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Huldah, The Help [A Thanksgiving Love Story]
by
Huldah asked that he should not say anything about it till his sister was gone. Of course John saw that she asked it for his sake. But his own cowardice was glad of the shelter.
Next day a brother of John’s, whom I forgot to mention before, came home from college. Mrs. Holmes’s husband arrived unexpectedly. Aunt Judith, with her family, came over at dinner time, so that there was a large and merry party. Two hearts, at least, joined in the deacon’s thanksgiving before dinner with much fervor.
At the table the dinner was much admired.
“Huldah,” said Janet Dunton, “I like your pies. I wish I could hire you to go to Boston. Our cook never does so well.”
John saw the well-aimed shaft hidden under this compliment, and all his manhood rallied. As soon as he could be sure of himself he said:
“You can not have Huldah; she is already engaged.”
“How’s that?” said Aunt Judith.
“Oh! I’ve secured her services,” said John.
“What?” said Mrs. Holmes, “engaged your–your–your help before you engaged a wife!”
“Not at all,” said John; “engaged my help and my wife in one. I hope that Huldah Manners will be Huldah Harlow by Christmas.”
The deacon dropped his knife and fork, and dropped his lower jaw, and stared. “What! How! What did you say, John?”
“I say, father, that this good girl Huldah is to be my wife.”
“John!” gasped the old man, getting to his feet and reaching his hand across the table, “you’ve got plenty of sense if you do wear a mustache! God bless you, my boy; there ain’t no better woman here, nor in New York, nor anywhere, than Huldah. God bless you both! I was afraid you’d take a different road, though.”
“Hurrah for our Huldah and our John!” said George Harlow, the college boy, and his brothers joined him. Even the little Holmes children hurrahed.
* * * * *
Here the judge stopped.
“Well,” said Irene, “I don’t think it was very nice in him to marry the ‘help.’ Do you, father?”
“Indeed I do,” said the judge, with emphasis.
“Did she ever come to understand Emerson?” asked Anna, who detested the Concord philosopher because she could not understand him.
“Indeed I don’t know,” said the judge; “you can ask Huldah herself.”
“Who? what? You don’t mean that mother is Huldah?”
It was a cry in concert.
“Mother” was a little red in the face behind the copy of Whittier she was affecting to read.
1870.