"MRS. LAURENCE."
It was eleven o'clock on the Wednesday morning following that eventful
Monday night. In an upper room, a private parlor of a Boston hotel,
seated in an easy chair, was Miss Norine Bourdon. They had arrived this
morning, and in the hotel book their names were registered "Mr. and Mrs.
John Laurence."
At the present moment Miss Bourdon is alone. Her dark face is very pale,
her eyelids are red from much weeping; at intervals, as she sits and
thinks, the lovely dark eyes fill, the childlike lips quiver, and a sob
catches her breath. And yet she is not really very unhappy. Is she not
with Laurence? Before another hour passes will she not be his wife? and
what is the love of aunt or uncle, what the friendship of a thousand Mr.
Gilberts compared to the bliss of that? Truth to tell, the first shock
of consternation at her enforced flight over, Norine had found
forgiveness easy. She was only seventeen, remember; she was intensely
romantic; she loved him with her whole, passionate heart--a heart
capable, even at seventeen, of loving, and--who was to tell?--perhaps of
hating very strongly. And most girls like bold lovers. It was a very
daring _coup de main_, this carrying her off, quite like something in a
last century novel, and with his tender, persuasive voice in her ear,
his protecting arm about her waist, with her own heart pleading for him,
Norine was driven away a not unwilling captive.
"I have arranged everything, my pet," said Mr. Thorndyke; "rooms are
engaged at the W---- House, Boston, and a clerical friend of mine is to
perform the ceremony very much on the quiet. You don't object to being
married in a hotel parlor, and by a Congregationalist minister, do you?
By-and-by we'll take a run over the border and have the thing done over
again in the sacred precincts of Notre Dame de Montreal, if you like.
Just at present everything must be _sub rosa_, my darling. The old
boy--I mean my respected uncle Darcy--will cut up deuced rough, you
know, when he first comes to hear it. He expects me to marry his pet,
Nellie Holmes; so does Miss Nellie, if the truth must be told. So I
would have done, too, if fate and a broken limb had not thrown me upon
_your_ protection. And from that hour, my darling, my fate was sealed.
Of all the eyes, blue, black, brown, green, or gray, for killing,
wholesale slaughter, commend me to those of a fair Canadian. So you see,
Norry, we will be married Wednesday morning nicely on the quiet, and
we'll go to a place I've engaged, over Chelsea way, down by the 'sad sea
waves,' to spend the honeymoon. And there for one blessed month we'll
forget all the uncles and aunts, all the lawyers and heiresses in
Christendom, and 'do' love among the roses. You forgive me for carrying
you off in this right knightly fashion--you do, don't you, Norry? Ah! I
know you do; but look up, my own love, and tell me so, and so make my
happiness complete."
With a little fluttering sigh Norine obeyed, clinging close to her
hero's side in the darkness.
"But you'll let me write home when we are married, and tell them,
Laurence, won't you? They have been so good to me, always--always, and
they will think, oh yes, they will think such dreadful things of me
now."
"They will forget and forgive, never fear, Norry. People always come
round when they can't do anything else. Of course you shall write to
them--of course you shall do for the future precisely as you wish, and I
will only exist to fulfil your commands. But not just yet, you know; not
until uncle Darcy relents and forgives. Because, my pet, I haven't a
dollar in the world of my own, except my allowance from him, and I can't
afford to offend him. But I'll soon bring him round. Let him see you
once, and all will be forgiven. The man doesn't exist, old or young, who
could resist _you_."
All this was very delightful, of course; and in such rose-colored,
romance-flavored talk, the time sped on. Norine's spirits rose with the
brisk drive in the teeth of the night gale. She was with Laurence; she
was never to part from him more. All life held of rapture was said for
her in that. It was rather a drawback, certainly, that she might not
tell them at home of her felicity at once, but she would just drop them
a line from Boston to say she was safe and well and happy, that they
were not to worry about her, and to beg Mr. Gilbert's--poor Mr.
Gilbert's--pardon. That much Laurence would consent to, of course. To be
married in a hotel parlor, by a Congregationalist Minister was also ever
so little of a drawback, to a little French Canadienne, but one must not
expect unalloyed earthly happiness. And had not Laurence said they would
go one day to Montreal--dear old Montreal, and be remarried in Notre
Dame? Then she would visit Aunt Hetty and Uncle Reuben; then she would
go to New York and plead with Mr. Darcy for her beloved husband, and Mr.
Darcy would grant that pardon, and then--what then? Well, nothing then,
of course, only live and be happy forever after! The sloop, in which Mr.
Thorndyke had engaged passage, was ready to sail. Norine was consigned
to the care of the captain's wife for the trip, and was soon so utterly
prostrate with _mal de mer_, that love and Laurence were forgotten.
To tell the truth, Mr. Thorndyke was miserably sea-sick himself; but
this mode of travel had been forced upon him by the exigencies of the
case. The pursuers must be thrown off the track. Gilbert would surely
suspect and follow; if they went by rail, he would inevitably hunt them
down. So, of necessity, he chose the sloop, and with a head wind and
driving rain, spent Monday night, Tuesday, and Tuesday night sea-sick
and prostrate. Wednesday morning came and they were in Boston. It came
in pouring rain and leaden sky, and the bleak easterly wind your
Bostonian dreads. They drove to the hotel, Miss Bourdon dreadfully
ashamed of her old waterproof, and ascended to their private parlor. Mr.
