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Show HOW IT WAS DONE. Church Torrington was, perhaps, the greatest coward in New York. Don't misunderstand us, gentle reader-physically speaking, our young hero was as brave as Bayard-as dauntless as Coeur de Lion. But it was where the fair sex was concerned that Mr. Torrington became a poltroon. A gentle glance from a pair of blue eyes was enough to throw him into a cold perspiration at any time. As one by one the companions of his boyhood and early youth vanished out of the path of bachelorhood and entered into the promised land of matrimony, Church Torrington viewed them with a not unenvious mind. "How the mischief did they ever muster up courage enough to do it?" was his internal reflection. And Harry Lashe, a wag of forty, who always had a knack of finding out everybody else a weak points, said: "All of that set married, except Church Torrington, and he'll be a bachelor all the days of his life, because he hasn't got the courage to ask any girl to have him. I don't know, though, either," he added, reflectively. "Wait until leap year comes round again; there may be a chance for him then!" Nevertheless, in the face of all these obstacles, Church Torrington was in love. Miss Violet Purple was as pretty and blooming a little lassie as ever tripped down the sunny side of Broadway under a thread lace parasol on a June afternoon. She was very plump and rather small, with soft blue gray eyes, eyebrows like twin arches of jet, shining chestnut hair, and a skin like white velvet, just flushed with the softest pink on either dimpled cheek. And she had a way of carrying her head piquantly on one side, spoke with the slightest possible of lisps, always wore a rose in her hair, and was altogether precisely the sort of a girl a man's fancy was apt to conjure up when he thought of the possibility of a wife to cheer the gloom of his solitary home. Violet Purple was born to be married-you couldn't think of her as an old maid any more than you could think of strawberries without cream, or a satin slipper without a dainty foot to fit it, and, whenever she thought of the probability of that catastrophe, a face like the mustached physiognomy of Mr. Church Torrington outlined itself through the misty vapors of her daydream. But Mr. Church was so dreadfully bashful-he wouldn't propose-and poor little Violet was nearly at her wit's end what to do in this dire perplexity. A girl of any delicacy can't very well ask a man to have her, and Violet had done everything else. She had smiled sweetly on him, given him rose-buds out of all her ball-bouquets, sent him embroidered cigar-cases, and returned a gentle pressure when he had ventured to squeeze her hand at parting; and what, we ask the reader, could a girl do more? And still, in spite of all this, Mr. Torrington persisted in keeping his love to himself. In vain Aunt Sarepta took her work upstairs, and left the drawing-room free to twilight and the lovers-in vain Violet put on her prettiest dresses, and curled her hair, with a special eye to Church Torrington's taste. Old Mr. Purple-whose name was not a bad description of the general hue of his face-began to wonder "what in the world young Torrington meant by coming here so much and keeping better men away!" and hinted very broadly at the propriety of Violet's being more gracious to a certain banker, a friend of his, who was supposed to be especially attracted by the blue-gray eyes and the jet-arched brows. And little Violet took to crying at night on her lace-edged pillows, and Aunt Sarepta, a tall, spare, maiden lady, who had only recently come up from the country to take charge of her brother's household, scarcely knew what to do. "Violet," quote the aunt, "what ails you?" "I don't know, aunt." "How long has Mr. Torrington been visiting here?" "I don't know; about three years." "Does he care for you, Violet?" "I don't know, aunt," she replied blushing and rosy. "Do you care for him?" "I don't know, aunt," she said, blushing still more deeply. "Then why on earth don't he propose, and have done with it?" "I don't know, aunt!" This time in a sort of despairing accent. Miss Sarepta Purple set herself to untangle this Gordian knot of circumstances as she would have done in a "snarl" in her skeins of mixed wools; and when Miss Sarepta set herself about a thing, she was generally in the habit of accomplishing it. "I'll go and see him myself," was the result of a long day of meditation on Miss Sarepta's part, "and I won't let Violet know about it." Mr. Church Torrington sat in his leather-covered easy chair, looking over a difficult case in "??," when his clerk announced "a lady;" and, turning abruptly round, he encountered the gaze of Miss Sarepta Purple's spectacled orbs. He colored scarlet as he dragged forth a chair, and stammered out some incoherent sentence or other-for was she not Violet's aunt?