The wedding party had arrived in full force now. Carriages and
automobiles were unloading; gay voices and laughter filled the house.
The servants disappeared to their places, and the white bride, with
only a motioning look toward Gordon, led the way to the place where
they were to stand under an arch of roses, lilies and palms, in a
room hung from the ceiling with drooping ferns and white carnations
on invisible threads of silver wire, until it all seemed like a fairy
dream.
Gordon had no choice but to follow, as his way was blocked by the
incoming guests, and he foresaw that his exit would have to be made
from some other door than the front if he were to escape yet awhile.
As he stepped into the mystery of the flower-scented room where his
lady led the way, he was conscious of a feeling of transition from the
world of ordinary things into one of wonder, beauty and mysterious joy;
but all the time he knew he was an impostor, who had no right in that
silver-threaded bower.
Yet there he stood bowing, shaking hands, and smirking behind his false
mustache, which threatened every minute to betray him.
People told him he was looking well, and congratulated him on his
bride. Some said he was stouter than when he left the country, and
some said he was thinner. They asked him questions about relatives
and friends living and dead, and he ran constant risk of getting into
hopeless difficulties. His only safety was in smiling, and saying very
little; seeming not to hear some questions, and answering others with
another question. It was not so hard after he got started, because
there were so many people, and they kept coming close upon one another,
so no one had much time to talk. Then supper with its formalities was
got through with somehow, though to Gordon, with his already satisfied
appetite and his hampering mustache, it seemed an endless ordeal.
“Jeff,” as they all called him, was everywhere, attending to
everything, and he slipped up to the unwilling bridegroom just as he
was having to answer a very difficult question about the lateness of
his vessel, and the kind of passage they had experienced in crossing.
By this time Gordon had discovered that he was supposed to have been
ten years abroad, and his steamer had been late in landing, but where
he came from or what he had been doing over there were still to be
found out; and it was extremely puzzling to be asked from what port he
had sailed, and how he came to be there when he had been supposed to
have been in St. Petersburg but the week before? His state of mind was
anything but enviable. Besides all this, Gordon was just reflecting
that the last he had seen of his hat and coat was in the church. What
had become of them, and how could he go to the station without a hat?
Then opportunely “Jeff” arrived.
“Your train leaves at ten three,” he said in a low, business-like tone,
as if he enjoyed the importance of having made all the arrangements.
“I’ve secured the stateroom as you cabled me to do, and here are the
tickets and checks. The trunks are down there all checked. Celia didn’t
want any nonsense about their being tied up with white ribbon. She
hates all that. We’ve arranged for you to slip out by the fire-escape
and down through the back yard of the next neighbor, where a motor,
just a plain regular one from the station, will be waiting around the
corner in the shadow. Celia knows where it is. None of the party will
know you are gone until you are well under way. The car they think you
will take is being elaborately adorned with white at the front door
now, but you won’t have any trouble about it. I’ve fixed everything up.
Your coat and hat are out on the fire-escape, and as soon as Celia’s
ready I’ll show you the way.”
Gordon thanked him. There was nothing else to do, but his countenance
grew blank. Was there, then, to be no escape? Must he actually take
another man’s bride with him in order to get away? And how was he to
get away from her? Where was the real bridegroom and why did he not
appear upon the scene? And yet what complications that might bring up.
He began to look wildly about for a chance to flee at once, for how
could he possibly run away with a bride on his hands? If only some one
were going with them to the station he could slip away with a clear
conscience, leaving her in good hands, but to leave her alone, ill, and
distressed was out of the question. He had rid himself of a lonely dog
and a suffering child, though it gave him anguish to do the deed, but
leave this lovely woman for whom he at least appeared to have become
responsible, he could not, until he was sure she would come to no harm
through him.
“Don’t let anything hinder you! Don’t let anything hinder you!”
It appeared that this refrain had not ceased for an instant since it
began, but had chimed its changes through music, ceremony, prayer
and reception without interruption. It acted like a goad upon his
conscience now. He must do something that would set him free to go back
to Washington. An inspiration came to him.
“Wouldn’t you like to go to the station with us?” he asked the young
man, “I am sure your sister would like to have you.”
The boy’s face lit up joyfully.
“Oh, wouldn’t you mind? I’d like it awfully, and--if it’s all the same
to you, I wish Mother could go too. It’s the first time Celia and she
were ever separated, and I know she hates it fiercely to have to say
good-by with the house full of folks this way. But she doesn’t expect
it of course, and really it isn’t fair to you, when you haven’t seen
Celia alone yet, and it’s your wedding trip----”
“There will be plenty of time for us,” said the compulsory bridegroom
graciously, and felt as if he had perjured himself. It was not in his
nature to enjoy a serious masquerade of this kind.
“I shall be glad to have you both come,” he added earnestly. “I really
want you. Tell your mother.”
