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Fundamentals of Human Resource
Management
Fundamentals of Human
Resource Management
People, Data, and Analytics
Talya Bauer
Portland State University
Berrin Erdogan
Portland State University
David Caughlin
Portland State University
Donald Truxillo
University of Limerick
Los Angeles
London
New Delhi
Singapore
Washington DC
Melbourne
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Names: Bauer, Talya, author. | Erdogan, Berrin, author. | Caughlin, David Ellis, author. |
Truxillo, Donald M., author.
Title: Fundamentals of human resource management : people, data, and analytics / Talya
Bauer, Portland State University, Berrin Erdogan, Portland State University, David Caughlin,
Portland State University, Donald Truxillo, University of Limerick.
Printed in Canada
Description
For weeks and weeks, it seemed to me, I was living over again the
scenes through which I had passed in later years. Now I was
charging at the battle of Sedgemoor, then before Judge Jeffreys,
with my comrades. Next came wanderings, fightings, travelings. In
my delirium I went through the witch press once more, with many a
struggle to escape. I fought the French and Indians; I swam in the
sea to save Lucille. I went down in great caverns of the ocean to
bring her back to me, and saw her lying amid rainbow colored shells,
tangled weeds weaving their long green sinuous lengths into her
hair.
I fought the duel with Sir George, feeling his steel pierce my side
like a big knife which was turned ’round and ’round. Horrible red
Indians, with fierce painted faces came to torment me, though I
fought them off time after time. I heard over again the explosion of
the powder kegs; felt the mighty wind swoop down; was rocked to
and fro by the blast.
I listened to my voice shouting out, only it did not sound like me,
but as some one else afar off. At intervals I went floating through
the air, a very bird on wings. Then I looked back to see a body that
looked like mine lying on a bed. And the features were changed; the
frame that had been robust was like a boy’s.
Then gradually all these things passed away, so that there was
nothing but darkness and daylight; daylight and darkness. Ever
through it all, a dear dim ghost of one I loved came and went--a
woman. When she was near, whether it was day or night, I was at
ease; her cool hand chilled the fever that burned in my brain. When
she was gone it was dark, though it was day.
Out of all this peace came at length.
One day I opened my eyes seeing aright.
I was in a room which the sun entered to make bright and
cheerful. The beams overhead reflected back the light, a fire on the
hearth threw out a genial warmth, the kettle on the hob hummed
and hissed, a great mother cat, by the chimney place, purred in
contentment.
There was a movement in the room. A woman stood over me
looking down. I seemed to know, rather than see, that she was the
woman of my dreams--Lucille.
I glanced up at her. Her face was alight with love and tenderness.
I tried to speak--to rise--but the strength, of which I used to boast,
had left me. I could only murmur her name.
“Dear heart,” she whispered. “Thank God, you know me. Oh,
Edward, it was so long--oh! so long--that I stood by you, only to
hear you fighting all your battles over again, with never a sign to
show that you knew I was near. Oh, I am so glad!”
Then, woman like, she burst into tears, which she tried in vain to
check.
“My, my! What’s this?” called a cheery voice. “Come, Mistress
Lucille, have you no better caution than to weep in here. Fie upon
you. All hope is not gone yet.”
A woman in a gray dress with a spotless apron over it, bustled to
my bed.
“I am not crying, Madame Carteret,” said Lucille with indignation
in her tone.
“’Tis much like it,” said the other.
“Well, then, if I am, it is for joy. Edward--I mean Captain Amherst-
-is sensible again. He tried to speak my name, for he knew me when
I turned his pillow.”
“Is it possible?”
Madame Carteret, wife of the Captain, in whose house I was,
came over to look down on me. I smiled; it was all I could do, but
that was as good to me as a hearty laugh, since I had come back
from the land of terrible dreams. The Captain’s wife bustled away.
Lucille, drying her eyes, smiling through her tears, came to stand
near me.
