CHAPTER XXXIV MINERVA SETTLES IT.

AT almost the last moment we all postponed our going down for a day as there were so many last things to do in the way of leaving the place winter-proof.

And it was well for us that we waited, for the very last mail altered the complexion of things considerably. It contained a letter from the Wheelocks telling us that instead of coming home they had decided to stay in Rome for another year.

“I thought I’d write to say,” it ran, “that if you want to rent the house again next summer we’ll be glad to have you do so. Let me know if any repairs are needed.”

I sought out our guests and told them the good news.

“We can have the place next summer and we invite you all to come up again and be with us, or build bungalows, if you want.” Cherry blushed furiously. “We might form an artist colony.”

“Suits me down to the ground,” said Billy.

Hepburn said nothing. Neither did Sibthorp, but Tom and his wife said that they had been thinking seriously of building a little cottage, and now that we were sure to come back he would surely do it.

“I must go and tell Minerva,” said Ethel. “Do you know she is positively blue this morning at the thought of going back. She’ll be glad to know we are coming up next year.”

She went to the kitchen and through the door which she left open we heard what followed.

“Minerva, I have some good news to tell you.”

“Yas’m.”

“The Wheelocks are not coming back for a year and we’ll take the house again next summer, so you can come up with us and see more of your friends up here.”

Minerva laughed a joyous laugh, and James, who had been nailing fast the kitchen windows, added volume to her laugh in a cachinnation that was brimming over with optimism.

“Mrs. Vernon,” said he, dropping his hammer on the floor. “Minervy wanted me to tell you something that she thought might disappoint you.” He laughed again, this time in a conscious way. “Fact is,” said he, “Minervy an’ me has come to an understandin’, an’, an’—an’—we’re go’n’ to git married.”

“I’m very glad to hear it,” said Ethel, quickly, “and I don’t mind saying that I’ve been hoping for it. Mr. Vernon is quite sure he can get something for you to do in the city.”

“Nothin’ in the city would just suit me, ma’am,” said he, “I wasn’ cut out for the city. I once passed a couple of days in New York and it was all I wanted. Too noisy.”

“Oh, you’d git used to that,” said Minerva. “My-oh-my, that’s what I like about the city. Ef ’twas noisier here I’d like it a heap better.”

“Can’t you postpone your marriage till next summer, James? We can’t get along without Minerva, and we’re coming back here next summer and you could get married then and we’d employ you and probably run a kitchen garden for you to attend to. You see there’ll be a number coming up next summer.”

“I dare say I could do that all right next summer but I got a job at the Boardman’s tendin’ to their green house for the winter, an’ Minerva an’ me’s go’n’ to git married just as soon as you leave. She ain’t go’n’ down at all.”

Ethel saw it was no use to plead; that Minerva and James were so selfish that they had rather marry and stay up than postpone their marriage the best part of a year in order to enable her to keep a good cook. She left the kitchen and came to me with the news which I had already heard, as I told her.

The rest of the party condoled with her.

“Isn’t it disheartening,” said she, sinking into a big arm chair disconsolately.

A brilliant thought struck me as I looked at my wife.

“I have a solution of the whole business.” I stepped to the door. “James, stop that hammering a minute.”

James, who had resumed his task of nailing fast the sashes, stopped.

I returned again to Ethel.

“I think that I can work on that novel that Scribman wants just as well here as in the city. What do you say to our staying up here all winter so as to keep Minerva?”

“Oh, you treasure of an idea-haver,” said Ethel, rushing at me and kissing me right before everybody.

“But would James let her work?” said Cherry.

“That remains to be seen,” said I. “Let’s see it now.”

We all trooped out into the kitchen, Mr. and Mrs. Tom, the Benedicts, Jack and Billy, Sibthorp and Hepburn and Cherry by herself. She had avoided Billy all the morning but as he had told me the news I knew it was all right with them.

As we entered the kitchen James was walking toward the north window and Minerva was walking toward the south. Both of them were looking very unconcerned. If I had been making a picture of it I should have called it “After the Salute.”

“James,” said I, “I congratulate you on the news that Mrs. Vernon has just brought me, although we’ll hate to give Minerva up. In fact we want to know whether if we decided to stay here all winter you could not attend to the Boardman green house and let Minerva do our cooking? You could live here, you know.”

James’ handsome face became occupied with a smile of great dimensions.

“I reckon I could do that, all right, sir. What do you say, Minervy?”

Minerva simpered. “I’d like nothin’ better than to work for you all winter up here. I was thinkin’ it would be awful lonesome after you left.” James looked as if he thought this only half a compliment but Ethel felt it was a very sincere one.

“Oh, you dear good thing,” said my wife, and I was reminded of the day that Minerva promised to go up to the hated country.

“James,” said I, “there’ll be no need to postpone your wedding day.”

Minerva giggled.

James looked me in the eye. Then he picked up the hammer and going over to the window he drew out the nails he had just driven in. They would not be needed now that we were going to stay.

“Mr. Vernon,” said he, “’member that day we went to Springfiel’?”

Minerva giggled harder, sunk her head in her shoulders, and put her hand before her face.

“Yes, I remember,” said I, wondering what was coming.

“Well, we got married that day.”

“Is that so, Minerva?” said Ethel.

“Yas’m,” said Minerva.

The End