The boy grasped his hand impulsively:
“I say,” said he, “you’re all right! I don’t mind confessing that I’ve
hated the very thought of you for a whole three months, ever since
Celia told us she had promised to marry you. You see, I never really
knew you when I was a little chap, but I didn’t used to like you. I
took an awful scunner to you for some reason. I suppose kids often
take irrational dislikes like that. But ever since I’ve laid eyes on
you to-night, I’ve liked you all the way through. I like your eyes.
It isn’t a bit as I thought I remembered you. I used to think your
eyes had a sort of deceitful look. Awful to tell you, isn’t it? But I
felt as if I wanted to have it off my conscience, for I see now you’re
nothing of the kind. You’ve got the honestest eyes I ever saw on a man,
and I’d stake my last cent that you wouldn’t cheat a church mouse.
You’re true as steel, and I’m mighty glad you’re my brother-in-law. I
know you’ll be good to Celia.”
The slow color mounted under his disguise until it reached Gordon’s
burnished brown hair. His eyes were honest eyes. They had always been
so--until to-day. Into what a world of deceit he had entered! How he
would like to make a clean breast of it all to this nice, frank boy;
but he must not! for there was his trust! For an instant he was on the
point of trying to explain that he was not the true bridegroom, and
getting young Jefferson to help him to set matters right, but an influx
of newly arrived guests broke in upon their privacy, and he could only
press the boy’s hand and say in embarrassed tones:
“Thank you! I shall try to be worthy of your good opinion hereafter!”
It was over at last, and the bride slipped from his side to prepare
for the journey. He looked hastily around, feeling that his very first
opportunity had come for making an escape. If an open window had
presented itself, he would have vaulted through, trusting to luck and
his heels to get away, but there was no window, and every door was
blocked by staring, admiring, smirking people. He bethought himself of
the fire-escape where waited his hat and coat, and wondered if he could
find it.
With smiling apologies, he broke away from those around him, murmuring
something about being needed, and worked his way firmly but steadily
toward the stairs and thence to the back halls. Coming at last upon an
open window, he slipped through, his heart beating wildly. He thought
for a second that he was there ahead of the others; but a dark form
loomed ahead and he perceived some one coming up from outside. Another
second, and he saw it was his newly acquired brother-in-law.
“Say, this is great!” was his greeting. “How did you manage to find
your way up alone? I was just coming down after you. I wanted to leave
you there till the last minute so no one would suspect, but now you
are here we can hustle off at once. I just took Mother and Celia down.
It was pretty stiff for Mother to climb down, for she was a little
bit afraid, but she was game all right, and she was so pleased to go.
They’re waiting for us down there in the court. Here, let me help you
with your overcoat. Now I’ll pull down this window, so no one will
suspect us and follow. That’s all right now, come on! You go ahead.
Just hold on to the railing and go slow. I’ll keep close to you. I know
the way in my sleep. I’ve played fire here many a year, and could climb
down in my sleep.”
Gordon found himself wishing that this delightful brother-in-law were
really his. There was evidently to be no opportunity of escape here. He
meditated making a dash and getting away in the dark when they should
reach the foot of the stairs; much as he hated to leave that way, he
felt he must do so if there was any chance for him at all; but when
they reached the ground he saw that was hopeless. The car that was
to take them to the station was drawn up close to the spot, and the
chauffeur stood beside it.
“Your mother says fer you to hurry, Mister Jefferson,” he called in a
sepulchral tone. “They’re coming out around the block to watch. Get in
as quick as you can.”
The burly chauffeur stood below Gordon, helped him to alight on his
feet from the fire-escape, and hustled him into the darkness of the
conveyance.
They were very quiet until they had left the dark court and were
speeding away down the avenue. Then the bride’s mother laid two gentle
hands upon Gordon’s, leaning across from her seat to do so, and said:
“My son, I shall never forget this of you, never! It was dear of you to
give me this last few minutes with my darling!”
Gordon, deeply touched and much put to it for words, mumbled something
about being very glad to have her, and Jefferson relieved the situation
by pouring forth a volume of information and questions, fortunately not
pausing long enough to have the latter answered. The bride sat with one
hand clasped in her mother’s, and said not a word. Gordon was haunted
by the thought of tears in her eyes.
There was little opportunity for thinking, but Gordon made a hasty
plan. He decided to get his party all out to the train and then
remember his suit-case, which he had left checked in the station.
Jefferson would probably insist upon going for it but he would insist
more strenuously that the brother and sister would want to have
this last minute together. Then he could get away in the crowd and
disappear, coming later for his suit-case perhaps, or sending a porter
from his own train for it. The only drawback to this arrangement was
that it seemed a dishonorable way to leave these people who would
in the nature of things be left in a most trying position by his
disappearance, especially the sad little bride. But it could not be
helped, and his staying would only complicate things still further,
for he would have to explain who he was, and that was practically
impossible on account of his commission. It would not do to run risks
with himself until his mission was accomplished and his message
delivered. After that he could confess and make whatever reparation a
man in his strange position could render.