“What has happened?” I whispered, but she prevented any more
questions by placing her fingers on my lips. I kissed the rosy tips,
whereat she drew them quickly away. Then I repeated what I had
said.
“Hush,” she replied. “You are not to talk. The doctor says you are
too weak.”
Indeed I was, as I found when I tried to rise, for I fell back like a
babe. Just then Madame Carteret came back with some broth in a
bowl. It tasted so well that I disposed of all of it. She laughed as one
well pleased.
The last drop gone I sighed from very comfort. Lucille, taking pity
on the anxious look of inquiry I turned on her, related all that had
transpired.
“I was coming through the corridor in the dark,” she said, “and I
saw Simon strike at you. Oh I was so frightened! I screamed when
his knife glittered. He started, moving his hand just a trifle as he
heard me. Perchance that saved your life, for Doctor Graydon, who
has been in long attendance on you, said that had the point gone an
inch higher it would have touched the heart, and that would have
been an end of Captain Amherst.”
I looked the love and devotion at Lucille I could not express in
actions.
“Even at that,” she went on, “there was a grievous wound in your
arm and one in your side. For six weeks you have been in that bed,
knowing none of us, and at times so far away from us, that we
feared to see you travel off altogether.”
“But I came back to you,” I said softly.
“Yes, dear; but you must not talk now. I will tell you the rest.
“After he had stabbed you Simon dropped his knife and fled. I ran
to you, but you were as one dead. Captain Carteret and some of the
men carried you into the house. We have nursed you ever since,
Madame Carteret and I.”
I looked at Lucille’s face, noting that she had grown thin and pale,
but yet more beautiful. I pressed her hand to my lips.
“Simon did not escape,” she went on after a pause. “Not long
afterward his body was found in the woods, an Indian arrow through
his heart. So now, dear, horrible as it all was, our enemies are gone.
We have only ourselves left.”
Then while the shadows began to lengthen, the day to die, I fell
asleep again. Not as before, disturbed by unpleasant dreams, but as
a tired child. When I awoke in the morning I felt like a new man.
The blood of health flowed through my veins; I felt the strength
coming back to me. Lucille entered; a streak of sunshine. She smiled
at me. I had propped myself up in bed, and that sign that I was on
the mend seemed to give her pleasure.
“We must have Master Graydon in to see the improvement,” she
said. “He will doubtless change the physic, giving you some herbs
that will put you quickly on the way to recovery.”
“I pray so,” I answered, “for I am full sick of staying here like a
woman.”
“Are you then so ready to leave us?”
“Only that I may make ready to stay with you forever,” at which
Lucille blushed prettily.
We talked, or rather Lucille did, and I listened, of many things.
She told how she had heard I was to be in command of the military
force of Elizabeth; that I was already considered the Captain. Every
day since I had been wounded some of the men had called to see
how I was. As for Captain Carteret, he had gone to London on
business, and would not return to the Colony until spring.
Matters were progressing well in the town. The Indians had buried
the hatchet, having had enough of fighting, and were at peace with
the settlers. The crops, too, though suffering somewhat from the
depredations of the red men, were plenty, so fertile was the land.
The store-houses and barns were better filled than any year since
the Colony had been in existence, and winter, which was already at
hand, would find the village in good shape.
The repairs to the block house had been finished, the few houses
in the town that had been burned by the Indians were being rebuilt.
A band of settlers had come from Pennsylvania, so that we now
numbered some two hundred men, and nearly half as many women.
It was late in November, the leaves were all off the trees, there
had been little flurries of snow, the winds were mournful, and on
every side one could see that winter was fairly come. I had been
able to leave my bed. One afternoon, when the sun was setting
behind a bank of gray clouds that promised a storm Lucille and I
stood at the west window looking out.
“It is going to snow,” said she, mournfully.
“I love the white flakes,” I said cheerfully.
“They are so cold, so cheerless, so dead, so cruel to the flowers
and birds. Why do you love them?”
