, you have won over your father, and I suppose I must consent with what grace I may. Since you won't marry Mr. Golden, and Dr. Myers is out of the question, I'd as lief it should be Judge McNair as anybody. He does rank high in his profession, that is one consolation."

And straightway, Mrs. Wynn set herself about planning and ordering an extensive wardrobe for the bride-elect. Just one more "whim" she had yet to gratify. Mabel had chosen to be married quietly at home upon Thanksgiving morning, which certainly was not quite in keeping with Mrs. Wynn's ideas. The only daughter of the rich man ought to have a grand wedding, and it was so commonplace to choose Thanksgiving. "It was only ordinary country people who did that."

"But," said Mabel, "if it is not a matter of thanksgiving, then I won't be married at all; if it is, then it must be very proper to choose that day."

And that day was chosen.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Jenny McNair, coming in from school about a week before Thanksgiving. "What a horrid lonesome house this is! It is the worst place when I come in at night after being with the girls all day. Nobody to speak to, nobody to welcome me. I wish—"

"What do you wish, my daughter?" asked Judge McNair, who unexpectedly appeared at the parlour door, while Jenny talked to herself as she threw off her wraps in the hall.

She hesitated, then spoke out quickly, with something in the tone that begged pardon for her suggestion.

"I just wish you'd get me a mamma! I'm sick and tired of living so. Nobody to fix my clothes or curl my hair, help me out with my lessons, or do anything that I want done. All the girls are talking about Thanksgiving, going to have family parties, and everything nice." Looking up, she saw a curious smile on her father's face.

"Well, Jenny," he said, "come in here, and I'll tell you something. I mean this shall be a real Thanksgiving for you and Duncan."

It was a very pleasant little talk they had, and at the close Jenny said—

"Does Dunny know?"

"Yes, I told him this afternoon," replied her father, a little sadly; however, the sad inflection escaped Jenny's notice, so busy was she with her own glad thoughts. Duncan did not appear at tea-time. Jenny wondered, and Mr. McNair looked troubled but made no remark.

As soon as his father left the house, Duncan came down from his room.

"Why, Dunny," exclaimed Jenny, "are you sick? Nancy has carried away the things. Shall I bring you some tea?"

"No!" replied Duncan, shortly, tilting his chair and thumping his head against the wall, a trick he had when he was particularly out of humour.

Suddenly Jenny remembered something pleasant.

"O Dunny, isn't it perfectly splendid?"

"What?" asked Duncan, testily.

"You needn't pretend not to understand. Papa said he had told you. Won't it be lovely?"

"Just like a girl! Bought up with a new dress, I suppose," growled Duncan.

"Why, Duncan McNair, you act as if you didn't like it."

"Well, I don't, and I didn't suppose you'd be such a goose. I think it's just mean, that's what I think," said Duncan, pounding the wall energetically.

"Well," responded Jenny, "if you knew how much I need somebody to take care of me, you wouldn't you think me a goose."

"I can take of myself," replied Duncan, adding, in an undertone, "and I will, too;" then raising his voice, "I'll tell you just what I think about this piece of business;" but as we already understand the drift of his thoughts upon the subject under consideration, we will not repeat the exposition of his sentiments, given in no very choice or gentle terms.

Finally Jenny interrupted.

"Stop, Duncan! What would Miss Wynn say if she heard you go on at that rate?"

To this, he made no sort of reply, but gathering his books together, pretended to study. Sure enough, what would she say? He was half a mind to go and tell her his trouble. It was Wednesday evening; she would be at the prayer-meeting; he could step in, and be ready to join her when the meeting closed. So strong was the prompting, that he actually started, and gained half the distance to the church, when he was met and diverted from his purpose by Perry Morse, who had tickets for some second or third rate exhibition at the Hall. At first Duncan declined the invitation, upon which Nick Turner, who was with Perry, said—

"Better come along while you have a chance. Going to have a new administration up at your house, I hear. Likely the first move will be to shut down on this sort of thing."

"I don't imagine the new administration will affect me much," replied Duncan.