The plan worked very well. The brother of course eagerly urged that he
be allowed to go back for the suit-case, but Gordon, with well-feigned
thoughtfulness, said in a low tone:
“Your sister will want you for a minute all to herself.”
A tender look came into the boy’s eyes, and he turned back smiling
to the stateroom where his mother and sister were having a wordless
farewell. Gordon jumped from the train and sprinted down the platform,
feeling meaner than he ever remembered to have felt in his whole
life, and with a strange heaviness about his heart. He forgot for the
moment that there was need for him to be on his guard against possible
detectives sent by Mr. Holman. Even the importance of the message
he carried seemed to weigh less, now that he was free. His feet had
a strange unwillingness to hurry, and without a constant pressure of
the will would have lagged in spite of him. His heart wanted to let
suit-case and commission and everything else go to the winds and take
him back to the stateroom where he had left his sorrowful bride of
an hour. She was not his, and he might not go, but he knew that he
would never be the same hereafter. He would always be wondering where
she was, wishing he could have saved her from whatever troubled her;
wishing she were his bride, and not another’s.
He passed back through the station gate, and a man in evening clothes
eyed him sharply. He fancied he saw a resemblance to one of the men
at the Holman dinner-table, but he dared not look again lest a glance
should cost him recognition. He wondered blindly which way he should
take, and if it would be safe to risk going at once to the checking
window, or whether he ought to go in hiding until he was sure young
Jefferson would no longer look for him. Then a hand touched his
shoulder and a voice that was strangely welcome shouted:
“This way, George! The checking place is over to the right!”
He turned and there stood Jefferson, smiling and panting:
“You see, the little mother had something to say to Celia alone, so I
saw I was _de trop_, and thought I better come with you,” he declared
as soon as he could get his breath.
“Gee, but you can run!” added the panting youth. “What’s the hurry?
It’s ten whole minutes before the train leaves. I couldn’t waste all
that time kicking my heels on the platform, when I might be enjoying
my new brother-in-law’s company. I say, are you really going to live
permanently in Chicago? I do wish you’d decide to come back to New
York. Mother’ll miss Celia no end. I don’t know how she’s going to
stand it.”
Walking airily by Gordon’s side, he talked, apparently not noticing the
sudden start and look of mingled anxiety and relief that overspread
his brother-in-law’s countenance. Then another man walked by them
and turning looked in their faces. Gordon was sure this was the
thick-set man from Holman’s. He was eying Gordon keenly. Suddenly all
other questions stepped into the background, and the only immediate
matter that concerned him was his message, to get it safely to its
destination. With real relief he saw that this had been his greatest
concern all the time, underneath all hindrances, and that there had
not been at any moment any escape from the crowding circumstances other
than that he had taken, step by step. If he had been beset by thieves
and blackguards, and thrown into prison for a time he would not have
felt shame at the delay, for those things he could not help. He saw
with new illumination that there was no more shame to him from these
trivial and peculiar circumstances with which he had been hemmed in
since his start to New York than if he had been checked by any more
tragic obstacles. His only real misgiving was about his marriage.
Somehow it seemed his fault, and he felt there ought to be some way
to confess his part at once--but how--without putting his message in
jeopardy--for no one would believe unless they knew all.
But the time of danger was at hand, he plainly saw. The man whom he
dared not look closely at had turned again and was walking parallel to
them, glancing now and again keenly in their direction. He was watching
Gordon furtively; not a motion escaped him.
There was a moment’s delay at the checking counter while the attendant
searched for the suit-case, and Gordon was convinced that the man had
stopped a few steps away merely for the purpose of watching him.
He dared not look around or notice the man, but he was sure he followed
them back to the train. He felt his presence as clearly as if he had
been able to see through the back of his head.
But Gordon was cool and collected now. It was as if the experiences
of the last two hours, with their embarrassing predicaments, had been
wiped off the calendar, and he were back at the moment when he left
the Holman house. He knew as well as if he had watched them follow him
that they had discovered his--theft--treachery--whatever it ought to be
called--and he was being searched for; and because of what was at stake
those men would track him to death if they could. But he knew also
that his disguise and his companion were for the moment puzzling this
sleuth-hound.
This was probably not the only watcher about the station. There were
detectives, too, perhaps, hired hastily, and all too ready to seize a
suspect.
He marvelled that he could walk so deliberately, swinging his suit-case
in his gloved hand at so momentous a time. He smiled and talked easily
with the pleasant fellow who walked by his side, and answered his
questions with very little idea of what he was saying; making promises
which his heart would like to keep, but which he now saw no way of
making good.