“Because they dance down so merrily. Because they cover up the
dull brown earth from us until it blossoms out again. Because,” and I
took her hand, “it was through a snow storm that I went to find my
love.”
“Poor reason, Edward.”
“The best of reasons, sweetheart.”
Days came and went, bringing me back health and strength.
Slowly I walked about the house until I came to venturing out into
the snow when the weather was fine. I became acquainted with the
towns-folk, a thing I had not had time to do before. To while away
the hours, some of the men who had fought with me in the block
would come in. Then, sitting beside the blazing logs on the hearth,
we would fight the battle all over again.
Lucille was ever near me, her sweet face always in view, when I
looked up, smiling with the love in her eyes.
The winter snows melted. Green grass and shrubs began to peep
up through the warm earth. The buds on the trees swelled with the
sap, bears crawled from hollow logs, the birds flew northward.
The songsters of early spring flitted about the house as I sat in
front one day watching them gather material for their nests. It
reminded me that I had better see to providing a nest for my song
bird. Lucille sat near me. I had not spoken for a space.
“Are you watching the birds?” she asked.
“Aye. Thinking that I might well be about their trade.”
Lucille did not answer.
“Sweetheart,” I said softly, “’tis little time we have had for love
since I found you the second time, and I would know whether you
are of the same mind that you were. For I love you now; I will love
you always, I love you more and more every day. Tell me: Do you
love me yet? Has the time brought no change?”
How anxiously did I wait for the answer. Now that I was broken in
strength, with not the prospect of attaining distinction in arms that I
once had, sick, enfeebled in body, but not in spirit, could I hope that
she still loved me?
“Tell me,” I whispered softly, “has time wrought no change,
Lucille?”
She let the lids fall over her eyes, then with a little tremor, she
looked into my face. Sweetly as the murmur of a south wind in the
trees she said:
“Time has wrought no change.” A pause. “I love you, with all my
heart.”
Then, ere she could answer more, I had her in my arms, from
which she struggled to be free, at first, but, when she found I held
her close, she was quiet. I kissed her on the mouth.
“Don’t, Edward,” she cried in sudden terror, “some one is coming.”
I resumed my seat on the bench.
“I have something to tell you,” I said, after a little. “You must not
call me Edward.”
“Oh, then,” with a mock air of admiration, “Captain Amherst, Your
Excellency, I pray your pardon.”
“Nor yet Captain Amherst,” I went on, smiling.
“What then, may it please you, sir?”
“That is it.”
“What?”
“Sir.”
“Sir who or what?”
“Sir Francis Dane,” I replied, with as grand a manner as I could
assume, having a deep cut in my side.
For a moment Lucille glanced at me, then I saw that she feared
my mind was wandering again.
“Come into the house,” she said, soothingly, “’tis too chilling out
here. Come in, and Master Graydon shall prescribe for you. Come,
Edward.”
“Not Edward.”
“Well, then, Sir Francis Dane,” spoken as one might to a peevish
child. “The strain has been too much for you, Ed--Sir Francis. Go and
lie down, until you are recovered.”
I burst into a laugh, whereat Lucille seemed all the more
frightened. I could not cease from laughing as I looked at her.
She took me gently by the arm, and tried to lead me in, but I
stooped over, kissing her.
“Do not be frightened, sweet,” I said. “I am not wandering in my
mind. I have a secret to tell you.”
“Will it frighten me?”
“I hope not.”
Then I told her of the cause for my coming to America, because I
wished to escape those who would imprison me for having fought on
the side of the defeated King Monmouth. I was Sir Francis Dane, I
said, but had taken the name of Captain Edward Amherst, as a
measure of safety. When I had made an end I smiled down on her.
“Then it is good bye to Captain Amherst,” she remarked.
“Aye, ’tis the end of him,” I said.
“I am not sure but that I liked him better than I will Sir Francis
Dane,” went on Lucille. “For the latter is much of a stranger to me.”
“Will you have to begin to love over again?” I asked.
“Nay,” was her only reply, in a low voice.
