MARRIAGE AT ST. JOHN’S.
There were more than a few lookers-on to see Katy Lennox married, and
the church was literally jammed for full three-quarters of an hour
before the appointed time. Back by the door, where she commanded a full
view of the middle aisle, Marian Hazelton sat, her face as white as
ashes, and her eyes gleaming strangely wild from beneath the thickly
dotted veil she wore over her hat. Doubts as to her wisdom in coming
there were agitating her mind, but something kept her sitting just as
others sat waiting for the bride until the sexton, opening wide the
doors, and assuming an added air of consequence, told the anxious
spectators that the party had arrived—Uncle Ephraim and Katy, Wilford
and Mrs. Lennox, Dr. Morris and Helen, Aunt Hannah and Aunt Betsy—that
was all, and they came slowly up the aisle, while countless eyes were
turned upon them, every woman noticing Katy’s dress sweeping the carpet
with so long a trail, and knowing by some queer female instinct that it
was city-made, and not the handiwork of Marian Hazelton, panting for
breath in that pew near the door, and trying to forget herself by
watching Dr. Grant. She could not have told what Katy wore; she would
not have sworn that Katy was there, for she saw only two, Wilford and
Morris Grant. She could have touched the former as he passed her by, and
she did breathe the odor of his garments while her hands clasped each
other tightly, and then she turned to Morris Grant, growing content with
her own pain, so much less than his as he stood before the altar with
Wilford Cameron between him and the bride which should have been his.
How pretty she was in her wedding garb, and how like a bird her voice
rang out as she responded to the solemn question,
“Will you have this man to be thy wedded husband,” etc.
Upon Uncle Ephraim devolved the duty of giving her away, a thing which
Aunt Betsy denounced as a “’Piscopal quirk,” classing it in the same
category with dancing. Still if Ephraim had got it to do she wanted him
to do it well, and she had taken some pains to study that part of the
ceremony, so as to know when to, nudge her brother in case he failed of
coming up to time.
“Now, Ephraim, now; they’ve reached the quirk,” she whispered, audibly,
almost before Katy’s “I will” was heard, clear and distinct; but Ephraim
did not need her prompting, and his hand rested lovingly upon Katy’s
shoulder as he signified his consent, and then fell back to his place
next to Hannah. But when Wilford’s voice said, “I, Wilford, take thee
Katy to be my wedded wife,” there was a slight confusion near the door,
and those sitting by said to those in front that some one had fainted.
Looking round, the audience saw the sexton leading Marian Hazelton out
into the open air, where, at her request, he left her, and went back to
see the closing of the ceremony which made Katy Lennox a wife. Morris’s
carriage was at the door, and the newly married pair moved slowly out,
Katy smiling upon all, kissing her hand to some and whispering a
good-bye to others, her diamonds flashing in the light and her rich silk
rustling as she walked, while at her side was Wilford, proudly erect,
and holding his head so high as not to see one of the crowd around him,
until, arrived at the vestibule, he stopped a moment and was seized by a
young man with curling hair, saucy eyes, and that air of ease and
assurance which betokens high breeding and wealth.
“Mark Ray!” was Wilford’s astonished exclamation, while Mark Ray
replied,
“You did net expect to see me here, neither did I expect to come until
last night, when I found myself in the little village where you know
Scranton lives. Then it occurred to me that as Silverton was only a few
miles distant I would drive over and surprise you, but I am too late for
the ceremony, I see,” and Mark’s eyes rested admiringly upon Katy, whose
graceful beauty was fully equal to what he had imagined.
Very modestly she received his congratulatory greeting, blushing
prettily when he called her by the new name she had not heard before,
and then, at a motion from Wilford, entered the carriage waiting for
her. Close behind her came Morris and Helen, the former quite as much
astonished at meeting Mark as Wilford had been. There was no time for
conversation, and hurriedly introducing Helen as Miss Lennox, Morris
followed her into the carriage with the bridal pair, and was driven to
the depot, where they were joined by Mark, whose pleasant good-humored
sallies did much towards making the parting more cheerful than it would
otherwise have been. It was sad enough at the most, and Katy’s eyes were
very red, while Wilford was beginning to look chagrined and impatient,
when at last the train swept round the corner and the very last good-bye
was said. Many of the village people were there to see Katy off, and in
the crowd Mark had no means of distinguishing the Barlows from the
others, except it were by the fond caresses given to the bride. Aunt
Betsy he had observed from all the rest, both from the hanging of her
pongee and the general quaintness of her attire, and thinking it just
possible that it might be the lady of herrin’ bone memory, he touched
Wilford’s arm as she passed them by, and said,
“Tell me, Will, quick, who is that woman in the poke bonnet and short,
slim dress?”
Wilford was just then too much occupied in his efforts to rescue Katy
from the crowd of plebeians who had seized upon her to hear his friends
query, but Helen heard it, and with a cheek which crimsoned with anger,
she replied,
“That, sir, is my aunt, Miss Betsy Barlow.”
“I beg your pardon, I really do. I was not aware——”
Mark began, lifting his hat involuntarily, and mentally cursing himself
for his stupidity in not observing who was near to him before asking
personal questions.
With a toss of her head Helen turned away, forgetting her resentment in
the more absorbing thought that Katy was leaving her.
The bell had rung, the heavy machinery groaned and creaked, and the long
train was under way, while from an open window a little white hand was
thrust, waving its handkerchief until the husband quietly drew it in,
experiencing a feeling of relief that all was over, and that unless he
chose his wife need never go back again to that vulgar crowd standing
upon the platform and looking with tearful eyes and aching hearts after
the fast receding train.
For a moment Mark talked with Morris Grant, explaining how he came
there, and adding that on the morrow he too intended going on to Boston,
to remain for a few days before Wilford sailed; then, feeling that he
must in some way atone for his awkward speech regarding Aunt Betsy, he
sought out Helen, still standing like a statue and watching the feathery
line of smoke rising above the distant trees. Her bonnet had partially
fallen from her head, revealing her bands of rich brown hair and the
smooth broad forehead, while her hands were locked together, and a tear
trembled on her dark eyelashes. Taken as a whole she made a striking
picture standing apart from the rest and totally oblivious to them all,
and Mark gazed at her a moment curiously; then, as her attitude changed
and she drew her hat back to its place, he advanced toward her, making
some pleasant remark about the morning and the appearance of the country
generally. He knew he could not openly apologize, but he made what
amends he could by talking to her so familiarly that Helen almost forgot
how she hated him and all others who like him lived in New York and
resembled Wilford Cameron. It was Mark who led her to the carriage which
Morris said was waiting. Mark who handed her in, smoothing down the
folds of her dress, and then stood leaning against the door, chatting
with Morris, who thought once of asking him to enter and go back to
Linwood. But when he remembered how unequal he was to entertaining any
one that day, he said merely,
“On your way from Boston, call and see me. I shall be glad of your
company then.”
“Which means that you do not wish it now,” Mark laughingly rejoined, as,
offering his hand to both Morris and Helen, he touched his hat and
walked away.