"That's the kind. But we are late; come on!" And they hurried forward, Duncan with them.

The next morning Duncan said—

"Father, I really wish you would let me go to Uncle John's. This is the second special invitation I have had. And you must not blame me, but I would rather be away on Thanksgiving Day."

"I am sorry," replied his father, "that you cannot fall in with our plans. We expected that you and Jenny would be present at the ceremony, and after dinner we would all come back here together. But, perhaps, in your present mood, it may be as well for you to go. If you feel differently, you can return the first of the week. I am sorry, Duncan, that you are so unhappy about this. I had counted upon your hearty approval of my choice."

Why in the world couldn't Judge McNair have once mentioned the name of his choice?

The next morning, Duncan departed, and Jenny went with her father to call upon the future Mrs. McNair, making what excuse she could for Duncan. She came home more delighted than ever. Very busy was she during the next few days, arranging and rearranging the rooms, preparing little devices of welcome, selecting her gifts, hurrying the dressmaker and hindering everybody.

Meantime Duncan and his cousin Joe were having long talks. Duncan had recounted his troubles, and found Joe a sympathizing listener.

"I wouldn't stand it if I were you."

"I am not going to. I wish I could get something to do here in Caryl. I don't intend to go back to Westville at present."

"Do you mean that?" asked Joe eagerly.

"Yes, I mean it."

"Well, now, say; suppose we go off together! I'm sick of this place. It is awful poky anyway. I just want to see the world."

"But will your father let you go?" asked Duncan, in surprise.

"Will your father let you go?" repeated Joe, laughing.

"I sha'n't ask him."

"And I sha'n't ask him," again repeated Joe.

The next four or five days were full of planning. Wonderful were their imaginary adventures. Nu thought of failure entered their heads. Of course they must succeed. In what? In being independent, of course. Joe brought out a book filled with sketches of successful men who, when mere boys, had started out with empty pockets and determined purposes. Of course they should come out all right. If only somebody had been there to suggest to the foolish fellows that running away from good homes was not characteristic of these noble boys. How to get away without exciting suspicion was a question which required considerable study.

"How shall I ever got my trunk to the depot?" pondered Joe.

"Mine isn't half full," said his cousin. "Put your things in with mine; that will fix that part of the business, and we shall have to trust to luck for the rest."

Friday morning, Duncan started for home. As he was saying "Good-by" to his friends, Joe called out from the steps—

"Good-by all! If I don't come back, you may know that I have gone with Duncan."

As he had repeatedly declared his intention of going home with his cousin, the family finally settled upon this conclusion when he did not appear at dinner time.

Truth is, Joe Aiken was a wild boy, and used to having pretty much his own way, going and coming as he pleased; but this was the first time he had launched out so boldly for a sail upon an unknown sea. Of course their destination was New York, which they reached the same evening. Joe suggested that as they had a pretty good supply of money (he had not hesitated to help himself from his father's desk), they should spend a few days in having a good time, seeing the sights and getting acquainted with the city, meantime looking out for work.

Duncan had objected to going to New York, saying that it would be inconvenient to meet Herbert Bradford. But Joe said, "Fudge! We might stay in the city ten years and never light upon anybody we ever saw before. I can tell you there is no place like New York to get lost in. And that's what we want, isn't it?"

No place like New York to get lost in!

Duncan began to feel the truth of this before he had been there twenty-four hours; and in the little time that elapsed before he saw Westville again, he many times feared that he was lost indeed. For Duncan's heart was tender, and his affection for the home friends strong. He had left home and entered upon this mad course in a fit of angry excitement. He had known one or two second-mothers who were unworthy to hold that place, and measured all by their standard; besides, he did not like the lady whom he supposed his father was about to bring to his house; and in his blindness, he thought he was justified in his resentment and rebellion.

What those boys did, where they went, what scenes they looked upon during the days of their sojourn in the city, never exactly transpired.

Jenny once asked, "Dunny, did you go to Central Park when you were in New York?" and received for reply, "Better not ask any questions about that, Jenny. I can tell you I came pretty near going to destruction!"