“Sir Francis, Sir Francis,” she continued, after a moment’s pause.
“Hum, ’tis a rather nice name.” Then she seemed to be thinking.
“Why,” she exclaimed, suddenly, “it is a titled name, is it not? You
must be a person of distinction over in England.”
“I was,” I replied, dryly. Sedgemoor had taken all the distinction
from me, depriving me of lands and title.
“Hum, Sir Francis Dane. I wonder if he will care for plain Lucille de
Guilfort,” with a playful air of sadness.
My answer was a kiss.
“I love you, Lucille,” I said fervently, when she had escaped from
me.
“Well,” she remarked, plaintively, “I loved you as plain Captain
Amherst, perforce I must do so, since you are now Sir Francis Dane,
accustomed to being obeyed, I presume.”
“To the letter,” I answered, sternly.
“Now that is over,” I went on, “when are we to wed?”
“Not too soon. Wait until spring.”
“That will be in March.”
“Oh! ’Tis too early. There is much to be done. Linen to make up,
dresses to fashion and, indeed, if it were not for the kindness of
Madame Carteret I would have no gown now, but the sorry garment
you found me in.”
“That is more precious to me than cloth of gold would be,” I
replied. “The flutter of it, as the Eagle headed for shore, seemed to
tell me you were there. But, since March is too early, it must be the
next month,” I said, firmly.
“Let it be so,” she responded, with a little sigh. “In April then; the
month of tears and sunshine.”
“Let us hope that ours will all be sunshine,” I suggested.
“We have had enough of tears to make it so,” was her reply, as
she smiled brightly.
That matter being settled we had much more to talk of, the day
and many succeeding ones, seeming all too short for us. I was
recovering slowly, and was able to be all about. I took an active
charge of the military matters of the town, for my wound was
healing, and I hoped in a short time that I would be nearly as strong
as I was before. I took up my abode with the innkeeper, for Lucille
said it was not seemly that we should dwell under the same roof
longer. She, however, remained with Madame Carteret, weaving and
spinning in preparation for the spring.
It was close to the first of April when news came one day that
there was a ship down the bay, and that Captain Carteret had
returned on her. This was a glad message for me, and I prepared to
take a few of the men, marching down to meet him.
CHAPTER XXIX.
AN ORDER FROM THE KING.
I was half way on the road to the block house, to see if I could
muster up a guard, with which to go down and meet the Captain,
when I spied him coming along at a quick pace.
“Well-a-day,” he cried, when he had caught sight of me. “This is
quite a change, since I last saw you. Come, man, your hand.
“Why,” he exclaimed, when I had gripped his palm, “you have
some of your strength back again, I see--and feel.”
“A little,” I replied, as I grasped his other hand, in heartiness to
have him back once more.
There were tears in my eyes. I did not try to hide them, for
Carteret had been more than a brother to me; his good wife a very
mother to Lucille. I think he felt my gratitude, for he did not speak,
only returning my hand pressure.
“Well,” he said again, after a little pause, while we walked on
together toward his house, “this is better than being cooped up in
the block, with those devils howling on the outside. Though,” he
added, with a laugh, “we soon made them change their tune.”
He asked me how long I had suffered from the attack of Simon,
and what had become of the sailor. I told him what I had heard.
“I did not like to leave you,” he said, “but the call for me was
urgent. I thought I left you in safe hands, when Mistress Lucille took
charge of the nursing.”
“You did, indeed,” I replied.
“How is she; and how progresses your courtship?”
“Very well, to both questions. Since your kindness in turning this
command over to me I have been assured of a livelihood; quiet,
perhaps, compared to what I hoped for, but a sure one. ’Tis a place
befitting a man who is about to take unto himself a wife.”
“Then you are soon to wed?”
“Within a fortnight. Lucille is busy now, preparing what she is
pleased to term her linen. As for me I have little to get. I trust that
from my wage here I can fit up some small house that will do for a
time. I had hopes of taking her to a place befitting her station, to a
fine home. But poverty is a hard taskmaster.”