Thus they entered the train and came to the car where the bride and her
mother waited. There were tears on the face of the girl, and she turned
to the window to hide them. Gordon’s eyes followed her wistfully, and
down through the double glass, unnoticed by her absent gaze, he saw the
face of the man who had followed them, sharply watching him.
Realizing that his hat was a partial disguise, he kept it on in spite
of the presence of the ladies. The color rose in his cheeks that he had
to seem so discourteous, but, to cover his embarrassment, he insisted
that he be allowed to take the elder lady to the platform, as it really
was almost time for the train to start, and so he went deliberately out
to act the part of bridegroom in the face of his recognized foe.
The mother and Gordon stood for a moment on the vestibule platform,
while Jefferson bade his sister good-by and tried to soothe her
distress at parting from her mother.
“He’s all right, Celie, indeed he is,” said the young fellow
caressingly, laying his hand upon his sister’s bowed head. “He’s going
to be awfully good to you; he cares a lot for you, and he’s promised
to do all sorts of nice things. He says he’ll bring you back soon, and
he would never stand in the way of your being with us a lot. He did
indeed! What do you think of that? Isn’t it quite different from what
you thought he would say? He doesn’t seem to think he’s got to spend
the rest of his days in Chicago either. He says there might something
turn up that would make it possible for him to change all his plans.
Isn’t that great?”
Celia tried to look up and smile through her tears, while the man
outside studied the situation a moment in perplexity and then strolled
slowly back to watch Gordon and the elder woman.
“You will be good to my little girl,” he heard the woman’s voice
pleading. “She has always been guarded, and she will miss us all, even
though she has you.” The voice went through Gordon like a knife. To
stand much more of this and not denounce himself for a blackguard would
be impossible. Neither could he keep his hat on in the presence of this
wonderful motherhood, a motherhood that appealed to him all the more
that he had never known a mother of his own, and had always longed for
one.
He put up his hand and lifted his hat slightly, guarding as much as
possible his own face from the view of the man on the station platform,
who was still walking deliberately, considerately, up and down, often
passing near enough to hear what they were saying. In this reverent
attitude, Gordon said, as though he were uttering a sacred vow:
“I will guard her as if she were--as if I were--as if I
were--_you_”--then he paused a moment and added solemnly,
tenderly--“Mother!”
He wondered if it were not desecration to utter such words when all
the time he was utterly unable to perform them in the way in which the
mother meant. “Impostor!” was the word which rang in his ears now. The
clamor about being hindered had ceased, for he was doing his best, and
not letting even a woman’s happiness stand in the way of his duty.
Yet his heart had dictated the words he had spoken, while his mind and
judgment were busy with his perilous position. He could not gainsay his
heart, for he felt that in every way he could he would guard and care
for the girl who was to be in his keeping at least for a few minutes
until he could contrive some way to get her back to her friends without
him.
The whistle of the train was sounding now, and the brakemen were
shouting, “All aboard!”
He helped the frail little elderly woman down the steps, and she
reached up her face to kiss him. He bent and took the caress, the first
time that a woman’s lips had touched his face since he was a little
child.
“Mother, I will not let anything harm her,” he whispered, and she said:
“My boy, I can trust you!”
Then he put her into the care of her strong young son, swung upon the
train as the wheels began to move, and hurried back to the bride. On
the platform, walking beside the train, he still saw the man. Going to
the weeping girl, Gordon stooped over her gently, touched her on the
shoulder, and drew the window shade down. The last face he saw outside
was the face of the baffled man, who was turning back, but what for?
Was he going to report to others, and would there perhaps be another
stop before they left the city, where officers or detectives might
board the train? He ought to be ready to get off and run for his life
if there was. There seemed no way but to fee the porter to look after
his companion, and leave her, despicable as it seemed! Yet his soul of
honor told him he could never do that, no matter what was at stake.
Then, without warning a new situation was thrust upon him. The bride,
who had been standing with bowed head and with her handkerchief up to
her eyes, just as her brother had left her, tottered and fell into
his arms, limp and white. Instantly all his senses were called into
action, and he forgot the man on the platform, forgot the possible
next stop in the city, and the explanation he had been about to make
to the girl; forgot even the importance of his mission, and the
fact that the train he was on was headed toward Chicago, instead of
Washington; forgot everything but the fact that the loveliest girl he
had ever seen, with the saddest look a human face might wear, was lying
apparently lifeless in his arms.
Outside the window the man had turned back and was now running
excitedly along with the train trying to see into the window; and
down the platform, not ten yards behind, came a frantic man with
English-looking clothes, a heavy mustache and goatee, shaggy eyebrows,
and a sensual face, striding angrily along as fast as his heavy body
would carry him.
But Gordon saw none of them.