"I am of the opinion," wrote the sapient Dr. Johnson, "that marriages
would in general be as happy, and often more so, if they were all made
by the Lord Chancellor, upon a due consideration of the circumstances
and characters, without the parties thereto having any choice in the
matter."
That this radical matrimonial reform did not find favour in the eyes of
his own or any succeeding generation brands it as visionary,
impracticable, not to be seriously entertained, in short, by any one not
a philosopher and not himself in love. But could the benevolent shade of
Dr. Johnson be let into the details of a fashionable modern wedding, it
is safe to predict that he might recommend a new civic function to be
administered either by the Lord Chancellor, or by some equally
responsible person for the purpose of regulating by sumptuary law the
bridal trousseau and the wedding presents. The renowned Georgian sage
could not fail to recognise the relation which these too often
unconsidered items bear to the welfare of the private citizen in
particular and to the weal of mankind in general. And who can deny that
all legislation is, or should be, centred chiefly on these very ends.
[Illustration: "Never had there been such a wedding in Innisfield"]
Such sober reflections as the above, though perhaps forming an
unavoidable background in the minds of several of the older persons
present, did not cloud the rapturous happiness of Elizabeth Carroll
North, as she paced slowly up the aisle of the Innisfield Presbyterian
church on the arm of her father, the folds of her "Pryse gown," as Miss
Tripp was careful to designate it, sweeping gracefully behind her. The
bridesmaids in pale rose-colour and the maid of honour in white; the
tiny flower-girls bearing baskets of roses; the ushers with their
boutonnieres of orange buds; the waving palms and the sounding music
each represented a separate Waterloo, fought and won by the Napoleonic
Miss Tripp, who looked on, wan but self-satisfied, from a modest
position in the audience. Never had there been such a wedding in
Innisfield. Everybody said so in loud, buzzing whispers. Sadie
Buckthorn, who was engaged to Milton Scrymger, informed her mamma that
she should be married in church in October, and that her bridesmaids
should wear yellow. And Bob Garrett, a clerk in a Boston department
store, told his sweetheart that he guessed the wedding was about their
speed, and added that he knew a swell floor-walker who would look simply
great as best man.
As for the young couple chiefly concerned they might have walked on air
instead of on the roses strewed in their path by the little
flower-girls; and the hundreds of curious eyes fastened upon them were
as dim, painted eyes upon a tapestried wall. They only saw each other
and the gate of that ancient Eden of the race opening before them.
That same evening, after all was over, and when, as the village reporter
phrased it with happy originality, "the young couple had departed upon
their wedding journey amid showers of rice and roses," Dr. North sought
his tired wife, busy clearing away the tokens of the late festivities.
"Come, Lizzie," he said kindly, "we may as well get what rest we can;
to-morrow'll be another day, and we've got to go jogging on about our
middle-aged business as usual."
Mrs. North looked up at him with tearful eyes. "I can't seem to realise
that Bessie's gone to stay," she said tremulously. "I just caught myself
thinking what I'd say to her when she came home, and what we'd----"
Richard North passed his arm about the wife of his youth. "I--hope he'll
be good to her," he said, his voice shaken with feeling. "I--I believe
he's all right. If he isn't I'll--" He shrugged his broad shoulders
impatiently.
"Oh, I'm not a bit worried about _Sam_," said Mrs. North; "I know enough
about men. But, O Dick, I'm going to miss my--baby!"
He held her close for a minute while she sobbed on his shoulder; then
the two went slowly up the stairs together, leaving the disordered
rooms and the fading roses in the luminous dark of the June night.
* * * * *
The Boston apartment to which young Samuel Brewster brought his bride in
the early part of September was of Miss Evelyn Tripp's choosing. The
engineer had demurred at its distance from his work, but Elizabeth had
said she preferred to be near Evelyn; and Evelyn said that the location,
if not strictly fashionable, was at least _near_ the people they ought
to know.
The rent was thirty-eight dollars a month. And the rooms were small,
inconvenient and old-fashioned. "But," as Miss Tripp kindly pointed out,
"if one is obliged to choose between a small, old-fashioned suite in a
really good locality and a light airy one in the unfashionable suburbs
of South Boston one _ought_ not to hesitate."
Mrs. North and Grandma Carroll had seen to putting the furnishings in
place; and when the two arrived at the close of a hot afternoon they
found everything in the exquisite order with which Elizabeth had been
happily familiar all her life.
She ran from room to room laughing and crying in the same breath. "Oh,
Sam, dear, do see, there is ice in the refrigerator and a cunning little
jar of cream and a print of butter; and here is a roast chicken and some
of grandma's rolls and one of mother's delicious lemon pies! How hard
they must have worked. I'll put on one of these big aprons, and we'll
have supper in no time!"
And Sam Brewster, as he watched his wife's pretty little figure moving
lightly about her new kitchen, heaved a mighty sigh of content. "It
seems almost too good to be true!" he murmured. "And to think it is for
always!"
It was not until they had eaten their first blissful meal together, and
had washed the dishes, also together, in the dark little kitchen--an
operation in which the young engineer covered himself with glory in his
masterly handling of the dish-towel--that Elizabeth discovered a large
square envelope, bearing the Van Duser crest, and addressed to herself.
She opened it in the circle of Sam's arms, as the two reposed on their
one small sofa in the room bearing the dignified title of reception
hall.
"Why--what in the name of common sense is she giving us?" was Sam
Brewster's startled exclamation as his quick eye took in the contents of
the sheet.