-the aunt of the fair damsel whom he worshipped [worshiped] afar off and in silence! "Thank you," said Miss Purple, depositing herself on the chair as one might set down a heavy trunk-"I've come on business." "Indeed!" "Because," said Miss Sarepta, edging her chair a little nearer that of the young lawyer; "I think its time this business was settled." "What business?" "What business?" echoed Miss Purple, with a belligerent toss of her head, "as if you do not know well enough what I are talking about-why, getting married, to be sure!" Mr. Torrington grew a shade or two paler. Was it possible that this ancient maiden still contemplated the probability of matrimony? Had she then selected him for her victim? He looked at the back window-it opened on a blind alley, which led nowhere. He glanced at the door; but Miss Purple's gaunt form effectually debarred that means of egress. No-there was nothing but to sit still and face the worst that fate had in store for him. "You see," went on Miss Sarepta, "I am not blind, if I am getting into years, and I can see as well as anybody what you mean by coming so often to our house. But still I think you ought to have spoken out like a man. I'm willing; and I don't suppose my brother will object, as you seem to be able to keep a wife!" "You-you are very kind!" stammered Mr. Torrington. "Is it to be yes or no-about the marriage, I mean." "I shall be most happy, I'm sure!" stammered our miserable hero. "Spoken like a man! It's what I knew you meant all the time," cried Aunt Sarepta, to her feet," and actually depositing an oscular demonstration, meant for a kiss, on Church's forehead, "I knew I should like you!" Church stared. This was not exactly ?? but the whole matter was really so strange and unprecedented that he hardly knew what to think. "And when will you come round to brother Jacob's, and tell the folks all about it-for I suppose you'd like to tell them yourself? This evening?" "Y-yes, if you say so!" "It's as good a time as any, I suppose. Of course, you won't mention that I said anything to you about it? I'd rather it should seem unstudied." "Naturally enough!" thought poor Church. But he promised with a faint smile, and parted from Miss Purple, almost shrinking from the vigorous grasp of the hand which she unhesitatingly bestowed upon him. No sooner was Church Torrington alone than the full horror of his position rushed upon him. What had he done? To what had he committed himself? "It serves me right," he muttered, grinding his teeth, "when I could have won the love of the sweetest little fairy that the sun ever shone on. It was simply idiotic of me to allow a middle-aged termagant to take possession of me, as though I were a cooking-stove or a second-hand clock! She will marry me, and I shall be a captive for life, simply because I was too much noodle to save myself. Oh, dear, dear! this is a terrible scrape for a poor fellow to get into! But there is no help for it now. If I were to back out, she'd sue me for breach of promise. If I were to go to Australia, she would follow me there as sure as fate! I'm a lost man!" And Church Torrington proceeded straight to the mansion where dwelt the inexorable Sarepta. And behold! as he knocked at the door, Miss Purple herself opened the door, and mysteriously beckoned him in. "I saw you coming," she said, in a low, eager tone. "I've been on the look out. Excuse me, my dear, but I really feel as if I must kiss you once more. We're going to be relations, you know." "Relations! I should think so!" groaned Church Torrington, taking the kiss as a child would a quinine powder. Miss Sarepta patted him on the shoulder. "Then go in," she said, nodding mysteriously toward the door beyond. "Go in-where?" stammered our bewildered hero. "Why, to Violet, to be sure!" "To Violet! Was it Violet that you meant-" "To be sure it was! Who did you suppose I meant-me?" This last suggestion, hazarded as the wildest improbability by Miss Sarepta, called the guilty color up into Church's cheek. "Miss Purple, pardon me," he said, "but I've been a stupid blockhead. Don't be angry, as you say we're going to be relations." And he took the spinster in his arms, and bestowed upon her a kiss which made its predecessor appear but the shadow and ghost of kisses-a kiss which sounded as if Mr. Church Torrington meant it. "Do behave yourself!" cried Miss Sarepta. "Yes, I'm going to," said Church, and he walked straight into the drawing room, where little Violet was dreaming over an unread book of poems. She started as he entered. "Mr. Torrington, is it you?" "Yes; it is I," said Church, inspired with new courage. "Violet, darling, I love you-will you consent to be my wife?" "Are you in earnest, Church?" "In earnest? it's what I've been waiting to say to you for the last six months, but I have never dared to venture. Come, you will not send me away with out an answer. Say yes, darling." "Yes," Violet answered, so faintly that only true love's ear could have discerned the faltering monosyllable. And Church Torrington felt as if he were the luckiest man in all the great metropolis that night. When Aunt Sarepta came in, looking very unconscious, to light the gas, Church insisted upon another kiss, greatly to that lady's discomposure. "For you know very well, Aunt Sarepta," he said, "you set me the example." And Aunt Sarepta did not look very angry with him. So they were married with all due flourish of trumpets; and Violet does not know to this day how instrumental the old maiden aunt was in securing her happiness. |