At the last minute Thomas Wynne extended a blanket invitation to the young gentlemen in town for the Lassiter-Powell wedding, and they were conveyed to the Wynne estate in mule-drawn buses. The Wynne gardens were lit by Japanese lanterns and a special pavilion had been erected for the dancing. The pavilion, in approximately the shape of a Chinese pagoda, was assembled on a slope just below the Wynne mansion and thus offered a view of the Company-owned Lake Wynne and of Lawyer—originally Loire—Valley. The location was remarkable, and visitors always exclaimed at its beauty. “You know why it’s so pretty,” Tom Wynne would reply. “All around here, to the east and the west and the south, are coal mines. No matter how you come here, by train or by team, you have to go through the mining patches. Then you get up here and you don’t see a single breaker, no culm banks anywhere. That takes you by surprise, and that’s the way I want it to be. Some day after I’m dead and gone they’ll sink a shaft there where you see that little village, they’ll start cutting timber. But as long as I have any say it stays this way.”
In the twilight before Agnes Wynne’s dance George Lockwood listened to the old man’s set speech. “You might say it’s a very expensive view,” said George Lockwood.
Thomas Wynne turned to him. “Yes, if you want to reckon it in dollars and cents it is, young man. You’re Mr. Phillips?”
“No sir, this is Mr. Phillips. My name is Lockwood. This is Phillips, this is McCormick, this is—”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh,” interrupted the old man. “I knew the others, I didn’t know Phillips and you. Lockwood. Are you in business, or you still studying?”
“I’m in business with my father.”
“Would that be Abraham Lockwood? Over in Swedish Haven?”
“Yes sir.”
“I know the name,” said Tom Wynne. “Well, gentlemen, I trust you enjoy yourselves.” He left the group to mingle with other guests before the serving of dinner.
The evening was well along before George Lockwood’s turn to dance with the guest of honor came, and she was beginning to run out of small talk. More accurately, she was tiring of repeating the same small talk to so many strangers.“. . . And you’re with the wedding?” she said, wearily. “Mary was such a pretty bride.”
“She was no such thing, but as long as Pudge thinks so,” said George Lockwood.
“I don’t think that’s a very nice thing to say about your friend’s fiancée. Wife.”
“Well, if you’d said Pudge was a handsome bridegroom I wouldn’t have agreed with that, either. He’s a good fellow, but you must admit, not an Adonis.”
“I look for more than that in my friends,” said Agnes.
“I know. Fortunately they don’t have to look for more than that in you.”
“Is that a compliment, or are you implying that they wouldn’t find any more?”
“It was meant as a compliment. I wouldn’t say anything uncomplimentary at this stage of the game.”
“At this stage of the game? What makes you think there’ll ever be any other stage of the game, as you call it?”
“I withdraw that, Miss Wynne. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see you again after this evening. Your grandfather didn’t like me, either, by the way.”
“My grandfather? Where did you ever know my grandfather? And which one? They’re both dead.”
“I thought that was your grandfather, the man that’s giving this ball.”
“He’s my cousin. My father’s first cousin. Why didn’t he like you? What did you say to him?”
“To be truthful, I think it was my father he doesn’t like. As soon as I mentioned my father’s name, Mr. Wynne ended the conversation. Although it could have been me, of course. I’m not famous for buttering people up.”
“No, I shouldn’t think you were. Not that buttering people up is very commendable.”
“But I can make enemies without saying a word.”
“But you don’t leave it to chance, do you? You do say a word, don’t you? I think you want people to dislike you. What you said about Mary was unnecessary. And what you said about Pudge.”
“Why would I want people to dislike me? You, for instance. You’re the belle of the ball, besides being the guest of honor. And I gave you one sincere compliment that you twisted around. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I don’t like to get personal on such short acquaintance.”
“I’m humbly apologetic, Miss Wynne, and I trust you’ll forget the whole incident.” The waltz ended here, Agnes took his arm, and he escorted her to a group of young people. During the remainder of the evening he saw her glancing at him from time to time, neither smiling nor with hostility, but unquestionably conscious of him.
There was a picnic next day at the Lake Wynne boathouse, the concluding event of the wedding and ball festivities. The guests were all young people, chaperoned by Theron and Bessie Wynne, the nominal host and hostess. The water was very cold, and no one went bathing, but most of the guests took turns in the rowboats. Thus George Lockwood found himself alone with Theron and Bessie Wynne at a picnic table.
“Well, I guess you’ll all be glad to get home and get some sleep,” said Theron Wynne. “How far do you have to go, Mr. Lockwood?”
“I’m getting off at the second stop, Swedish Haven. First stop Gibbsville, then Swedish Haven.”
“Oh, yes. Swedish Haven. I’ve never been there. I’ve gone through it on the train, many times, but never got off. Isn’t that where my friend Jacob Bollinger is? The minister? My friend—I haven’t seen Jake in years, but we were friends in college.”
“Pastor of the Lutheran Church, yes.”
“I used to love to hear him talk. When he came to college you could hardly understand him, he was so Dutch.”
“Still is.”
“Do you speak Pennsylvania Dutch?”
“A few words, and I can count in it. My mother was Pennsylvania Dutch. Richterville.”
“Oh, yes. That’s in Lebanon County?”
“No, it’s still in Lantenengo, but just over the line.”
“The last time I saw Jake Bollinger he’d just been called to the Lutheran Church in Swedish Haven, and I asked him if he expected to find a lot of sinful people there. He said no, but there was one family that the head of it had committed two murders, and got off scot-free. I didn’t think such things happened among the Pennsylvania Dutch. That sounded more like us in the coal regions.”
George Lockwood rose. “The next time you see Reverend Bollinger you must get him to tell you the name of that family.”
“Oh, then it’s true? I thought Jake might have been pulling my leg. He had a peculiar sense of humor for a preacher. Sly little jokes.”
“I know the family very well. Will you excuse me? I’m in the next boat.”
Theron Wynne’s letter arrived a week later.
Dear Mr. Lockwood:
I am writing to offer my deepest apologies for the unfortunate remarks I made Sunday last at the picnic at Lake Wynne. I cannot find words to tell you how sorry I am that my blundering, loose tongue could have inflicted such pain. To make matters worse, your gentlemanly restraint in the face of such stupid scandal-mongering set an example to me, although you are the younger man whereas I am more than old enough to be your father. I would give anything I possess to be able to make amends or to in some way wipe out all recollection of my words. In conclusion I can only say that never in my life have I been so abject in my apologies and expression of my regret. I trust you will find it in your heart to in time forgive my blunder. I remain,
Yours very truly,
Theron B. Wynne