“Yet he drives light when love holds the reins.”
“True,” I assented. “We shall not fare so badly, I hope.”
“Then Mistress Lucille is prepared to face poverty with you?”
“She is,” I said, “and seems happy in the prospect.”
The Captain was laughing now. I looked at him to find the cause,
but was at a loss.
“You know I have been to London?” he inquired, after his
merriment had spent itself.
“Aye, so I heard.”
“And to Colchester also.”
“Nay; were you?” I asked, suddenly. That had been the home of
the Danes for centuries.
“To Colchester?”
“Aye. And while there I heard somewhat of you.”
“’Twas likely,” I answered, “seeing that my father, Sir Edward
Dane, owned quite an estate there.”
“It is of that same estate I would speak,” went on Carteret. “I
found out more of your story than you had time to tell me hurriedly
ere I sailed. Your offense against the crown had been nearly
forgotten at court. Learning which, while I was in London, I set
certain influences to work. I am not without friends in the King’s
circles, and, between us we began planning to get back what of your
father’s wealth we could, that you might enjoy it.
“First, and it was a matter of no little difficulty, we had you
granted a full and free pardon for all acts of treason of whatever
nature. To bring this about after the way had been paved, I sought
an audience with His Majesty. I have a little gift of eloquence, so I
described to the King how you blew the heathen into the air. He
listened to me more kindly after that. Being fond of fighting he made
me tell him the whole circumstance, which I flatter myself I did with
some credit to you. When I had finished the King clapped his hand
down on his thigh, bursting out with:
“‘By my sword, Carteret, but I could hardly have planned or
executed it better myself,’ which you may take as a fine compliment,
for His Majesty thinks himself a great soldier.”
“’Twas as much your credit as mine,” I said to the Captain.
“Well, never mind that. The King inquired all about you, also of Sir
George Keith, whose acts I in no way glossed over, though he was
my friend. His Majesty cut me short with: ‘Enough, enough,
Carteret.’ Calling for a quill and ink horn, he had signed a pardon ere
I knew what he was about. There it is,” exclaimed Carteret, thrusting
a legal looking paper, covered with red seals, into my hand. I took it,
hardly able to speak a word.
“Once that was done I breathed easier,” continued the Captain.
“But His Majesty did not stop there. He called his secretary, who told
the King, in answer to a question, that your father’s lands had been
confiscated to the crown.
“‘It is needful that we recompense your bold soldier somewhat,’
said His Majesty to me, when he had whispered for a time with his
officers. ‘I have signed an order on my treasurer for ten thousand
pounds, which you will convey to Sir Francis Dane, with my best
wishes.’
“I must have shown some surprise when His Majesty gave you the
‘sir,’ for he said:
“‘I have restored his title to him, Carteret. As for his estates, it is
not likely that he would come back to claim them now, so I have
given you, for him, what they are considered by my treasurer to be
worth--ten thousand pounds. If, when you reach America, you find
that he desires more----’
“‘Oh, ’tis enough, Your Majesty,’ I said quickly, lest he might
change his mind.
“Then I bowed myself out, after thanking him most warmly in my
name and your own.
“I lost little time in hastening to the treasury in the palace where
the King’s order was honored. I soon transacted what business I had
in London, set sail again, and, after a pleasant voyage, here I am. As
for the money, it is safe in my strong box at home. I stopped there
ere I went in search of you. Mistress Lucille told me where you had
started for.
“Now, is not that good news?”
I was beyond speaking, though I tried to thank him. I could only
hold out my hand.
“I’ll not grasp it until you promise to remember that it is a hand
and not a sword hilt,” said the Captain, so earnestly, that I laughed
ere I assured him that I would not grip him as hard as I did at first.
Joy lent me such speed as we walked to the house, where I knew
I would find Lucille, that Carteret called on me several times to halt,
and to walk more slowly.