Thorndyke ordered breakfast to be served here at once, and both partook
of that repast when it came, with very excellent appetites. Mr.
Thorndyke had had some more brandy, which tonic, doubtless, stimulated
his appetite, his resolution and his love together. Then he put on his
hat, looked at his watch, and departed on matrimonial business intent.
"I'll be off for the Reverend Jonas Maggs (his name's the Reverend Jonas
Maggs) at once, and make you Mrs. Thorndyke before you eat your dinner.
And I'll order a few things here--a hat, for instance, a sacque, and a
few dresses and gloves. I'll be back in an hour or two at the longest.
You won't be lonely, my darling, while I'm gone?"
She had answered him "no," and with a very affectionate embrace, he had
left her. But in his absence she did grow lonely, did grow saddened and
remorseful. What must they think of her at home? They had discovered her
flight by this time--all was consternation and terror. They would wonder
what had happened--why she had gone, whither, and if alone. Aunt Hetty
she could see weeping and refusing to be comforted; her uncles shocked,
speechless, terrified; Mr. Gilbert pale, stern, and perhaps guessing the
truth. He had loved her, very truly and dearly, and Thursday next was to
have been his wedding day. Oh! what a cruel, wicked, heartless,
ungrateful wretch she must be now in his sight! How he would scorn and
despise her--how they all would! Would they ever forgive her for this
shameful flight--this cold-blooded treachery? One day she might,
perhaps, come face to face with Mr. Gilbert, in the busy whirl of New
York life, and how would she ever dare to meet his angry, scornful eye?
As Laurence's wife, the deepest bliss life could give would be hers, but
through all her life long, even in the midst of this bliss, the trail of
the serpent would be over all still, in her undying shame and remorse.
The ready tears of seventeen fell, until all at once Miss Bourdon
recollected that Laurence would be here presently with the clergyman,
and that it would never do to be married with red eyes and a swollen
nose. She sprang up, bathed her face, brushed out her long silky black
hair, and by the time she had made herself pretty and bright, Mr.
Thorndyke's light step came flying up the stairs, three at a bound, and
Mr. Thorndyke's impetuous tap was at the door.
"Come in," she said, her heart beginning to flutter, and the bridegroom
came in, handsome, smiling, eager, followed by a seedy-looking personage
in rusty black, and the professional "choker" of dingy white.
"Out of patience, Norine? But I could not come an instant sooner, and it
is only half-past eleven. My friend, the Reverend Jonas Maggs, Miss
Bourdon, soon to be transformed into Mrs. Laurence Thorndyke; and the
sooner the better. Here's the ring, Norry, bought haphazard--let's see
if it fits the dear little finger. So! as if you were born in it. Now
then, Mr. Maggs, pity the impatience of ardent love, and get on with the
ceremony."
High spirits these for a runaway match. The handsome face was flushed,
the blue eyes feverishly bright, a strong odor of cigars and cognac
pervaded Mr. Thorndyke's broadcloth. The Rev. Mr. Maggs coughed, a meek,
clerical cough, looked furtively and admiringly at the bride, drew forth
a book, and "stood at ease." Mr. Thorndyke drew Miss Bourdon up before
him, the ring between his fingers, an odd sort of smile on his lips. For
Norine, she had grown ashen white; now that the supreme moment had come,
she was trembling from head to foot. Even to her inexperience there was
something bizarre, something wrong and abnormal, in this _outre_ sort of
marriage. A bride without bridal dress, veil or blossoms; without
bridesmaid, or friend; a bridegroom splashed with mud and rain drops,
without groomsman or witness. And the Rev. Mr. Maggs, for a holy man,
was as dirty and disreputable a specimen of the class as one might wish
to see. She stood by his side, pale to the lips, afraid of--she knew not
what. As in a dream she heard Mr. Maggs gabbling over some sort of
ceremony. As in a dream she saw the ring slipped over her finger. As in
a dream she saw him shut up his book with a slap, and heard him
pronounce them man and wife. Then for the first time she lifted her
eyes, full, clear, questioning to the face of Laurence Thorndyke. For
the first time, perhaps, in his own experience of himself he shrank
before their crystal clear, childishly innocent gaze. His were still
full of that intolerable light of triumph--that exultant smile yet
lingered on his lips.
He drew Maggs aside and slipped a crisp greenback, into his hand. Then
the reverend gentleman resumed his hat, bowed to the bride, wished her
joy with an unctuous smile, and slowly took himself out of the room.
"My dear little wife!" Laurence Thorndyke said. "You have made me the
happiest man in America to-day. For the next four weeks, in our pretty
Chelsea cottage, it shall be our business to forget that the world holds
another human creature than our two selves."
"And I've paid _you_ off, I think, my friend Gilbert, with compound
interest." Mr. Thorndyke added, mentally, as a rider to that pretty
little speech. "I'm not over and above rich this morning, but I'd give a
cool hundred to see your face."
And so, while not half a mile off, Richard Gilbert and Reuben Kent were
searching, with the aid of a detective officer, every hotel in Boston, a
hack was rattling over the stones to Chelsea Ferry, bearing to their
bridal home Laurence Thorndyke and Norine.