THE MOCK MARRIAGE.
The long hall, or rather ball-room, of the old Eagle tavern was crowded
to its utmost capacity, for the entertainment had been talked of for a
long time, and as the proceeds were to help buy a fire-engine, the whole
town was interested, and the whole town was there. First on the
programme came tableaux and charades, interspersed with music from the
glee club, and music from the Ellicott band, and then there was a great
hush of expectation and eager anticipation, for the gem of the
performance was reserved for the last.
Behind the scenes, in the little anterooms where the dressing, and
powdering, and masking, and jesting were all going on promiscuously,
Josephine Fleming was in a state of great excitement, but hers was a
face and complexion which never looked red or tired. She was, perhaps, a
shade paler than her wont, and her eyes were brighter and bluer as she
stood before the little two-foot glass, giving the last touches to her
bridal toilet.
And never was real bride more transcendently lovely than Josephine
Fleming when she stood at last ready and waiting to be called, in her
fleecy tarlatan, with her long vail sweeping back from her face, and
showing like a silver net upon her golden hair. And Everard, in his
dark, boyish beauty, looked worthy of the bride, as he bent over her and
whispered something in her ear which had reference to a future day when
this they were doing in jest should be done in sober earnest. For a
moment they were alone. Dr. Matthewson had managed to clear the little
room, and now he came to them and said:
“I feel I shall be doing wrong to let this go any further without
telling you that I have a right to make the marriage lawful, if you say
so. A few years ago I was a clergyman in good and regular standing in
the Methodist Episcopal Church at Clarence, in the western part of this
State. I am _not_ in regular and good standing now; the world, the
flesh, and the devil, especially the latter, got the upper hand of me,
but I still have the power to marry you fast and strong. You two are
engaged, I hear. Suppose, for the fun of it, we make this marriage real?
What do you say?”
He was looking at Everard, but he spoke to Josephine, feeling that hers
would be the more ready assent of the two. She was standing with her arm
linked in Everard’s, and at Dr. Matthewson’s words she lifted her blue
eyes coyly to her lover’s face, and said:
“Wouldn’t that be capital, and shouldn’t we steal a march on everybody?”
She waited for him to speak, but his answer did not come at once. It is
true he had said something of this very nature to her only the night
before, but now, when it came to him as something which might be if he
chose, he started as if he had been stung, and the color faded from his
lips, which quivered as he said, with an effort to smile:
“I’d like it vastly, only you see I am not through college, and I should
be expelled at once. Then father never would forgive me. He’d disinherit
me, sure.”
“Hardly so bad as that, I think,” spoke the soothing voice of the
doctor, while one of Josephine’s hands found its way to Everard’s, which
it pressed softly, as she said:
“We can keep it a secret, you know, till you are through college, and it
would be such fun.”
Half an hour before Everard had gone with the doctor to the bar and
taken a glass of wine, which was beginning to affect his brain and cloud
his better judgment, while Josephine was still looking at him with those
great, dreamy, pleading eyes, which always affected him so strangely.
She was very beautiful, and he loved her with all the strength of his
boyish, passionate nature. So it is not strange that the thought of
possessing her years sooner than he had dared to hope made his young
blood stir with ecstasy, even though he knew it was wrong. He was like
the bird in the toiler’s snare, and he stood irresolute, trying to
stammer out he hardly knew what, except that it had some reference to
his father, and mother, and Rossie, for he thought of her in that hour
of his temptation, and wondered how he could face her with that secret
on his soul.
“They are growing impatient. Don’t you hear them stamping? What are you
waiting for?” came from the manager of the play, as he put his head into
the room, while a prolonged and deafening call greeted their ears from
the expectant audience.
“Yes, let’s go,” Josephine said, “and pray forget that I almost asked
you to marry me and you refused. I should not have done it only it is
Leap-year, you know, and I have a right; but it was all in joke, of
course. I didn’t mean it. Don’t think I did, Everard.”