“When you get as old as I am,” he said, “you will be glad to travel
less speedily.”
“Not with such good news as I carry,” was my answer.
“I found him,” cried the Captain, as we entered the room where
Lucille and Madame Carteret were seated.
He went out for a minute. When he returned he had in each hand
a stout sack. It was the money, some of it in gold, that clinked right
merrily. Carteret came over, holding out the bags to me.
I took one, laid it at Lucille’s feet, saying, as I smiled at her:
“With all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
The other sack I held out to Carteret.
“It is yours,” I said, “according to all the laws of arms. Take it.”
“Law or no law, I’ll have none of it,” he answered gruffly, I believe,
to hide his feelings. “Begone with it. Place it with the other beside
Mistress Lucille. Why,” he went on, “I have enough now to do the
good wife and myself as long as we live, and there’s not a soul I
care to leave any wealth to. Put it with the other. You will find a use
for all of it--when you are wed.”
I was forced to obey him, though I felt that he should have had a
half share of what he got for me, but all my argument was in vain.
Lucille and I were left alone in the room. She looked down on the
sacks of gold, then up at me.
“So you are Sir Francis, after all?” she asked.
“It seems so,” was my reply. “How do you like the name?”
“It has a wholesome sound,” she answered, repeating it over and
over again. “But Edward was not so poor a one. It did much for me.”
“So will Sir Francis, sweetheart,” I said.
“However, since the King has given it back to you, I suppose you
will keep it?”
“I will, indeed. It is a proud name, and many brave men and fair
women have been known by it.”
It was getting late when we ceased talking, though we had said
scarce half of what was in our minds.
A week passed. There were but seven days more ere we would be
wed. The block house had been fixed on as the place where the
brief ceremony might fittingly be held. We had decided to make it a
merry gathering, where all who would, might come and be happy.
The weather was now that of a mild early spring. The tender
green of the trees and shrubs, made the land a mass of verdure.
Gardens were being made, farms plowed, sheep let out to pasture,
and the colonists all around were busy. The town was prospering
under the hand of Providence. All that remained to bring to mind the
late Indian uprising were the ruins of a burned dwelling here and
there. Back on the hillside was a sadder recollection; a few rough
stones to mark the graves of those who had fallen in the great
battle. To me there remained the scars on my arm and side, where
Simon’s knife had entered, and the furrow of a bullet across one
cheek.
I would that some other pen could set down what is to follow. For,
though I can tell poorly enough, perhaps, concerning battles, sieges
and fighting, with which I am somewhat familiar, it is hard to tell of
scenes of baking, stewing, cooking and sewing, which now seemed
to centre about me. Verily it appeared, that last week, as if I might
as well bid my sword farewell, to take up a bodkin or a ladle in its
place, so little use did I seem to have for the weapon.
Every time I went to Captain Carteret’s house, to have a few
minutes with Lucille, I found her busy with either a stew-pan or a
needle. From a maid, that had been wont to pay some small heed to
what I said, she had come, almost, to hold me in as little importance
as any man in the Colony. She would leave me in a moment, no
matter what we were talking of, if Madame Carteret, or one of the
women, called her.
What I did say she either heard not, or forgot as speedily as I had
spoken.
Such bustling about as there was in the kitchen. I made bold to
poke myself in, once, but quickly drew out again. For in that short
space I nearly received a blow, accidental though it was, with a
wooden pestle on one side of my head, while another woman was
within an ace of dousing me with a jar of molasses she carried.
It seemed that Lucille’s wedding (I dared not call it mine) was the
first one in the Colony in a number of years, and the women folk
were so distracted by the thoughts of it, that they were at their wits’
end. They made plans by the dozens, as they did cakes, only to
unmake them ere night. Indeed, next to myself, whom nobody
consulted, Lucille had as little to say as if she was but to be an
onlooker. I was hard put, at times, when I was ordered around like a
school boy by the women. But Lucille, who had more of it than I did,
took it with good grace, just as if she had been used to it all her life.