"I--I don't understand," gasped Elizabeth, growing hot and cold and
faint, "I can't think--how it could have happened."
Yet Mrs. Van Duser's words, though few, were sufficiently succinct. They
were inspired, as she afterward confided to her rector, Dr. Gallatin, by
the most altruistic sentiments of which the human heart is capable.
"Truth," Mrs. Van Duser had enunciated majestically, "never finds itself
at a loss. And in administering so just a rebuke to a young person
manifestly appointed to fill a humble station in life I feel that I am
in a measure assuming the prerogatives of Providence."
In this exalted role Mrs. Van Duser had written to Elizabeth North,
whose miserable, shamed eyes avoided those of her husband after she had
realised its contents. The letter enclosed a bill for one hundred and
twenty-five dollars from Madame Leonie Pryse, for the material, making
and findings for one blue velvet reception gown. There was a pencilled
note attached, to the effect that as Madame Pryse had been referred to
Mrs. Van Duser, she begged to present the bill, with the hope that it
would be settled at an early date. Mrs. Van Duser's own majestic hand
had added a brief communication, over which the young engineer scowled
fiercely. He read:
"As Mrs. Brewster's personal expenses, either before or after her
marriage, can have no possible interest for Mrs. Van Duser, Mrs.
Van Duser begs to bring to Mrs. Brewster's attention the enclosed
statement. Mrs. Van Duser wishes to inform Mrs. Brewster that she
has taken the pains to send for the tradeswoman in question, and
that she has elicited from her facts which seem to show an entire
misapprehension of the commoner ethical requirements on the part of
the person addressed.
"Mrs. Van Duser begs to add in the interests of society at large
and of the person in whom, as a distant relative, she has
interested herself somewhat, that she distinctly frowns upon all
extravagance. Mrs. Van Duser trusts that this communication, which
she begs to assure Mrs. Brewster is penned in a spirit of Christian
charity, will effectually prevent further errors on the part of so
young and inexperienced a person as Mrs. Brewster appears to be."
"Well?" Samuel Brewster's blue eyes, grown unexpectedly keen and
penetrating, rested questioningly upon his bride.
"Don't look at me like that--please, Sam!" faltered Elizabeth. "I--I
didn't mean to buy that dress; truly I didn't. I had paid for all the
others, and I had twenty-seven dollars left, and Evelyn told me that
Madame Pryse had a--a remnant of blue velvet which she would make up for
me for a song. And--I--let her do it. I thought she would send the bill
to me, and I would----"
"Did she send it to you?"
"Y-yes, twice. But Evelyn said for me not to worry. She said Madame
Pryse's customers never paid her right away, and there was so much
else--just at the last, I didn't like to ask daddy; Uncle Caleb always
gives me fifty dollars for my birthday, and I thought--" Elizabeth's
voice had grown fainter as she proceeded with her halting explanations.
But she started up with a little cry, "Oh, Sam! what are you going to
do?"
For her husband was examining the bill with an expression about his
mouth which she had never seen there before. "I don't see that you have
been credited with the twenty-seven dollars," he said quietly. Then with
a sorry attempt at a smile, "These _mesdames_ appear to pile up the
items sky-high when it comes to building a gown; better have a cast-iron
contract with 'em, I should say, and pay up when the job's finished."
Elizabeth's tear-stained face was hidden on her husband's shoulder.
"I--I spent the twenty-seven dollars for--for gloves," she confessed.
"Evelyn said I didn't have enough long--ones."
"_Confound Evelyn!_" said the young man strongly. "Come, Betty, dear,
you're not to let this thing bother you, it isn't worth it. I'll pay
this bill to-morrow. It's lucky I've the money in the bank; and I'll
write to Mrs. Van D., too." He clenched his fist as though he would like
to use something more powerful than his pen.
"But, Sam, you oughtn't to--I can't let you pay--for----"
"Well, I guess I can buy my wife a dress if I want to, and that blue
velvet's a stunner. You haven't worn it yet, have you, dear? but when
you do you'll look like a posy in it. Come, sweetheart, this was a tough
proposition, I'll admit, but don't you let it bowl you over completely.
And, Betty, you won't tell the Tripp lady about it, will you?
I--er--couldn't stand for that, you know."
Elizabeth stole one look at the strong, kind face bent toward her. For
the first time, though happily not for the last, she was realising the
immense, the immeasurable comfort to be found in her husband's love.
"I'll never--do such a thing again," she quavered. "I knew all the time
I was being extravagant; but I didn't expect--I never supposed----"
"You couldn't very well have foreseen the Pryse woman's astonishing
business methods, nor Mrs. Van D.'s Christian forbearance." His tone was
bitter as he spoke the last words. "But what I can't seem to understand
is how that bill ever found its way to my esteemed sixteenth cousin."
Elizabeth's eyes overflowed again. "I'm afraid it was Evelyn," she
stammered. "She--told Madame Pryse that you--were Mrs. Van Duser's
nephew."
Sam Brewster whistled. Then he fell into a fit of revery so prolonged
that Elizabeth nestled uneasily in the strong circle of his arm. He was
reviewing the events of the immediate past in the cold light of the
present, and the result was not altogether complimentary to Miss Tripp.
"I say, little girl," he said at length, looking down at the
tear-stained face against his shoulder, "I don't want to be
disagreeable, but--er--I can't for the life of me see why Miss Tripp
should interest herself so--intimately--in our affairs. Don't you think
you might--er--discourage her a bit?"
Elizabeth sighed reminiscently. "I wouldn't hurt Evelyn's feelings for
the world," she said, "but I--I'll try."