Oh, how soft and beautiful were the eyes swimming in tears and lifted so
pleadingly to Everard’s face! It was more than mortal man could do to
withstand them, and Everard went down before them body and soul. His
father’s bitter anger,—so sure to follow, his mother’s grief and
disappointment in her son, and Rossie’s childish surprise were all
forgotten, or, if remembered, weighed as nought compared with this
lovely creature with the golden hair and eyes of blue, looking so
sweetly and tenderly at him.
“I’ll do it, by George!” he said, and the hot blood came surging back to
his face. “It will be the richest kind of a lark. Tie as tight as you
please. I am more than willing.”
He was very much excited, and Josephine was trembling like a leaf. Only
Dr. Matthewson was calm as he asked: “Do you really mean it, and will
you stand to it?”
“Are you ever coming?” came angrily this time from the manager, who was
losing all patience.
“Yes, I mean it, and will stand to it,” Everard said, and so went on to
his fate.
There was a cheer, followed by a deep hush, when the curtain was
withdrawn, disclosing the bridal party upon the stage, fitted up to
represent a modern drawing-room, with groups of gayly-dressed people
standing together, and in their midst Everard and Josephine, _she_
radiantly beautiful, with a look of exultation on her face, but a tumult
of conflicting emotions in her heart, as she wondered if Dr. Matthewson
had told the truth, and was authorized to marry her really, and if
Everard would stand to it or repudiate the act; _he_, with a face white
now as ashes, and a voice which was husky in its tone when, to the
question: “Dost thou take this woman for thy wedded wife? Dost thou
promise to love her, and cherish her, both in sickness and in health,
and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her?” he answered: “I
do,” while a chill like the touch of death ran through every nerve and
made him icy cold.
It was not the _lark_ he thought it was going to be; it was like some
dreadful nightmare, and he could not at all realize what he was doing or
saying. Even Josephine’s voice, when she too said, “I will,” sounded
very far away, as did Matthewson’s concluding words: “According to the
authority vested in me I pronounce you man and wife. What God hath
joined together let no man put asunder.”
How real it seemed to the breathless audience—so real that Agnes
Fleming, sitting far back in the hall, in her faded muslin and
old-fashioned bonnet, involuntarily rose to her feet and raised her hand
with a deprecating gesture as if to forbid the bans. But her mother
pulled her down to her seat, and in a low whisper bade her keep quiet.
And so the play went on, and was over at last; the crowd dispersed, and
the tired actors, sleepy and cross, gathered up the paraphernalia
scattered everywhere, and went to their several homes. Everard and
Josephine were the last to leave, for she had so much to say, and so
much to see to, that it was after twelve, and the summer moon was high
in the heavens ere they started at last for home, accompanied by the
young man with whom Everard was staying in Ellicottville, and who had
come down to the play.
It had been arranged that young Stafford should pass the night at Mrs.
Fleming’s, and when the party reached the cottage they found a supper
prepared for them, of which hot coffee and sherry formed a part, and
under the combined effects of the two Everard’s spirits began to rise,
and when at last he said good-night to Josephine and went with his
friend to his room, he was much like himself, and felt that it would not
be a very bad state of affairs, after all, if it should prove that
Josephine was really his wife. It would only be expediting matters a
little, and the secret would be so romantic and unusual. Still, he was
conscious of a feeling of unrest and disinclination to talk, and
declared his intention of plunging into bed at once.
“Perhaps you’d better read this first,” Stafford said, handing him a
telegram. “It came this morning, and I brought it with me, but would not
give it to you till after the play, for fear it might contain bad news.”
Now young Stafford knew perfectly well the nature of the telegram, for
he had been in the office when it came, and decided not to deliver it
until the play was over. It was from Everard’s father, and read as
follows:
“TO J. EVERARD FORREST, JR.—Your mother is very sick. Come
immediately.
J. E. FORREST.”
“Oh, Stafford,” and Everard’s voice was like the cry of a wounded child,
“why didn’t you give me this before. There was a train left at five
o’clock. I could have taken it, and saved——”
He did not finish the sentence, for he could not put into words the
great horror of impending evil which had fallen upon him with the
receipt of that telegram. Indeed, he could not define to himself the
nature of his feelings. He only knew that he wished he had gone home in
answer to Rossie’s summons, instead of coming to Holburton. And in this
he meant no disloyalty to Josephine, nor attributed any blame to her;
and when, next morning, after a troubled night, in which no sleep
visited his weary eyes, he met her at the breakfast-table looking as
bright, and fresh, and pretty as if she too, had not kept a sleepless
vigil, he experienced a delicious feeling of ownership in her, and for a
few moments felt willing to defy the whole world, if by so doing he
could claim her as his, then and there. He told her of the telegram, and
said he must take the first train west, which left in about two hours,
and Josephine’s eyes instantly filled with tears, as she said:
“I am so sorry for you, and I hope your mother will recover. I have
always wished to see her so much. Would you mind telling her of me, and
giving my love to her?”
This was after breakfast, when they stood together under the
vine-wreathed porch, each with a thought of last night’s ceremony in
their minds, and each loth to speak of it first. Stafford had gone to
the hotel to settle his bill of the previous day and make some inquiries
about the connection of the trains, and thus the family were alone when
Dr. Matthewson appeared, wearing his blandest smile, and addressing
Josephine as Mrs. Forrest, and asking her how she found herself after
the play.
At the sound of that name given to Josephine as if she had a right to
it, a scarlet flame spread over Everard’s face, and he felt the old
horror and dread of the night creeping over him again. Now was the time
to know the worst or the best,—whichever way he chose to put it,—and as
calmly as possible under the circumstances, he turned to Dr. Matthewson
and asked:
“Were you in earnest in what you said last night? Had you a right to
marry us, and is Josephine my wife?”
It was the first time he had put it into words, and as if the very name
of wife made her dearer to him, he wound his arm around her and waited
the doctor’s answer, which came promptly and decidedly.
“Most assuredly she is your lawful wife! You took her with your full
consent, knowing I could marry you, and I have brought your certificate,
which I suppose the lady will hold.”
He handed a neatly-folded paper to Josephine, who, with Everard looking
over her shoulder, read to the effect that on the evening of July 17th,
in the Village Hall at Holburton, the Rev. John Matthewson married J.
Everard Forrest, Jr. of Rothsay, Ohio, to Miss Josephine Fleming of
Holburton.
“It is all right, I believe, and only needs the names of your mother and
sister as witnesses to make it valid, in case the marriage is ever
contested,” Matthewson said, and this time he looked pitilessly at
Everard, who was staring blankly at the paper in Josephine’s hands, and
if it had been his death-warrant he was reading he could scarcely have
been paler.
Something in his manner must have communicated itself to Josephine, for
in real or feigned distress she burst into tears, and laying her head on
his arm, sobbed out:
“Oh, Everard, you are not sorry I am your wife! If you are, I shall wish
I was dead!”
“No, no, Josey, not sorry you are my wife,” he said, “I could not be
that; only I am so young, and have two years more in college,—and if
this thing were known I should be expelled, and father would never
forgive me, or let me have a dollar again; so, you see it is a deuced
scrape after all.”
He was as near crying as he well could be and not actually give way, and
Matthewson was regarding him with a cool, exultant expression in his
cruel eyes, when Mrs. Fleming appeared, asking what it meant.
Very briefly Dr. Matthewson explained the matter to her, and laying his
hand on Everard’s arm said, laughingly:
“I have the honor of presenting to you your son, who, I believe,
acknowledges your claim upon him.”
There was a gleam of triumph in Mrs. Fleming’s eyes, but she affected to
be astonished and indignant that her daughter should have lent herself
to an act which Mr. Forrest was perhaps already sorry for.
“You are mistaken,” Everard said, and his young manhood asserted itself
in Josephine’s defense. “Your daughter was not more to blame than
myself. We both knew what we were doing, and I am not sorry, except for
the trouble in which it would involve me if it were known at once that I
was married.”
“It need not be known, except to ourselves,” Mrs. Fleming answered,
quickly. “What is done cannot be undone, but we can make the best of it,
and I promise that the secret shall be kept as long as you like. Josey
will remain with me as she is, and you will return to college and
graduate as if last night had never been. Then, when you are in a
position to claim your wife you can do so, and acknowledge it to your
father.”
She settled it rapidly and easily, and Everard felt his spirits rise
thus to have some one think and decide for him. It was not distasteful
to know that Josey was his, and he smoothed caressingly the bowed head,
still resting on his arm, where Josey had laid it. It would be just like
living a romance all the time, and the interviews they might
occasionally have would be all the sweeter because of the secrecy. After
all, it was a pretty nice lark, and he felt a great deal better, and
watched Mrs. Fleming and Agnes as they signed their names to the
certificate, and noticed how the latter trembled and how pale she was
as, with what seemed to him a look of pity for him, she left the room
and went back to her dish-washing in the kitchen.
Everard had spent some weeks in Mrs. Fleming’s family as a boarder, and
had visited there occasionally, but he had never noticed or thought
particularly of Agnes, except, indeed, as the household drudge, who was
always busy from morning till night, washing, ironing, baking, dusting,
with her sleeves rolled up and her broad check apron tied around her
waist. She had a limp in her left foot, and a weakness in her left arm
which gave her a helpless, peculiar appearance; and the impression he
had of her, if any, was that she was unfortunate in mind as well as
body, fit only to minister to others as she always seemed to be doing.
She had never addressed a word to him without being first spoken to, and
he was greatly surprised when, after Dr. Matthewson was gone, and Mrs.
Fleming and Josephine had for a moment left him alone in the room, she
came to him and putting her hand on his, said in a whisper, “Did you
really mean it, or was it an accident? a joke? and do you want to get
out of it? because, if you do, now is the time. Say you didn’t mean it!
Say you won’t stand it, and there surely will be some way out. I can
help,—weak as I am. It is a pity, and you so young.”
She was looking fixedly at him, and he saw that her eyes were soft, and
dark, and sad in their expression, as if for them there was no
brightness or sunshine in all the wide world,—nothing but the
never-ending dish-washing in the kitchen, or serving in the parlor. But
there was another expression in those sad eyes, a look of truth and
honesty, which made him feel intuitively that she was a person to be
trusted even to the death, and had he felt any misgivings then, he would
have told her so unhesitatingly; but he had none, and he answered her:
“I do not wish to get out of it, Agnes, I am satisfied; only it must be
a secret for a long, long time. Remember that, and your promise not to
tell.”
“Yes, I’ll remember, and may God help you!” she answered, as she turned
away, leaving him to wonder at her manner, which puzzled and troubled
him a little. But it surely had nothing to do with Josephine, who came
to him just before he left for the train, and said so charmingly and
tearfully:
“I am so mortified and ashamed when I remember how eagerly I seemed to
respond to Dr. Matthewson’s proposition that we be married in earnest.
You must have thought me so forward and bold; but, believe me, I did not
mean it, or consider what I was saying; so when you are gone don’t think
of me as a brazen-faced creature who asked you to marry her, will you?”
What answer could he give her except to assure her that he esteemed her
as everything lovely and good, and he believed that he did when at last
he said good-by, and left her kissing her hand to him as she stood in
the doorway under the spreading hop vine, the summer sunshine falling in
flecks upon her golden hair, and her blue eyes full of tears. So he saw
her last, and this was the picture he took with him as he sped away to
the westward toward his home, and which helped to stifle his judgment
and reason whenever they protested against what he had done, but it
could not quite smother the fear and dread at his heart when he
reflected what the consequences of this rash marriage would be should
his father find it out.