While the women were thus making ready the kitchen and gown
part of the affair, the men, who were pleased to call me Captain, had
taken such command of the block house, that I was hardly welcome
there. The main room I was by no means allowed to enter. It was
the largest in the place, and the door was kept carefully barred to
me. There was much coming and going, bringing in of evergreen
boughs, foliage, and small branches of trees, covered with bright red
berries.
Several friendly Indians were seen about the town, bearing
bundles, that I could note, by an occasional glimpse, contained
goods of their workmanship. Stag horns polished until they glistened
in the sun, soft tanned skins of the deer, furry hides of the bear and
wild-cat, all these were carried into the block, and hidden in the
room that was closed to me.
So busy was every one but myself that I wandered about the
settlement, like a man without friends. I had a few matters to look
after, though.
With my wealth, so strangely restored to me, I purchased a roomy
and comfortable house, the best in the town, save Carteret’s, which
one of the settlers was anxious to sell. There was a cunning cabinet
maker and carpenter in the village, and I had them alter the
dwelling to suit my ideas. I sent privately to New York for some
furnishings, hired a man and maid servant, and the place began to
look like a home, only lacking a mistress. I laid out a good-sized
garden, had the farm plowed and sowed, and supplied with horses
and cows, so that there was a promise of plenty to eat and drink. On
the day before the one set for the ceremony, I sat down, tired but
happy, to spend the last few hours of my life as a lone man. I was
glad that the time was so short.
CHAPTER XXX.
LOVE, HONOR AND OBEY.
It was the 26th day of April. The air smelled of balmy spring, a
warm sun was overhead, a gentle breeze stirred the leaves amid
which the birds sang, and the whole earth seemed a happy place. I
jumped out of bed to look over the new suit, which I had, after
much time and thought, managed to get together. It was of dark
plum-colored stuff, soft to the touch, and became me as well as any
coat and breeches I ever had. I laid out a new pair of boots, the
pliable leather black and shiny, spread out my cloak on the bed, and
was ready to dress for the wedding. I strapped my sword on, feeling
that I was now in proper trim for the occasion. The weapon was the
same good one which had stood me in such stead all along. It had
received many a hard knock, the scabbard was not as free from
dents as when I had it from the maker, it was rather rusty, too, I
thought, the blade being stained here and there.
I sent to the innkeeper for some rags and rotten stone, that I
might polish the steel up. Master Aleworthy appeared himself with
the stuff. When he saw my fine looks (for I do myself that credit) he
would not let me burnish up the weapon, but insisted on doing it for
me. A very proper attempt he made of it, too, for, when he had
finished it shone like a new shilling.
“Now for breakfast,” he said.
“Not for me,” I replied, “there will be plenty of fodder when this
affair is over.”
“But, Sir Francis, ’twill be a long time to then.”
“Short enough,” was my answer.
I strode out across the fields to the Captain’s house, hoping I
might get a glimpse of Lucille. But if she had been hard to see a
week ago, she was ten times more so now. At every door I tried I
was bidden to take myself off, and call again. Finally, being
somewhat vexed, I called to one saucy hussy:
“Know, madame, that I am to wed to-day. That I am the groom.”
“Aye, I know it,” she responded, as cool as you please. “You will
be sent for when you are wanted.”
With that I had to be content, kicking my heels up and down the
garden path. Noon was the time. It wanted two hours yet.
It seemed a month that I was in the garden. At last some one
beckoned to me, and I was admitted in to see Lucille.
I would have gone up, before them all, to kiss her heartily, but she
held me off with her little hands, while a chorus of protests from all
the women told me I must respect the manner in which she was
adorned. Indeed, she made a handsome appearance. The dress was
of soft, gray-white, shimmering silk, with pieces of lace as long as
my gun barrel all about it, hung on after the manner of the clinging
vine that twines about a tree. The sleeves had it in, I think, also, the
neck, while there was a plenty trailing down the front and lower
edge. She wore a crown of glossy green leaves, a single white flower
in her dark hair.
The plan was for the party to go to the block house in carts, half a
score of which, festooned with evergreens, were in waiting. Instead
of letting Lucille and me go on together, which seemed to me to be
the most sensible way, she rode with James Blithly, a great booby of
a chap, while I had to sit in the cart with Mistress Alice Turner, a
sweet enough maid. She was talkative, and I was not so, on the
way, I had to keep answering “yes” and “no” to her questions.
It looked as though all the Colony and the folk from ten miles
around had come to the wedding. There were nearly three hundred
people in view when we neared the place where Dominie
Worthington was awaiting us. There were a number of Indians and
their squaws, friendly, all of them, who had gathered to see how the
pale faces took their brides. They laughed, smiled and greeted me
with “How, Cap’n,” while some held out their pipes, which, as was
their custom, I puffed a few whiffs from, to show that we were at
peace, though indeed, the ceremony lacked much of the solemnity
usually associated with it.
The block house at last. The drum beat as Carteret, in my honor,
drew the men up in double file. Lucille and I, with those who were
to attend us, dismounted from the carts, marching between the lines
of soldier-colonists into the main room. Then I was allowed to move
up beside Lucille, while both of us looked about in wonder.
Never had such a bower for the plighting of love been constructed
before. The rough hewn walls had been covered with green boughs,
red berries gleaming amidst the foliage. On the floor the boards
were hidden from view by furs in such quantity that they
overlapped. The stag antlers, fastened here and there, served as
hooks, whereon were suspended bows, arrows, swords, guns,
powder-horns, Indian shields, curious stone hatchets, and many of
the red-men’s household implements. Gay colored baskets added to
the color of the scene.
A little wooden altar had been made, but it was almost hidden
from view by trailing, green vines. The men-at-arms filed in, taking
their places on either side of the chamber. Then came the town-folk,
and the friendly Indians, squaws, and even settlers from Newark, so
that the place was well nigh filled.
Dominie Worthington took his place. Lucille and I stood together,
with Alice Turner and James Blithly on either side. Then, ere he
began to say the words that would unite us, Master Worthington
lifted up his voice in prayer.
Then came the promises, the pledges--“Love, Honor and obey”-
-“till death do you part”--solemn yet sweet. “Whom God hath joined
together, let not man put asunder.”
We were man and wife.
Then indeed came happy confusion and laughter. We were
overwhelmed, Lucille and I. But Carteret charged down on us, in the
nick of time, to rescue us from the friendly enemy that swarmed
about us. How quick was the journey back to the Captain’s house,
and what a feast was there spread out for all who wished to come.
So often was the health of Lucille and myself proposed and drunk,
that I lost track of those who did me the honor to touch glasses.
There was gay laughter, songs and talk, merrymaking among the
young people, and over all good-fellowship and much cheer, with
Lucille happiest of the women, and I of the men. It grew night, but
hundreds of candles chased the gloom away.
So it had come about, after many days, with force and with arms I
had won my bride.
We were to go to the home I had prepared. Lucille kissed Madame
Carteret and others of her women friends, while I had my own cart
and horses brought up to the door.
There were farewells by the score, laughter and tears from the
women, cheers from the men. The driver spoke to his team, they
leaped forward. Lucille and I had begun our life’s journey together.
It was not far to the house. The door was opened on a blaze of
candles.
“Welcome home, sweetheart,” I said, kissing her.
“Oh, Francis,” she exclaimed, looking about. “It is perfect. How
good of you to do all this for me.”
“Do you like it?”
“It is more than I dreamed.”
A little wind, coming in the windows, flickered the candles. The
breeze seemed to sigh in contentment at our happiness. The
servants closed the door. We were alone--my wife and I.
THE END.
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Transcriber’s Note
On p. 212, the printer transposed the third and fourth
lines of the paragraph beginning: “So we stood thus....”
As printed:
Corrected: